Okay, so here’s a video clip (via the wondrous and newly outed Awful Announcing) of Buzz Bissinger completely losing his shit on Will Leitch last night and quoting from one of my columns (Yeeeeahhhh, free publicity!!!).

I hadn’t had a chance to see this clip until today, because I cancelled HBO recently (“Tell Me You Love Me”? More like “Tell Me I’m A Self-Absorbed Jackass”). But I have to say, now that I have seen it, I am fucking OUTRAGED. Not because Bissinger pounces on blogs like I pounce on a box of Crunch ‘n’ Munch. No, I’m pissed because the greasy old fucker GOT MY NAME WRONG.

Let me tell you something, Buzz. IF THAT IS YOUR REAL NAME. I’ve been an uncredentialed blogger and board uncertified dick joke technician for over two whole years now. I take my vocation very, very seriously. This is not some frivolous pursuit. This is MY PASSION, particularly since “Heroes” is still in reruns. I put a lot of blood, sweat and tears into this career. Mostly sweat. And some Hershey’s Syrup. Regardless, I MEAN BUSINESS, you big, slouching assfister. (Seriously, would it kill you to sit up in your seat, buddy?)

My screen name, Big Daddy Drew, is quite possibly the dumbest screen name ever conceived. But I put a lot of sweat equity into this moniker, you heartless bastard. How dare you corrupt my precious brand name by getting it wrong in front of a live television audience? That’s shoddy journalism, and I won’t stand for it. I don’t need to take this kind of crap from a dude who kinda looks like acclaimed character actor John Billingsley.

Perhaps, Bissinger, you weren’t aware that we at KSK happen to have STANDARDS. No, I’m quite sure you breezed right by them. But let me tell you something, you dirty horsefucker: The next time you use my name, YOU DAMN WELL BETTER GET IT RIGHT. And, to help you make sure you get all aspects of KSK terminology correct, I’ve provided you with this very handy and portable study guide. Print it out if you like. You do know how to use a printer, don’t you, Oldie McGeezerhead? Good.

-“Big Daddy Drew” is capitalized. There are no Balls anywhere in the formal title. BDD is an allowable acronym, but only if you write the full name first.

-“Fucktaster” is not hyphenated.

-In fact, no hyphens are used here. That requires extra typing, and I don’t like doing that much work.

-“The Sex Cannon” is two words, always with the definite article preceding it

-Facts of any kind must not be used. Facts are for, like, nerds and shit.

-Bill Simmons EATS a fat dick. Always use the present tense.

-“Christmas Ape” may be shortened to “Xmas Ape”, but only if say something mean about the Washington Post first.

-“Armcock” is one word. No spaces.

-“Buzz fucks horses FARTHER up the ass than any man alive.” Never use further. That fails to connote proper depth.

-The term “Pussybasket” is of Kazakh origin and should be used sparingly.

Oh, and one more thing: THIS IS A COMEDY SITE. If you’d like to read real journalism, with real sources and credentials and shit, by all means do so. I won’t stop you. I read it myself all the time. I wouldn’t have anything to make fun of if I didn’t. Assbag.

If you folks have any other style guidelines to pass on to our new friend, please help him out. I’m sure he’ll assume I wrote them all anyway.

[Apely note: I'll be appearing with trained writers WHO AREN'T AFRAID OF THE FACTS at Varsity Letters in New York tomorrow to discuss the events of my untimely demise from the MSM. Maybe they'll verbally waylay me the way Bissinger did. Maybe if I get "totally fucking hammered" enough, I'll read some Marmalard. Never know.]

This week’s Kill Kill Kill video happens to tie in quite well with all of the hullabaloo (ha, spelled it right my first try!) going on in the blogosphere after last night’s episode of Costas Now. Watch as the young jungle cat utilizes all of it’s speed, strength, and cunning to fell the cumbersome, prehistoric, beast.

I think it’s safe to say that there’s something wrong with Buzz Bissinger’s medulla oblongata.

Now remember all of you print media types, we aren’t journalists and we aren’t trying to take your jobs. Although if we are provoked, there’s a decent chance we’ll eat you.

I have to apologize to you, the people of the Internet, about my tirade on last evening’s episode of CostasNow. It was completely out of character with who I am as a journalist and as a human being.

I respect writers trying to make a name for themselves online. I really do. I just think a lot of that gets lost in all the crassness and hatred that gets spewed out there. And my concern is that, as this sort of filth becomes more and more prevalent, it will soon be accepted as the norm, and overshadow some of the great work that hard-working journalists, such as me, do.

I don’t want that to happen. I put 40 years of hard work into writing books and articles. I don’t think it’s fair that I be branded part of a “dying medium” when a lot of the writing I see online is just random name-calling and thoughtless invective. Does it make me a relic to fight for what I believe in? Perhaps. But I say, to hell with it. Maybe I’m a relic, but I have principles, dammit. And I’ll fight for relics like myself to the very end.

Still, my actions at last night’s roundtable were out of line. I stooped to the lowest common denominator to defend my craft, which I should not have done. I couldn’t help it. I was angry. I was frustrated. I was trying to make a point.

But, more critically, I hadn’t fucked a horse in over a week.

There’s a stable near my home out in the stick named May’s Riding Stable. As you walk towards the stable, you can see the horse patties littering the road. Some of them are fresh. But many of them have dried out. Deprived of all their moisture, with much of the fecal matter stripped away by the rain, you can see their remains disintegrating, turning back into the chewed up hay it once was. And this chewed up hay soon rejoins the earth, becoming part of the soil and growing new hay for the horses to eat once more. It’s a beautiful cycle of transformation and rebirth. It is an everlasting symbol of renewal.

And it makes me wanna fuck a horse so badly.

Man oh man, do I love to fuck horses. With their long legs and firm, rippling bodies. I could fuck a horse for hours and hours on end. Sometimes, when no one is at the stable, I sneak in the early, early morning. I slip through the electric fence and walk at a brisk trot (yes, I trot!) to the main part of the stable. As I walk, I kick up a lot of the dust surrounding the barn. I find this horsey dust, this shit mist, absolutely intoxicating. It’s so earthy, and profound. God, just thinking about it now makes me want to jam my dongbone right in an Arabian.

Once in the main part of the stable, I find my favorite horse of the pack. Her name is Daisy Blue. She isn’t the biggest horse in the joint, but she’s got a lot of fight! She’s got a sort of milky gray coat, almost like a cup of Earl Grey tea. And when she flares her nostrils, I am at a loss for words. I stare into her eyes, which must be the size of tennis balls. And in her eyes, I see only the purity of existence. There is no fear or anger. Daisy Blue is simply BEING.

That’s when I know she’s ready for the Buzzcock.

Quietly, I grab a bit and bridle and slip it on her. That’s the thing about horses. They don’t mind letting me be in control. I get the extra long reins so I can handle her from behind. Then, I stroke her mane gently, to let her know that I want to know the secret to her uncommon grace. Then I horse-whisper in her ear:

“You ready for a little hot Derby action?”

Quickly, I grab a three-step footstool from the corner and place it behind her. You aren’t supposed to walk behind horses. It’s dangerous, which is why I find it so engorging.

Then, I grab my riding crop, pull my pants down and prepare to MOUNT MY STEED. At first, she bucks a little. But after stroking her majestic horseadonk a few times, she settles back down. Eeeasy, girl! Then, it’s equimounting time. I rip open my flannel shirt and begin to thrust in and out of Daisy Blue, my cries of pleasure rattling the stable walls down to the ground.

Sometimes she poops, but I love a mudder.

After just a few minutes, I’m ready to deliver my “sugarcube” to her waiting maw. And she gobbles it right up. Soon, my seed will come out of her and rejoin the ground, nourishing the plants and wildlife below. It is an ever-going circle that cannot be unbroken, and it is beautiful.

Once finished, I feed her some oats, because she’s such a good girl.

So you see why I was so ill-tempered last night. When I go over a week without that kind of powerful horse-fucking experience, I tend to go a little bonkers. But I still stand by the sentiment of my comments. There needs to be a place in the world for REAL journalism, practiced by men who have been there, in the belly of the beast, doing the hard work, and plowing the occasional mare on the side.

That is all.

Thanks to Joe Sports Fan for the tremendous fan shots.

What weatherman Chris Shaffer of WCCO-Minneapolis lacks in subtlety, he more than makes up with in enthusiasm. Chris is excited about the Jared Allen trade. Really, really excited.

With Santonio Holmes matching his team record for pictures of his dick hitting the intarwebs, it was only a matter time before Steelers kicker Jeff Reed responded with more drunken debauchery.

An anonymous reader sends these pics of Jeff getting to be a pretty pretty princess for a day in Vegas.

Unrelated but amusing: A girl at the Steelers bar I go to in D.C. has several times said that her dream death would be to have Jeff Reed crush her head between his thighs. I’m going to bet he’d be willing to oblige.

I would like to take a moment to address the criticism made by some of the members of the media directed at this organization’s decision not to take a receiver until the 4th round this past weekend.

Frankly, we feel as though we have a solid but unheralded receiving corps that is capable of accomplishing great things if given greater time to congeal as a unit. That talent coupled with the recent acquisition of Pro Bowl tight end Alge Crumpler has us in a position where we feel like we have already taken the next step from playoff team to Super Bowl contender.

[Door flies open]

Vince Young: AAAAAAHHHHHHH Fuck! I’m on fire! AH AAAAHH AAAAAAAHHH

Fisher: Hello Vince.

Reporter: Coach Fisher! Does Vince Young being in a state of combustion affect the strategy of this team going forward?

Fisher: We have integrated the fire into our larger off-season strategy, but whether we will acquire the means to extinguish it depends largely on cap room and the availability of fire safety equipment on the free agent market.

In fact, I have just been made aware that the Tennessee Titans have just acquired an undrafted wet nap to address the situation.

[Tosses wet nap on Young to no noticeable effect]

Reporter: Will that be enough? The smell of burning flesh is getting to be pronounced.

Fisher: The moisture from the wet nap will extinguish the fire.

Reporter: Are you sure?

Fisher: Well, either that or the fire will just burn out. There’s not much around here to keep it going.

Young: Ohmigod! AAAAHHHHHHHHHHH HELP MEEEEEEEE!

Reporter: Won’t Young be dead by the time the fire burns out on its own?

Fisher: That is a possibility, but we really can’t entertain speculation at this point. We’ll assess our quarterback situation once the fire goes out and make the necessary adjustments.

Thank you.

[Pumps fist and walks off]

I am knowing you no dlaft tarr leceivel because I terr you foll month and month no dlaft tarr leceivel.

Why no risten?

WHY NO RISTEN?

You see I no furr of smirre light now.

Ben Roethlisberger: O HAI HINES. WOT R WE CONVERSATIN’ ABOUT?

Hines: You, Rongrastname! You terr coach Tomrin foll month and month you want tarr leceivel. What long with Hines? You think that make smirre? Fine! I am making smirre foll you!

[Face strains from forced smile]

Roethlisberger: HARF HARF HARF. YA GOTSTA CHILL, HINES. I’M HAVING THIS GRAND THEFT AUTO IV PARTY TOMORROW. JAMES FARRIOR, JEFF REED AND CARSON DALY GONNA COME THROUGH. WE GONNA MERC SOME BUSTAS AND BUST SOME SLUTS, YOU KNOW?

Hines: Nerr! I spend time make pelfect new design for make Hines tarr. I show foll you!

You am seeing? You now folget youl Rimas Sweed. Hines Wald is tarr leceivel! Pelfect design even same corol as unifolm pant! No one can see!

First-round pick Dustin Keller

The New England Patriots

Books

Mother Teresa

Endangered seals

Two handfuls of newborn kittens

CINCINNATI BENGALS WAR ROOM, two days ago

COACH LEWIS: Alright everyone, the draft’s about to start. We have the ninth pick overall. We’ve done a lot of research, and now it’s time for the payoff.

MIKE BROWN: What’s the latest on Chad, Coach? Are we getting good offers for him?

COACH LEWIS: We’re not trading him. Period. End of story.

MIKE BROWN: But what if we get the right offer for him?

COACH LEWIS: There have been no good offers for Chad. Period. End of story. [sips milkshake]

MIKE BROWN: Hey, wait a second. Where’d you get that milkshake?

COACH LEWIS: UDF. Why?

MIKE BROWN: No, I mean, who paid for it?

COACH LEWIS: Uhh, I expensed it.

MIKE BROWN: That means I paid for it. This is just the kind of thing that can ruin a franchise, Marvin.

COACH LEWIS: Really, I thought it might take something more drastic, like, oh I don’t know, your entire tenure as general manager.

MIKE BROWN: Lout!

COACH LEWIS: Honky! I oughta –

[door flies open]

THE DANIEL: Good afternoon, Mr. Lewis.

MIKE BROWN: This is a restricted area, sir. You’ll have to leave.

COACH LEWIS: Hang on, Mike. I’m running this draft. How can I help you, sir?

THE DANIEL: Gentlemen… I’ve traveled over half your state to be here today. I couldn’t get away sooner because my luxury suites were being renovated and I had to see about it. Those suites are now flowing at two hundred thousand dollars each and it’s paying me an income of five million dollars a week. So, ladies and gentlemen… if I say I’m a football man, you will agree.

COACH LEWIS: I don’t agree.

THE DANIEL: Shut up. You have a great chance here, but bear in mind, you can lose it all if you’re not careful. Out of all men that beg for a chance to take your wide receiver, maybe one in twenty will be football men; the rest will be speculators-men trying to get between you and your property-to get some of the money that ought by rights come to you. This is the way this works. I’m a family man- I run a family business. My name is Daniel Snyder. This is my son and my partner, H.W. Snyder.

H.W.: Hola.

COACH LEWIS: What is your offer? We’re wasting time.

THE DANIEL: I can offer you a first-round pick with a conditional third-round pick. If Chad has a successful season, we can upgrade that latter choice to a second-round, or even first round selection. If you’d like cash in addition to those two selections, then that’s fine.

MIKE BROWN: Two first-round picks AND CASH?!?! That’s pretty good.

COACH LEWIS: Chad Johnson is not for sale. Period. End of story.

THE DANIEL: I can guarantee to sign the deal today and put up the cash to back my word. I assure you, whatever the others promise to do, when it comes to the showdown, they won’t be there…

MIKE BROWN: [pulls Coach Lewis aside] Marvin, you have to take this deal. This is a great deal. I know because I know a lot about running a football team!

COACH LEWIS: We’re not trading him. Period. End of story.

THE DANIEL: Ah, you drive a hard bargain, Mr. Lewis. Let me sweeten the deal. I’ll throw in with my original deal, four alpacas and a year’s subscription to seventeen magazine.

COACH LEWIS: We’re not trading Chad. Period. End of story.

THE DANIEL: I’ll throw in 5 links of sausage and a harpoon gun.

COACH LEWIS: No.

THE DANIEL: Six bottles of whiskey and a my old Animal House DVD, along with my bootleg copy of Cumming Into Money Part 4. It’s bank robbery porn.

COACH LEWIS: No. Now please leave. We’re about to start the draft. [picks up milkshake, but it's empty] Hey, what happened to–

THE DANIEL: I DRANK YOUR MILKSHAKE! I DRANK IT UP!

MIKE BROWN: Hey, where’s your son?

THE DANIEL: I’VE ABANDONED MY CHILD! I’VE ABANDONED MY CHILD!

COACH LEWIS: [picks up phone] Can we get security in here, please?

MIKE BROWN: You should really keep an eye on your son.

THE DANIEL: DON’T TELL ME HOW TO RAISE MY FAMILY! [runs out]

COACH LEWIS: You know, we could have used a couple good alpacas.

MIKE BROWN: Call him back if you want. Collect, of course.