This is Cincinnati Ben-Gal Olivia. Olivia, along with five other smoking hot fictional cheerleaders, writes for a well-known fictional NFL humor blog. Olivia told her blog-mates that she would take care of the Friday cheerleader post– a recurring fictional feature that had become somewhat of a fictional institution on their blog.

But for some reason Olivia never wrote the cheerleader post and all of the fictional people who read her blog were sad and confused. The other five fictional cheerleaders were so angry they stuffed Olivia into a fictional burlap sack and dropped her off the Roebling suspension bridge into the Ohio River. They agreed to tell Olivia’s friends that she became a hooker and moved to Beckowanckal Heights, a fictional city that is exactly like the very real city of Las Cruces, New Mexico in every detail. They’ve already started to forget what Olivia looked like…

Speaking of the Bengals, Ocho Cinco has been described by a Cincinnati lawyer as possessing “the mental agility of a small soap dish.” What an awful thing to say. A real cheap shot. Didn’t that mean old lawyer man ever stop to think that small soap dishes might have feelings too?

The New York Giants were awarded their Super Bowl Rings last night in a plush ceremony at Tiffany & Co. Meanwhile, a continent away, Oakland Raiders owner Al Davis commemorated his teams’ 2007 campaign my handing out cans of Dinty Moore® Beef Stew. The ritzy Manhattan affair was marked by a regal blue carpet leading to the famed jeweler’s front door. While on the west coast, Raiders owner announced the stew giveaway via an index card thumb-tacked to the bulletin board at the OTAs.

The rings, designed with input from the players, are worth an estimated $25,000 each. Said Eurydice Kleinschmidt, Special Project Coordinator for Tiffany’s, “This isn’t just a Super Bowl victory, it’s a New York Super Bowl victory. Everything has got to be bigger, brighter more exciting.” Davis scored the Dinty Moore for $7.99 per case. Floor Manager Gregg Sekelski of the Fremont Costco explained, “A few cases of the Dinty Moore fell off the forklift today. Some of the cans were dented, so we thought we’d have to throw them away. Fortunately this creepy old guy in old lady’s glasses bought them right up.”

“Winning a championship is great and all. But once you put that ring on your finger, it’s a whole other story,” gushed linebacker Kawika Mitchell. Davis was equally enthusiastic about his prize, “Stew keeps the boys from gettin’ the consumption or hip gout. Silly cabin haystack carburetor.”

At KSK, we revel in the full breadth of antipathy, whether it be aimed at deserving targets like Peter King, the city of Indianapolis, Carl Peterson and Carson Palmer. Or really deserving targets like Patriots fans, Patriots players and Patriot Pat.

What gets lost in this festival of rancor are (What? Love? The fuck is that?) those people you hate deeply and irrationally, whereas the consensus of them is frustratingly positive. These are people (Tina Fey) that everyone seems to love and, on the surface, seem decent enough but just happen to rub you the wrong way (Tina Fey) to the extent that you’d like to cast them into the most gator-filled pond you can find. (The gators have a taste for female comedians also).

These need not be sports figures, per se. I find it’s not difficult to find easy justification to hate an athlete. Maybe they don’t exhibit outward obnoxiousness, but do they play for your favorite team? No. Welp, there you go. I justified my hatred of Marcus Allen for years with that one.

My opening pick: Mary J. Blige. (Tina Fey is too easily justified)

Good gracious, this woman is a warbling bag of annoying. “Family Affair” just won’t leave the goddamn radio, will it? Yes, Mary, I have plenty of hateration. And I don’t even have to go to a fucking dancery to have it either. What was that album called? “No More Drama”? Nice away message for 6th grader. DIE.

Life… slipping… away…

The great Pat Jordan wrote a piece on sports journalism for Slate last week. In it, he detailed a meeting he had with Deion Sanders. Here’s the money quote.

He was a sullen, unpleasant, nonverbal man. I thought maybe I could break down his reticence by taking him and his girlfriend out to dinner. She ordered for him, then cut up his steak and fed it to him.

Read that a few times just to digest it. This was a grown man so emotionally stunted he needed his girlfriend to cut up his food and feed it to him. Jesus. So, as you can imagine, I tuned into “Deion & Pilar: Prime Time Love” on the Oxygen network (Oxygen: It’s Lifetime, Without The Beatings!) the other night expecting one thing: to see Pilar cut up Deion’s food and feed it to him like the goddamn retard that he is.

Instead, I got Pilar scheming with a friend about what to do with “spousal allowance”. She settled on getting a chef and a nanny. Because she doesn’t like doing anything, you see. Watching this show is about as interesting as watching my dick go limp.

I got a better idea, Pilar. How about you used that thoroughly unearned money to buy your husband a training spoon, a burp cloth and a pack of Luvs. Then I can watch you try and keep him from being a drooling idiot. CUT THAT MEAT, GIRLFRIEND! CUT THAT MEAT!

Mrs. York, the assembled personnel department of the San Francisco 49ers: I would like to thank you for affording me this opportunity and for indulging my transporting here from the Skywalker Ranch via pod racer. I can say unequivocally that the gesture is truly wizard.

No doubt you were impressed by the worldwide box office success of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, for which I held an executive producing credit and a browbeating my friend Steven Spielberg with insipid ideas credit. That scene with Shia and the monkeys? All Lucas, baby. The Young Turks live on!

I know that you, Mrs. York, do not have an affinity for the sport of football. Neither do I. Nor do I enjoy making movies. They get in the way of my amazing CGI monkeys. But I know what makes them sing. If there are clear lessons to be gleaned from the latest Indy, the public clamors voraciously with two things: the 1950s and space aliens.

Urp.

Ah, excuse me. Yes, I’ve had industrial Light and Magic change my otherwise distasteful sounding bodily emissions into Star Wars effects. Very, very wizard.

[Passes wind]

Where was I? Oh, yes - the ’50s and space aliens. Is it possible for you to outfit your players in leather jackets and give them a large supply of combs with which to correct their cowlicks after each play? You saw how butch it made Shai look. He was a real greaser, that LaBeouf. Did you know I made American Graffiti? And that it’s a cinematic treasure beyond compare? Believe me, your fans will find it most wizard. Or, should I say, retro wizard.

About those fans, you won’t need them! All you’ll need to do is wrap the stadium in blue screen and there will be a veritable panoply of interesting alien races cheering on the game. You’ll have Ewoks, Tusken Raiders, a whole clan of cheering rhesus monkeys, the shebang. I’ll even add Chewbacca in there as a subtle nod to the hardcore fans. In the owner’s box: Watto. Get it? Because he resembles a Jew!

The only caveat with this is that you mustn’t air any games live. Makes it difficult on the animators. Post-production takes time, baby.

And stop wasting your money on new players! Crowds feed off nostalgia. You know 32 percent of the Indy movie is lingering shots of his hat, visual references to the past movies and glimpses of the Ark of the Covenant.

Keep doing what’s worked in the past. What do Niners fans like? The Catch? Well, keep running that play, dummy. Addlebrained reviewers said Kingdom of the Crystal Skull transported them back to their childhood. Well, of course it did - it had the exact same ending as Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, just with aliens. Beautiful CGI aliens.

[Cackles]

Int. N9ne Steakhouse Dallas, Texas

Tony: So things are all over with that K.I.T.T. guy?

Jess: Yeah, it turns out he was a car. Daddy says that it’s hard enough keeping my suck-u-lent-ly puckered asshole on the A list without being some kind of creepy objectophile.

[cellphone rings]
Tony: You got Romo

Joe: My man Anto-nio! This here’s Papa Joe, just checkin’ to see if you kids have left for dinner.

Tony: [sigh] Yeah Joe, we just walked in the door, is there something you need?

Joe: Aw shit, why’d you leave so early? Don’t you know that big stars like my sweet lil’ honeypot are supposed to show up twenty minutes late for everything? Are the photogs even there yet?

Tony: Why would there be any photographers Joe?

Joe: I might have faxed TMZ a three-page press release announcing your dinner plans.

Tony: And why the hell would you do something like that?

Joe: Because they stopped answering my goddamn phone calls, buncha self-righteous hacks.

Tony: Listen Joe, I’m willing to stuff your daughter’s taco with my chorizo, but you need to back the off, once and for all.

Joe: Alright ‘Tonio, whatever you say goes. I totally comprende, amigo.

[hangs up]

Jess: Say hi to daddy for me!

Tony: I already hung up, [under his breath] dumbfuck.

Obscenely Hot N9ne Hostess: You’re table is all set Mr. Romo, just follow me and feel free to check me out while I switch and walk.

[sits down]

Tony: So, what are you doing next weekend.

OHNH: Probably just sunbathing naked with my obscenely hot friends. So what are you up to, stud?

Tony: Not dating Jessica Simpson, for starters.

Jess: My ears are burning.

Busboy: Miss, please do not lean your head on the candles. They are there for ambiance, not heat.

[Jess sets her hair on fire]

Tony: I’ll get your number on the way out.

[OHNH exits, Busboy extinguishes fire]

Jess: So I don’t get it, what does N-9-N-E mean?

Tony: It’s just a clever way of spelling the number nine. I think the name comes from the age at which the two founders first met.

Jess: I still think N-Nine-Ne is a silly name.

[Joe appears out of the dark as if he's made of it]

Joe: Hi, my name is Papa Joe, and I’ll be your waiter this evening. Might I suggest starting off with a bottle of the Gamba Old Vine Zinfandel and an order of our shrooms?

Jess: Hi Daddy!

Tony: I have to get the fuck out of Texas.

You know, during this very long campaign season, I have traveled this country far and wide. I have been to all 50 states, shaken thousands of hands, kissed hundreds of babies, and seen literally millions of faces. And everywhere I go, I hear the same thing from people: Don’t give up. Don’t surrender. Be a fighter, Hillary. And it really inspired me. It made me realize that I wasn’t just running for me. I was running for working mothers, and their daughters, and millions of people around the nation. They put their faith in me, and it would be a crime to let them down.

So I’m not going to let a simple thing like the fact that I lost get in the way of continuing this battle. I was born a fighter. My mother once said I kicked so hard in the womb that the walls of her uterus were punctured. And, by golly, I will stay a fighter. Now, I’ve heard lots of naysayers say things like, “She doesn’t have enough delegates,” or, “No, seriously, the primaries are basically over. She lost,” or, “Jesus fucking Christ, will this stubborn bitch get out of the way of history already?” Well call me crazy, but I don’t think anyone told Michael Dukakis to give up after George Bush pasted his ass in ’88! What’s that? They did? Well then, he’s a little goddamn weakling.

I don’t think anyone should tell anyone when to quit anything. What kind of world would we live in if everyone were told to fold in the face of literally insurmountable odds? I met a 5-year-old girl last month who said she wanted to raise unicorns one day. Who the gosh darn heck am I to tell her that she can’t do that? I met another man who said he wanted to be an Olympic bobsledder, despite being 60 years old and having no bobsledding experience of any kind. Why should that man be forbidden from doing something simply because he can’t do it? IT’S UNAMERICAN!

If this campaign has taught me anything, it’s to never, ever let anything get in the way of your dream. Not the cynics. Not the media. Not reality. Not the voters. Not the law. Not your family and friends. NOT ANYTHING. I don’t think I should drop out. And I don’t think we should leave Iraq.

And I think the New England Patriots should be allowed to continue playing Super Bowl XLII.

Think about it. I’ve talked to many Patriot players recently, and they all told me the same thing. Hillary, they said, we want to keep playing that game. And I think it is a CRIME that they weren’t allowed to do so. So the clock ran out. So what? Real trailblazers don’t follow the script. Those players wanted to continue playing, and they weren’t allowed to. That is NOT a league’s right to dictate that sort of thing. It should the right of the team playing to determine when they would like to stop playing. Otherwise, what kind of message are we sending to little football players all around the nation? Oh, sorry, kid! Time’s up! You lost! Nothing you can do about it now!

That’s bullshit.

I have in my hand a letter from a supporter of mine. A young man named Thomas O’Leary from Quincy, Massachusetts. Thomas is just 23 years old, and lives above a bar, on just a table runner’s salary. He is uninsured. He’s also battling an alcohol problem. I want to read you this letter, because to me it displays the real spirit of determination embodied both in myself and Coach Belichick’s team. Thomas writes:

De-ah Mrs. Fackin’ Rawd-um Clinton.

I am a cawncerned votah who would like to know what you would do, if elected, to GET MY BELOVED FACKIN’ PATS BACK ON THE FACKIN’ FIELD FOR SUPAH BOWL FARTY TOO!!! The fact that they stawpped thah fackin’ clawk is the biggest fackin’ injustice since Brown versus thah Bawd of Education! Everyone knows that fackin’ Billy Belichick’s crew was thah bettah fackin’ team that fackin’ day! EVEN THOSE FAGGOTS IN NEW YARK!

I would like to point you to the key demographics in which the Pats were-ah fackin’ dawminant. Okay? They-ah punting average was a full four-ah yaaaahds bettah than those New Yark faggots. And they had five more-ah first fackin’ downs. What kinda fackin’ team ah the Giants if they can’t win those fackin’ categories? Are they really the best representative we have far a Supah Bowl Champ? FACK NO! If the game had been allowed to continue, we all know fackin’ Tawmmy Brady would have pulled through. NO ONE DENIES THIS!

They would have taken the ball, maaaaaahched right up the fackin’ field, and hit Welkah awn a crossing pattuhn to win that game. Farthermore-uh, you never know what kind of horrible things could happen to the Giants if the game had kept goin’! What if someone, possibly my cousin Neil O’Leary, shot that faggot Eli dead in the overtime? Would the Giants have won then? I DOUBT IT! You have to keep playing, because you nevah know if someone’s gonna get injuhed, or taken the fack out!

I’d also like to note that the fackin’ Pats have a wide base of suppart from WHITE, WORKING CLASS FANS, THE BEST KIND OF FACKIN’ FANS IN THE WORLD! White fans aren’t gawnna let you down! You can’t really win without our help! I think we need to hear what these fans have to say befor-ah we just go ending this shit! AMERICA FEELS CHEATED OUT OF SEEING THE PATS GO 19-0!

So please, Senatah, do something about this travesty. Oh, and beat that dahhhkie!

Regaaaaaahds,

Tawmmy

PS – I totally switched to you after Chris fackin’ Dawd dropped out. You got a big fat ass, but Tawmmy ain’t kickin’ you off the Aerobed, honey.

Now who can argue with a letter like this? This is a young man, clearly deprived of any sort of education, who doesn’t want to give up hope. And that’s what we’re doing if we allow the Super Bowl to be played according to the rules. America should be a land of opportunity. And of freedom! Where you can get your way if you just stay in denial long enough. That’s why I’m staying in this race. And that’s why I say, LET THOSE FACKIN’ PATRIOTS PLAY!

God bless the Patriots. And little Thomas O’Leary. And me. Mostly me, because I need the support. And please don’t forget: Barack Obama is black. And is friends with other blacks. People far, far darker than you or I.

I’ll see you in November.

Dear Miss Jenkins,

Oh, man.

Oh, shit damn.

Oh, fuckin’ shit goddamn.

Lord have mercy. Lord got chronic!

I am stoned.

You ever get so stoned that, like, you start remembering shit you had totally forgotten about? Now that I’m in prison, I do that shit ALL THE TIME. Just yesterday, Pookie made some insane kinda crack made outta old rat shit. We called that shit The Secret Of NIMH, as in Now I’s Most High. Anyway, once I smoked it, I started remembering all this crazy ass shit that happened to me. Like, one time, I ate a girl’s butt. No lie. I, like, drilled a hole in her butt with my tongue. That was fucking crazy, man. Tasted like motor oil. Ookie had the ass that day.

Then I remembered Skee Lo. Remember Skee Lo? That little brutha could SPIT! Loved that shit. Then I remembered “Puttin’ on the Hits,” which was, like, that Wayne Brady karaoke show, only it was on way before Wayne Brady decided to become one of those Broadway homos. They had this theme music that was, like, Pu-pu-pu-pu-puttttttin on the HIIIITS! BAHAHAHAHA! That shit was loco, man.

Then I remembered the time I killed that squirrel with a rock. I guess that was the first time I realized I could play quarterback. Shit damn, I musta killed 750 squirrels that summer. PEEP THAT COMPLETION PERCENTAGE, GREG KNAPP, YOU WEST COAST BITCH!

Then I remembered where I had left off in “Legend Of Zelda: Ocarina Of Time”. I had just figured out how to play that shit. If you played the right tune, Link got all big. It was, like, music made him grown and shit. Just like the first time I listened to Obi Trice. The fuck is an ocarina? Is it like a flute? A harmonica? A flutonica? That’s some gay ass shit.

Oh shit! I left a pack of Fudge Stripes on the radiator!

Anyway, Miss Jenkins, I was busy getting’ hiiiiiiiiiiiigh when I remembered all the things I did to you back when I was in your second grade class. I remembered the time I cheated on that one test. You didn’t let people use calculators, but I snuck one in my sock. It was solar powered. I liked covering up that solar stripe with my finger. The numbers would fucking disappear! Holy shit! Math don’t work at night!

Then I remembered the time I put that cherry bomb in your desk. Only I didn’t know how to make a cherry bomb, so I just doused a Mon Cheri with gasoline and lit it on fire. That was some sexual chocolate. Then I remembered the time I set fire to your car. Then I remembered the time I saw your bra. Miss Jenkins, you got some tits. Oh man, you got some tits. Oh God. They’re so creamy. Like whip cream on a milk shake. They’re so hot, so fucking hot…

Damn, I just busted in my pants.

Anyway, I’ve had lots of time to think here in prison. I’ve been trying to think of all the things I’ve done wrong. And while I may have made some mistakes, I can say I definitely learned…

Michael Vick!

Who’s that?!

Michael Vick! Move on now, son. Move expeditiously!

Oh snap! It’s Principal Joe Clark! And his minions!

They used to call me crazy Joe? Well, now they can call me Batman! Or Crazy Asshole With Bat! Or That Bat Guy! Or Bat Nguyen! Or Batman Crothers!

Oh, Mr. Clark! Please don’t kill me! I will move expeditiously, sir!

Look at you, boy! You smoke rat, don’t cha, boy?!

I dunno. Maybe.

LOOK AT ME, BOY! YOU SMOKE RAT, DON’T YOU?!

Okay! All right! It’s true! I smoked that shit up! I’m so sorry, Mr. Clark!

Why don’t you just jump off the roof, right here and now?

But I can’t get to the roof.

That’s what you really want, isn’t it? Yes, you do. You smoke rat, don’t you, boy? Don’t you smoke rat? Yeah, I thought so. And you know what that does to you? You don’t? It kills your brain cells, son. It kills your brain cells!

They keep my brain in another cell? Holy shit, how’d they do that?!

Now when you’re destroying your brain cells, you’re doing the same thing as killing yourself. You’re just doing it slower! Now, I say if your wanna kill yourself, do it expeditiously! Go on and shiv yourself! SHIV!

No, Mr. Clark! I don’t wanna do that! I want to live! I want to get out of this place and eat Fudge Stripe cookies again, because they are delicious! I want to protect my brain cells so that I can, like, learn new things! Like how to program a universal remote! Or download stuff from bigwetazzes.com! I WANNA LIVE, MR. CLARK! I wanna eat more butts!

You’ll be dead in a year, son. You hear me? You’ll be dead in a year.

No, Mr. Clark! Wait! Don’t go! Please! Don’t go!

Is he gone?

I think he’s gone.

Whew! That was freaky. Pookie gone and made that batch of NIMH too damn strong. TOO DAMN STRONG!

Anyway, Miss Jenkins, you got some fine ass tits.

Love,

Mikey

I can always count on my significant other to drag me to a movie that has Renee Zellweger in it. So maybe “finally” is the wrong word. Obviously, this movie sucked 4 cocks out of 5. We can shovel some blame onto Sports Illustrated’s Fuckface Emeritus Rick Reilly, who co-wrote the film, along with some other guy I don’t know enough about to consider a viable candidate for ridicule.

While we were at the $2 theater, there was this college-aged girl that walked into the movie with two of her friends. And this bitch waddled down the aisle with her fucking friends and, in a theater with maybe 15 people in it, sat DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF another couple, a ridiculous violation of movie etiquette.

Fucking cunt. If that fucking tub of shit had sat in front of me, I would have stabbed her in the face with my keys. How fucking clueless do you have to be? Seriously, I don’t think I’ve ever been so repulsed so quickly by a single person in my entire life.

But I’m getting off track…

Yeah, so it doesn’t take a goofy-assed mustache or a missing chin to know that the movie’s fucked when they’ve stolen the opening credits from Cheers and the first half hour is almost word-for-word ripped off from Slap Shot.

“Oh no! The team’s gonna fold! Fuckin’ machine took my quarter!”

And then Renee Cockshrinker shows up. There’s a whore in the newsroom! You expect me to believe that a newspaper would hire a woman as a reporter in the 1920s? Did they drag her into a speakeasy after hours and gang-bang her? That might explain why she’s squinting all the time. You know, because the old news guys would be standing over her face and…Forget it. I’ll draw you a picture later. But seriously, even Lucy Liu is offended by the narrowness of Renee’s eye sockets.

But anyway…

So they get the guy from The Office to save the team. I really can’t watch The Office because annoying people aren’t funny to me, whether they’re inside my TV or two cubicles away. They could have followed me around for the first two years of my first job out of college and had a better show. And it would have had sex in it! Well, not during season one.

All of a sudden, the George Clooney character suddenly gets all jealous over the new guy even though that kid is keeping him from working in a goddamn mine. Did you know they filmed part of this movie here in South Carolina? No, I didn’t really care, either, but I had to hear about it for six gaddamn months, so now you do, too.

And if you thought this post was aimless and off point, it has nothing on the last half hour of this movie. They basically pull another character out of Renee Cumcatcher’s ass and fix all the issues in the movie, leaving the actual game at the end of the movie about as anti-climatic as a hand job from a 14-year-old girl with rheumatoid arthritis. I could have done better on my own.

Oh, and Clooney directed this turd on skates, so fuck him too.