San Diego’s cheerleaders have been bringing the A-game for years. Trying out for the Chargers Girls would seem to be as daunting as auditioning for the number five slot with the 1927 Yankees. Yet, as documented in The Professional Cheerleaders Blog, some of these ladies are acquitting themselves admirably. So much so, in fact, that my trousers suddenly fit funny in and about the crotchal region.
More than a few of you suggested that we should use this week’s draft to jumpstart Ape’s career search and select potential alternate professions for our newly-outed colleague. And to that, all we can say is, “Maybe next week.” But for this mocker, which we began earlier in the week, we explore our respective lost ambitions and think about all the shit that was filed away in the under-utilized, what-do-you-want-to-be-when-you-grow-up recesses of our minds.
It’s not as frou-frou as much as it is personalized, and, sadly, potentially uninteresting. You’ll find this week’s helping of dick jokage and profanity notably undersized. This episode transpires without the Sultan of The Sugar Sheet and KSK resident master of Google Fu (referring to flubby, of course). The brevity of this edition may be a good thing. But then again, maybe Ape will go over this and find some inspiration for plotting his next move, now that he has some extra time on his hands.
Onto the draft.
SPECIALIZED TRADE DRAFT (STD)
The rules:
You are drafting a specific talent or trade. You will instantly become a master of this trade without any sort of experience, practice, or required licensing. There would also be no economic limitations as to how often you perform this trade. Trades determined to be similar to previous picks will be disqualified at my discretion.
The order:
Ape
Drew
Uff
Maj
Punte
Off we go.
1. APE – Painter
Not practical in any sense and the necessary pretension would be annoying. But I could produce incredibly valuable works in no time or effort at all, be considered a genius and fabulously wealthy.
MAJ: and only a matter of decades after dying a miserable death!
Eh – celebrity artists these days don’t exactly struggle.
MAJ: Fair enough, Salvador.
2. DREW – Play basketball as well as Michael Jordan in his prime
His ability combined with my luscious white skin makes me the greatest sports icon in American history. Plus I’d be able to dunk, and I’ve always wanted to be able to dunk.
MAJ: NOOOOOOOO! Obviously I would have taken that number one.
I had one other thing #1, but this easily supersedes it.
I’m like Mike now!
3. UFF – Play guitar.
No explanation necessary, I believe.
DREW: Fuck, guitar was easily my top choice after MJ.
4. MAJ – Architecture.
Because I’ve always wanted to tell people I’m an architect. Plus I’ve always dreamed of owning an extremely elaborate tree house, monkey butlers and all.
PUNTE (2 picks)
5. Plastic surgery.
I would specialize in breast augmentation…and nailing women that just healed from breast augmentation.
And I’m assuming flub will miss this draft, so…
6. Movie directing.
I would create everything from anti-environmental propaganda to bank robbery porn to the next “Mary Poppins.” I’d win awards and do lots of cocaine while being lavished with praise and alienating my family.
7. MAJ – Play golf like Tiger.
Because I want to fucking dominate people.
8. UFF – Mixed Martial Arts.
I would kill so many people.
PUNTE: That would be a new experience for you.
9. DREW – Write songs as well as The Beatles.
So I can segue from basketball star to rock star in relative short order.
APE (2 picks)
10. Forensic Science.
You’ll never find out why.
11. Chef.
I already have a lucrative endeavor and something to dispose of my enemies surreptitiously, now for the only way to please myself that I haven’t already mastered.
12. DREW – Champion Surfing Ability.
Aw yeah.
PUNTE: Don’t you mean “cowabunga?”
13. UFF – Parkour.
You know, I was going to take something sensible, like business/financial acumen, but honestly, I’d rather be able to scale buildings and do flips off of shit.
“What’s that? Someone in that second story window flipped you off?”
/scales brick edifice
/somersaults into window
/chokes out the offender
/dives out window
/does a flip with a full twist, landing on feet
/plays face-melting guitar solo
Yeah, that’s a good draft.
PUNTE: time for Maj to pick breakdancing. Who’s house…RUN’s house…
MAJ: You’re not far off.
14. MAJ – Dancing.
I’m a Jew without the slightest hint of rhythm, and it’s something I’ll never be able to overcome without some divine intervention.
15. PUNTE – Flying Helicopters.
Training to fly is crazy expensive (you have to buy your own gas!), plus it’s so much easier to gun people down from an elevated position.
MAJ: But you’d still have to buy a helicopter. I thought about jet pilot.
Drew’s going surfing in DC; who gives a shit?
Breaking news via MJD at Shutdown Corner, the Tennessee Titans roster is at least partially comprised of dumb motherfuckers. Some dealer was being questioned on the stand during a drug trial, and a certain football team’s name popped up.
In cross-examination by Williams’ attorney Peter Strianse, Corey Cecil was asked about the transactions, “The people that were sending you those wire transfers were connections that you had made on the streets when you more or less were a hydroponic marijuana dealer to the stars; is that right?”
Cecil asked Strianse what he meant by “To the stars,” and the attorney replied, “Tennessee Titans players, you would set them up with ounce quantities of high-quality hydroponic?”
Cecil then replied, “Yes, sir.”
Cecil also confirmed in questioning that he was “pinching out” seven grams of each ounce and selling it to the players as a full ounce with the Titans players unaware of being shortchanged.
Holy crap, they were getting screwed. These assholes have been playing football for their whole lives, so they should know the difference between 28 and 21. As for the Cecil, it certainly takes balls for a dealer to short professional football players by 25% on a thousand dollar ounce. Doesn’t he know that some of those guys carry guns?
An apology to our regular readers. I don’t want to make this whole situation anymore protracted than it need be. But I feel the need to respond to a few things.
First: that my getting fired from The Post was some sort of publicity stunt. It was not. While it is true that I was interested in leaving my job, I had applied to other positions within The Post and was not interested in being fired.
My intention for revealing my identity touched upon something the newspaper, all newspapers, hold dear: full disclosure. A lot of KSK’s content involves taking shots at other writers (Bill Simmons, Peter King, Tony Kornheiser, Michael Wilbon, etc.) and doing so anonymously is all well and good until you build a considerable audience and start getting paid to do it.
Second: this story from Editor & Publisher, which takes pains to detail The Post’s position on employee conduct, but notes at the end that I could not be reached for comment. I could not be reached because no attempt was made to contact me.
I sent this e-mail to the writer, Joe Strupp:
“Mr. Strupp:
Kindly explain to me what effort you made to contact me for this piece.
I’m not difficult to find. My email is posted on my blog, to which you linked in your story. I’m sure someone at The Post, who you made sure to reach, could have even supplied you with my phone number.
This is journalism at its laziest and it’s a testament to why I’m glad to be out of that profession.”
He replied:
“My apologies, I did not see an e-mail on your blog, but my mistake. I also tried to find a home number, but could not. Post folks would not give your number.
If you want to offer comment, I may be able to add it in.”
I appreciate the apology. But even if he is able to add my comments to the story, the majority of the people who are going to read it already have, so here are my comments in full:
“There was no conflict of interest between my writing for Kissing Suzy Kolber and my work for The Washington Post. The blog is not a journalistic endeavor and it is not something I was paid for until I revealed my identity. It is a humor blog about the NFL, whereas my job for the paper was to cover local news in a suburban county outside Washington, D.C. It is beat that has nothing to do with a professional football league.
I also find it troubling that I was summarily fired for engaging in something that is core to the spirit of The Washington Post: full disclosure. Even if editors had a problem with the language used in the blog, they should have been able to respect that my goal was not to defame The Post, but to be forthcoming with my readers.”
There you have it.
Again, sorry regular readers. The Romenesko crowd can go fuck themselves.
/dick joke
You guys rocked our Sitemeter like Lawrence Taylor on a rail of flake yesterday. Well done.
The comedy gods have seen fit to bless us with the latest bit of NFL nostalgia via YouTube. Here we have a newly unearthed 1978 country-western account of a world before Bodog. The song is played over some vintage NFL follies that make Bert Jones stumbling off the field wracked with agony even funnier.
Now for some participatory viewership. How many of these can you find?
- Steelers blamed for breaking up marriage
- “Cool” Jim Zorn
- Archie Manning inspired shudder
- Gunther Gebel-Williams
- really crappy Seahawks mascot
Better Know a Draft Pick: Chris Long
04.17.08
Name: Chris Howard Long
Nickname: None needed.
Reason to Hate Him Site Unseen: His life has always been, and will always be, better than yours. You know it, he knows it, and your mother knows it.
Father: Howie Long, television personality.
Mother: Teri Hatcher, real and spectacular.
DNA Sample: Gattaca’d
Height: Good.
Weight: Great.
Strength: Grand.
Motor: High.
Mainstream Comparison: Patrick Kerney.
KSK Comparison: Uh…Howie Long?
Who Wants Him: Journalists
Who Will Take Him: St. Louis. But the real contest will be the battle royal between journalists. The last man standing will receive all rights towards any future Chris Long journoporn.
Story ESPN Will Shove Down Your Throat: What, are you fucking kidding me? He’s the golden child. God forbid he should be photographed passed out drunk on The Lawn next to a crusty old longshoreman.
Immediate Impact: Immediately impactful.
Down the Road: Annual Pro Bowl trips, warranted or otherwise.
Even though some of the commentary about Mike coming out of the blogger closet is reaching some pretty incredible levels of interest, coverage, and commenter rage, this asshole would argue that the attention is well-deserved. Not everyone will understand this.
Excuse me for pointing out one more time that we’ve been hearing the same shit from everyone for some time. Bloggers are just incompetent fools in our parents’ basements. Bloggers face no accountability. Bloggers aren’t really journalists. And granted, one or more of those purported axioms may be true in a given instance. Here, they were certainly not.
Which is why Mike’s firing strikes me as so…I don’t even have a word for it. I mean, he owns a condo! He had a career working for one of the largest newspapers in the world. He was a fucking journalist! For the Washington Post! Motherfucker was behind enemy lines the whole time, knowing that, as all bloggers (and commenters) know, that discovery would almost certainly lead to termination.
It’s already been pointed out that Mike probably knew the futility of attempting to converge his two writing lives, though no one can seem to give a good reason why. The Post is now telling people that he resigned, which is interesting, given that he was escorted out by security. This event and the subsequent fallout are nothing short of amazing, really. And inspiring.
So inspiring, in fact, that we’re commemorating the event with a special set of KSK garmentry in Mr. Tunison’s honor.
The Christmas Ape tee comes in men’s and women’s cuts. We’ve also included a special cami, just for fun. And if you’re not down with the whole Steeler-inspired motif, you can change the color of the shirt before ordering (our advice: stick to the dark colors).
We don’t always salute our own. Today, we do. As The Maj would say, Mazal Tov, Mr. Ape.
Ape’s Firing: A Dramatization
04.17.08In honor of our colleague Christmas Ape, who was released from his day job yesterday for outing himself here on this blog, we present a special Kill Kill Kill video that fully illustrates the Washington Post termination process.
As you can see, the Ivy League trained leopard isn’t content to just kill the poor primate. It must also drag him around in the dirt, in front of fellow Ivies, insulting his dignity in the process. I’m assuming the leopards then went on to play squash after this. Guardians of democracy, my left nut!
UPDATE: Ape Got Dooced
04.16.08 
Yeah, dooced.
Anyone who had 48 hours in the Ape Gets Fired For Coming Out On KSK Pool, please claim your prize of Cunt Puncher tattoo at the door. (link NSFW)
Upon sacking, I was told that I brought “discredit to the paper” with my choosing to drink at bars in my free time. Any good journo knows to keep the flask in the desk. That NFL PostSecret series also garnered far too few comments for their liking.
So now in lieu of a three-hour commute and tedious busywork, I can make the same amount of money writing the Further Adventures of Marmalard from my apartment. Sure, health insurance is nice, but it’s no constant masturbation breaks.
Still, getting escorted out of the building by security was no fun, and sharing the elevator with Dana Milbank on the way out was even worse, but none of that compares with the withering scorn of Jean Grey.
Hines Ward Takes The Culinary Tour
04.16.08New skedurre lereased yesday and I go to see shitty we pray in foll new season. Look foll prace make fun in week befoll game. No need go Creverand, since me know is Mistake by Rake.
I go first Furryderphia. We pray there Numbell Shree Week.
Furryderphia have many things rike scalee peeper who thlow battlee at Annual Gift Man. And eat thing like sclapper.
Sclapper not make smirre.
But they eat also cheesestick.
Maybe get Furryderphia cheesestick.
WHAT THIS!?
IS SO LACIST!
No way I get cheesestick now!
“Fuck you. We getting steak.”
Who that?
“Your black half. The one who don’t be jumbling all the L’s and R’s. The one who been trying to repress ever since you tried to connect to your cornerstore owning, police calling, landlording heritage. And I didn’t come all the way to gat damn Philly to not get some steak.”
I so confuse!
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