FACK YOU! Welkah fan far life!
Special thanks to reader Barry O, who is very handsome and deserves some sort of coital compensation for his efforts.
Best of all, I don’t hear any rumbling coming from outside my door. None whatsoever! That crazy asshole is busy with the CBA, so I know there’s NO WAY he’s coming through that door right now.
(door flies open)
Wade: What do you want, you big jerk?
Jason: Wade Phillips, it is my distinct pleasure to introduce to you, and the many satellites orbiting around your body, the new assistant director of player personnel for the Dallas Cowboys…
(door flies open)
Judd: My God, dear brother. You told me many tales of The Great Thing. But nothing could prepare me for encountering the beast in person! So very hideous! I shall need a snifter of Harvey’s Bristol Cream at once to ward off the pant fumes!
Wade: Jesus. You have a brother?
Jason: Yes. Indeed. Isn’t it grand? Finally, I have someone to bounce ideas off of.
Judd: Indeed. I bet when you bounce ideas off that leviathan, they ricochet all the way to Montpellier!
Jason: Ha ha ha!
Judd: Ha ha ha!
Jason: Ha ha ha!
Judd: Ha ha ha!
Jason: Ha ha ha!
Judd: Ha ha ha!
Jason: Say, dear brother, do you remember the time we were at our Eating Club at Princeton, and we ATE?
Judd: Oh, yes. We feasted upon strawberries and laughed at all those Depression-era Jacob Riis photos of homeless people!
Jason: What a fabulous pursuit!
Judd: Indeed! That was a very good eating, indeed!
Wade: I wish you people would stop saying “indeed” all the time.
Jason: Oh, what would you know of high culture, you over-inflated dirigible?
Judd: Yes, what Eating Club were you in, my good man? I bet you’re honorary chairperson of the Subway Club, yes?
Wade: Shut up.
Jason: Never you mind him, dearest Judd. He knows nothing of proper eating. Only a Princeton man can truly appreciate the rewards of collective ingestion.
Judd: Indeed. I’m assuming the only company he keeps while eating is with his giant sense of shame.
Wade: What do you two big jerks want?
Jason: Oh, we’re just here to throw you out of your office.
Wade: What?!
Jason: Yes, my good man. I’m afraid this office has been reassigned as the sole, exclusive province of the assistant director of player personnel. And that would be…
Judd: Why, that would be me, my brother!
Jason: Why, you are correct, my brother!
Judd: How delightful!
Jason: How lovely!
Judd: (twirls lacrosse stick) We should have a good eating to celebrate the occasion!
Jason: Yes, this most certainly calls for a good, substantive eating!
Wade: Well, where the heck am I moving?
Jason: Well, you see, old Mrs. McCleary in ticketing retires at the end of next year. So, until her departure, you’ll be sharing her cubicle with her. Actually, it’s less a cubicle and more of a… movable overhead projector trolley. But you’ll finally have someone to TALK to! Won’t that be nice?
Wade: No, no, no. That won’t do. I need more space!
Jason: No doubt about that.
Wade: Well, who signed off on this?!
(door flies open)
Jerry: YEEEEEEEEHAAWWWWWW!!!!!! WILD BUCKIN BUCKFUCKAROO!!!!!
Wade: Fuck.
Jerry: How’s it going, Fatty? I see you’ve been doing your KUGEL EXERCISES! How do you like my new boy JUUUUUDD? Isn’t he a goddamn STAR?
Wade: He’s very nice.
Jerry: HE’S A FUCKING STAR, CHUBBA HO-TEP! I got me TWO Princeton boys now. That’s one, two… TWO GODDAMN PRINCETON BOYS! I tell ya, we’re fifty times smarter than those faggots in New England. You know Bill Belichick went to Wesleyan, Tubby? A GODDAMN GIRL’S SCHOOL! No one’s ever gonna outfox ol’ DOUBLE-J again!
Wade: Sir, I cannot possibly move my office. I have countless files that I need to keep on hand.
Jerry: Calm down, Butterfuoco. I know how much you loooove collecting take-out menus. But my boy JUUUUUDD needs the room! So I expect you to stay here packing up ALL WEEKEND LONG, and have your shit outta here by daybreak Tuesday!
Wade: But it’s Memorial weekend, sir!
Jerry: Oh, really? Gonna build a double bacon cheeseburger memorial in your yard, are ya, Captain Cottage Cheese? You know ya can always order another, don’t ya? THE DOUBLE-J DOESN’T CARE! You’re here to work, little piggy mule! SO WORK!
Wade: God dammit.
Judd: Say Mr. Jones, would you care to join us for an eating?
Jason: Indeed! We were just going to go somewhere with nice wood paneling and Tiffany lamps, and sit down for a proper, afternoon eating. Won’t you join us?
Jerry: Well, that sounds downright elegant, Judd and Jason. I KNEW I MADE THE RIGHT MOVE HIRIN’ YOU TWO!
Wade: But sir…
Jerry: No buts. Now you butter up that fat ass of yours and get movin’! And leave the staple remover! That’s my boy’s now! You’ll just have to chew your staples out like the rest of the fatties!
Wade: I hate this place.
Jerry: NOW LET’S DO SOME OF THAT FANCY EATING! THEN WE CAN FIND SOME OUTLAW PUSSY! YEEEEEHAWWWWW!!! WOOOO HOOOOOOO I AM FUCKING CRAZY!!!!
Commissioner Roger Goodell announced this week that NFL teams will be subject to fines when their players are suspended for disciplinary reasons. While Rog was mum on the specifics, KSK has obtained a proposed schedule of fines. Here’s how much your favorite team will have to fork over for each transgression:
DUI (first offense): $25,000
DUI (repeat): $100,000, Zygi, what did you expect when you traded for Jared Allen???
Domestic violence: $75,000
Bitch had it coming: $5
Dog-fighting: Owner’s firstborn grandchild cast into the dreaded Fire-Pits of Indianapolis
Regular ol’ fighting: you owe me one gumball machine
Arson: $50,000
Arson (Comcast HQ): owner gets 15 minutes alone in the closet with Belichick’s MILF o’ the Week
Weapons violation: Spend weekend helping Bill Bidwell pick up aluminum cans (Luby’s Cafeteria isn’t cheap, y’know)
Drugs (possession): $15,000
Drugs (distribution): Must sign a McCown, a Gramatica or a Detmer.
Leading police on an interstate high-speed chase in a stolen Denali even though you’re down to the rims because they shot out your tires after they raided your crack bender at the LaQuinta with three underage Ukraine girls who were smuggled in just for the occasion: Half of whatever the owner is paying Chris Henry
mumble mumble mumble wipe that smile off your face mumble mumble I’m going to make you do things that you’ll immediately regret for the rest of your life mumble mumble mumble
Greetings post-industrial dogshit.
We comprise what remains of the once-great Mayan society. Y’know, that Mesoamerican culture that gave you advanced writing system and an independently formed concept of zero. How else would you calculate Tarvaris Jackson’s quarterback rating?
You may also remember us as the people you confused with the Aztecs and as the inspiration of Nickelodeon’s hit game show Legends of the Hidden Temple. All those gay Aztecs gave you was Apocalypto. Warfaring dickholsters.
Fuck them Olmecs while we’re at it.
Lately it seems our relevance as an ancient civilization has dwindled to near nothingness. It was only in your folly that our importance was reaffirmed.
Our forebearers created an staggeringly accurate calendar that predicts the end of the world in 2012.
Just today, your preeminent sporting league has assigned accursed shit basin Indianapolis as the host site of its championship game in that year.
Ahem.
Told ya so.
That event, headlined by a unholy halftime act REM, will touch off a gruesome death spiral for humanity that will conclude when Tina Fey is elected president of your country, after the Republicans foolishly hope to counter the political might of horrific yapcunt Hillary Clinton, who will wrest control of your nation in a matter of months.
It’s gonna suck.
I don’t know what else to tell you.
Want some maize?
You can’t just go and DO something like this, you NFL owner shitbags. I’ve already gone three and a half months with NO football this year. I’m ready to eat my young. Oh, if only I could hibernate like a bear, or like Brian Wilson, and wake up refreshed for the NFL season. Instead, I have to watch the FUCKING SPURS. WOE TO US ALL!!!!
Well, I’m not taking this laying down, you robber baron shitbags. I took it upon myself to sneak into league offices last night. That’s right! Frankie the security guard melts at the sight of a fresh box of Ding Dongs. And once I told the receptionist I was Dr. Rosenpenis, she let me right into the records room. EASY AS PIE, YOU COCKPUMPERS.
As a result, I have discovered the list of owner demands for the new labor deal. And I’m making it public, just to rob you of your precious, precious leverage. THIS IS WHAT YOU GET WHEN YOU FUCK AN NFL FAN IN THE ASS, GOODELL.
Dan Snyder: Mandatory Redskins title, corpse of father exhumed for public viewing and worship
Jerry Jones: Extra fat men to poke, league subsidy to begin own space program, additional skin grafts to repair Dr. Lipschitz’s handiwork
Jeffrey Lurie: Separate stadium jail for Reid children, so that Eagle fans are forced to find alternative meth source
The Citizens Of Green Bay: More elastic pants, stoplight installed outside of driveway to new donut shop
Zygi Wilf: Fully operational stadium in Los Angeles, admission from the people of Minnesota that Jews make them somewhat uneasy.
William Clay Ford: Nothing. Everything’s super!
The McCaskey Family: Purchase of vacant lots to commission additional acts of architectural rape upon Windy City landscape
Bill Bidwill: Written statement from players that they will turn off all lights before leaving team facility. What is he, the goddamn power company?!
The Mara Family: Extra home game every year at the expense of displaced flood refugees, permanent Giants Stadium position for Super Bowl clock manager
Malcolm Glazer: A second team, plus a good ol’ fashioned barn raisin’
Tom Benson: Player-funded, $200 billion Category 5 levees for greater New Orleans, so he can finally move the team without feeling a shred of guilt
Wayne Weaver: Fans
Jerry Richardson: Competent training staff, mandatory fulfillment of any Sports Illustrated preseason prediction
Arthur Blank: Pillow for Michael Vick, cup of hot soup for Michael Vick, some toast with jam for Michael Vick, electric blanket for Michael Vick. Are you okay, Michael?
The Frontiere Family: eharmony.com profile for Georgia, so she can finally land that eighth husband she was always looking for. Some necrophiliac’s gotta be feeling frisky
Denise York: Contraction of team, monthlong stay in Corsica with Janusz, her personal trainer. God, this football stuff is so STUPID!
Paul Allen: Written promise from players that they will find Justin Long and beat the ever-loving fuck out of him. God, he’s like the second coming of Jimmy Fallon.
Robert Kraft: Nanny cams, the continued league-wide cover-up of any wrongdoing, mandatory “Negro Tax” on all African-American Gillette Stadium visitors
Ralph Wilson: His reading glasses! For God’s sake, what did you with his reading glasses?! He left them right in the medicine cabinet, and now they’re gone! How’s he supposed to read this crazy thing?
Wayne Huizenga: Separate training table for players that Parcells won’t know about
Woody Johnson: Full refund for purchase of Jets, bottle of shampoo that delivers on No More Tears promise
Dan Rooney: Kids off lawn
Mike Brown: Contract clause stating that any player on injured reserve must work the concession stand
Randy Lerner: A copy of every college player’s mailing address, credit report and social security number
Steve Bisciotti: Kevlar vest, plus those little hard cookies you dip into your coffee. You know what he means? They usually come in odd flavors like anise seed. What do you call those things?
Jim Irsay: Mandatory attendance of performances featuring the jam band he started with Charles Dolan
Bob McNair: New expansion team to cover up the glaring failure of his own, preferably named the Utah Utahns.
Bud Adams: Daily rubdown from discreet Oriental 12-year-old
Pat Bowlen: Mandatory obedience training for wife’s Chihuahua. Christ, that little fucker just shits all over the fucking place
Alex Spanos: Mandatory de-douching symposium for all active quarterbacks
Clark Hunt: The CLARK Hunt trophy, god dammit. WHAT ARE YA GONNA DO ABOUT IT, OLD MAN?!
Al Davis: One quart of fresh baby’s blood per hour
THIS IS SO STUPID! I CAN’T BELIEVE I HAVE TO GO TO CRUDDY BABYLAND BECAUSE I WAS THE FLIPPIN’ MVP. EVERYBODY KNOWS THAT THE HAPPIEST PLACE ON EARTH IS THE EXIT 76 ANTIQUE MALL IN INDIANA. I CAN’T WAIT TO HIT THAT UP WHEN MOM AND I ARE VISITING PEYTON ON MY BYE WEEK. WHATDYA MEAN WE HAVE THE SAME BYE WEEK?
[throws tantrum]
MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!
[/tantrum]
NO! I’M A BIG MAN NOW, I DON’T NEED MOM.
OH WELL, I GUESS I COULD GO ON SOME RIDES WITH THE BABYSITTER BEFORE THAT FRIGGIN’ PARADE.
WHAT’S THIS KIDDIE RIDE ALL ABOUT? IT LOOKS LIKE IT JUST GOES AROUND IN CIRCLES.
[rides ride]
JEEZ ABBY, THIS IS BORING. IT JUST GOES AROUND AND AROUND OVER AND OVER AGAIN.
[sulks]
WAIT! WAS THAT MICKEY?
OHMYGOD, IT’S MICKEY MOTHERFLIPPIN’ MOUSE IN PERSON AND I’M STUCK UP HERE GOING IN A STUPID CIRCLE!
HEY, WHERE’D HE GO?
OHMYGOD, THERE’S MICKEY!
HEY, WHERE’D HE GO?
OHMYGOD, THERE’S MICKEY!
HEY, WHERE’D HE GO?
OHMYGOD, THERE’S MICKEY!
HEY, WHERE’D HE GO?
[/rides ride]
WHAT THE HECK, WHERE DID HE GO? WHY AM I ALL DIZZY? OH GOD, I’M GONNA SPEW!
[spews in this]
AH CRUD, THIS DAY CAN’T GET ANY WORSE! I’M STUCK AT BABYLAND, MICKEY KEEPS DISAPPEARING, I BLEW CHUNKS ALL OVER THE PLACE, MOISHE IS AT HIS SPA DAY UNTIL DINNER TIME, AND NOW I HAVE TO SIT THROUGH SOME GIRLIE PARADE.
HOLY FREAKIN’ COW, MICKEY’S SITTING RIGHT NEXT TO ME!
OK, PLAY IT COOL BIG E, HE’S JUST ANOTHER CELEBRITY…
[turns to Mickey]
EXCUSE ME, MR. MOUSE, I’M A HUGE FAN OF YOURS AND-
[spews on Mickey]
BEST.DAY.EVER.
[sips from sippy cup]
With Randy Moss already having been pictured with Miss Kentucky at the Derby, it’s good to see Don Chavez get this photo of Dr. Underneath showing off his pearly sallow whites to the camera.
Come now, Wesley. Leave the fellateface to Pats fans imagination. Simmons may not leave the house for weeks now. You know how nuts he goes for the white guy uvula. Or was that urethra?
Hi, folks! I’m Alonzo Spellman, former defensive lineman for the Chicago Bears and mentally unhinged citizen of the planet Xaphox. You might remember me from the time I ripped the phone off a wall in a doctor’s office, or the time I forced a plane to land after trying to dig the spiders out of a stewardess’s shoulder blade! You also might remember me from such successful products as Alonzo Spellman’s Pussy Hook, Alonzo Spellman’s Nail Muffin, and Alonzo Spellman’s Flying Knife.
But folks, I think I may have stumbled on perhaps my greatest innovation yet! We all know just how delicious clowns are. Well folks, now you can get the great taste of clown… IN A BURGER!
That’s right! Alonzo Spellman’s Clown Burgers!
Made with REAL clown meat! We start with all natural, 100% organic clowns!
Please, sir! Don’t kill me! All I wanted to do was bring joy to children in the neighborhood! No, please! WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH THAT APPLE CORER?! NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
Then we grind ‘em right up into juicy, one-pound patties!
You’ve never had a clown burger this thick! Then we freeze them up and ship them right to your door! They’re great for cookouts, picnics, even birthday parties! Kids love them! Don’t you, little Jenny?!
This big, scary man wearing a gray sweatshirt and no pants knocked on our door and made us eat another man he said wanted to live inside our tummies. My mom and I cried a lot. That big, scary man is very scary.
My oh my, Alonzo Spellman’s Clown Burgers sure will get your flower squirtin’! Best of all, they’re all natural. We don’t inject our clowns with any hormones, or feed them their own feces. They’re farm-raised, and farm-slaughtered. And they’re 100% clown! No mime meat!
No mute people meat!
And NO UPS worker meat!
I know people usually think of clowns as perpetrators and not victims. But I tell you, once you’ve tried MY clown burgers, you’ll never accept anything less! Mmmmm… THAT’S GOOD CLOWN!
So if you’ve got a big appetite and you’re ready to feast upon human tissue, please send EXACTLY $3,489,745,089,278,031,892.22 in Greek drachmas only to this address:
The Shed Behind Mrs. Buckley’s House, Where I Am Lying In Wait
Fairbanks, AL
Please send me this money in an unmarked envelope that has been heavily sprayed with Roundup. Sinister forces in the Ecudorian government are watching my every move, so I can’t afford to take chances. They’ve bugged my house, my car, my eyes, and the underside of my tongue. As much as I try to scratch, I CANNOT GET RID OF THE TERRIBLE STATIC.
So get your Alonzo Spellman’s Clown Burgers today! The taste is NO JOKE.
How long’d I play there? Four years? And you couldn’t have let through just a few measly gay nuptials? Same old story. Shit, I played in the CFL until 1998, then Canada went ahead and legalized gay marriages in 2005.
I mean, it’s not that I’m gay or anything. Heavens no. We’ve been through this. Straight as something that is universally thought of as straight. That’s what I am! There’s nothing I enjoy like some wet and wild heterocourse, which is what I like to call it when I’m smoking a cigarette after I get done totally giving the sex to my lovely, lovely wifely-type person. That girl, man, she’s so pleasing to what is considered men’s popular taste in women. Right? Thinking about her just makes me sexually excited in a macho way that thoroughly dispels questions of my sexual preference.
Back in San Francisco, I remember spending endless nights talking with T.O. discussing about what it would be like when the ruling came down. We were such bold fiery progressives in those days.
Then he went to Philly and Dallas, had some emotional problems, got involved in porn AND WHY DIDN’T YOU CRY FOR ME AT PRESS CONFERENCES, ELDORADO, MY LOST RECEIVER OF PASSION!?
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