Melinda’s mother died giving birth to her first and only daughter. Melinda’s mom had been artificially inseminated and intended to raise the child alone. Mindy, as she came to be known by the people in Florida Child Protective Services, possessed an immediate affinity for those around her and her caretakers were quick to note how remarkable this quality was for someone who grew up never knowing their biological parents.

Mindy bounced around foster families for most of her childhood. Despite the volatile nature of her upbringing, she never went through a rebellious phase, always doing what was told of her, excelling in school and eschewing potentially troublesome friends. She would have been valedictorian of her high school outside St. Louis, had she not committed so much of her time to volunteer work, causing a few would-be As to slip to Bs.

Not having a family to support her, Mindy couldn’t get quite enough in scholarships to attend the colleges she wanted. She instead got a job as an administrative assistant and attended community college at night, in the hopes of one day becoming a teacher. Hers is a difficult life but she remains buoyant in her outlook and optimistic in nature.

In September, she will have a late evening of drinking with some classmates. After dropping them off, she will drive home drunk. Less than a mile from her home, her vehicle will strike and kill Rams defensive end Leonard Little.

For her crime, she will receive a mandatory 10 years in a federal prison.

A roided-up Ufford takes on Ray Lewis.

This week’s draft, obviously inspired by Javon Walker’s incident, is rather simple. You pick one football player, active or retired, who you feel is most deserving of your rage. You see said player on the street, and you unload on him with all the pasty blogger fury you can muster.

I’ll start things off by taking the easy way out. A punter!

Ugh. Nobody in the history of the Redskins has pissed me off more than Matt Turk (except for George Allen and his whole “no black guys” policy, but I wasn’t really alive). He was an average punter, with a propensity for timely game-changing fumbles. But what sets off Redskins fans whenever someone utters the “Turk” name is the broken finger.

You see one day in between games Matt Turk decided to go play some pickup basketball, and because he’s a punter he couldn’t manage to get through said game with all of his bones intact. Turk claimed to have broken his finger at some point in the previous game, he just couldn’t really say when. It was a bold move to blame the injury on football, seeing as how nobody ever touched him. What resulted was a few missed games, including the playoff matchup against the Bucs.

Since Turk was also the team’s holder, that responsibility fell to one Brad Johnson. Needless to say, the game, and the season, ended thusly…

Yeah, and his brother Dan was a shitty snapper too, may he rest in peace.

I swear he would have nailed that 52-yarder.

Make your picks in the comment section, but remember to wait ten picks before selecting again, asshole. Oh, and keep your gloves up.

Sadia Morrison (pictured, seriously), who was convicted for her role in the infamous Pacman Jones strip club shooting, was found dead in New York last Friday. Morrison was a stylist for several NFL players, and had previously worked for Vibe magazine. Apparently, she died after being thrown from a building.

Yikes. That’s some Hitchcockian shit right there.

[ photo: JAMD ]

Michael Strahan: I’sss my dissstinct pleasure like to welcome ya’lls to my new show, STOMPING. YOU. OUT. … at night. We’re gonna try do our comedy thing, have some fun and maybe learn something about the same time.

Ronnie The Band Leader: Youse a funny motherfucker, Michael.

Strahan: I ain’t told no jokes yet.

Ronnie: BAHAHAHAHA! That’s rich! Ain’t told no jokes! You don’t even need writers.

Strahan: Hehhh, aight man.

Okay. Let’sss welcome my hilariousss sidekick on the show, you might know him asss the the gunssslinger, MAH MAN… Brett Favre!

[Show's theme plays]

Brett Favre: Pleasure to be here.

Strahan: I think it’s gonna be a good thing we gotsss here. Me and you? We got a report and shit.

Favre: A rapport?

Strahan: You with your fucking French name would know how to pronounsssssse that shit.

Ronnie: Ha! French! Ha! Killed it!

Favre: So which guests do we have tonight?

Strahan: Oh, we got some guests, but firsss thing’s firsss.

Favre: What’s that?

Strahan: Bitch, you know exactly what I mean. Drop yo’ ass on the floor.

Favre: I thought we agreed not to do this.

Strahan: We did. But I disssagree with our agreement. People, you remember how Favre fell hisss assss down to let me git my sack record. Well, beginning a’ each show, pretty boy here gonna fall his ass on the ground.

Favre: But it’s humiliating.

Strahan: How you think it look for me? Bring you out here in front a’ all thessse peoplesss, then you not fall down? Ludicrousss.

Ronnie: A fuckin’ disgrace is what it’d be. OH!

Favre: [Sighs] I knew I should’ve taken that analyst gig.

[Favre stands out of chair, takes two steps toward audience then collapses onto the floor]

Strahan: Hahaha. Exsssssellent! We got a great show for you this evening, we got Natasha Bedingfield and that hot bitch from that reality show. Whatever, she hot. Be right back.

Now get off stage, Favre!

I’d like to thank you media people for comin’ out to this here press conference today.

Ahem.

I called y’all out here to let it be known that I, Adam Jones, will no longer be using the nickname Pacman. I made some mistakes over the last couple years, and I wanna break free from the reputation I created. I don’t wanna spend the rest of my career chasing ghosts.

So no more Pacman, a’ight? And no Pacman spin-offs, neither. I don’t wanna be called Ms. Pacman, even if my gameplay this year ends up being slightly improved and more nuanced. And no Pacman Plus, Baby Pacman, or Professor Pacman, neither. In fact, I don’t want ANY nickname that comes from an early-’80s arcade game. Not even Space Invade-Her.

I’m also gettin’ rid of my other nicknames and abandoning some business plans that some publicist bitch I hired didn’t like. So all y’all who IM me, I ain’t gonna use “KuntPuncher32″ as my AOL screen name no more. And to all my boys at the Indian casinos, I’m retiring my Native American name, Spits on Bitches. Oh, that reminds me: I’m halting production on Bitches on Spits, the exotic dancer rotisserie I developed during the off-season.

So that’s that. Just plain ol’ Adam Jones from here on out. Like the guitarist from Tool. Or that outfielder for the Orioles. Yeah, especially the Orioles guy. He ain’t never been in trouble with the law, right? From here on out, you guys may as well just think him and me is the same dude.

Naw, seriously. I already stole that bitch’s social security number and applied for credit cards.

Back by popular Ape’s demand is your friendly nabeyhood uomo ragno! There are not as many jokes as in previous installments, but who am I to argue with plot advancement? There are only supposed to be 10 of these things, so they gotta move it along, I guess. Time is money and whatnot. You guys you should probably find some former owners of a hip-hop label. They’ll throw money at anything!

It comes as news to me that the filmmakers are from Australia and are therefore probably related to Heath Ledger. Sorry, blokes, at least it looks like he did a good job in The Dark Knight, which the cream in my pants just creamed itself as soon as I thought about it.

I was on a conference call phone interview with Ledger when he was promoting The Four Feathers in 2002. Some other college writer dipshit asked if people in his hometown of Perth built cannons and fired them as a celebratory rite. He laughed and called the kid an idiot. That’s when I knew he’d die of an OD. It’s all in the intonation.

Where the fuck did everybody go?

None of us at KSK are close personal friends with NFL players like the guys over at The Dirty, so we haven’t had the opportunity to speak directly to Javon Walker regarding his rather dubious story.

Until now!

Javon is out of the hospital and we’ve managed to secure the definitive interview.

KSK: Hey Javon, thanks for taking the time to answer some of our lingering questions.

JW: No problem, I just want to clear the air and get back to football.

KSK: So first off, where were you on at 5:30 Monday morning, and exactly what was it you were doing.

JW: See, I wasn’t out at the club like that pirate dude been sayin’, I was in my hotel room at Bellagio. I was sittin’ there doin’ my thing. You know, sippin’ some Earl Grey and goin’ over my new playbook with Squawk Box on in the background. I can’t start my day without a lil’ Becky Quick.

KSK: So what happened next.

JW: Well I hear this knock at my door, and I hear some voice sayin’ they got my room service. Now I know that’s some bullshit, because Consuela brought up my tea and a fresh melon a half hour before.

KSK: Honeydew or cantaloupe?

JW: Oh it’s gotta be honeydew. That’s the money melon.

KSK: Excellent, please continue.

JW: So I figure I’m dealin’ with some jokesters or some such nonsense and I tell ‘em I didn’t order shit. Then a couple minutes later there’s another knock and some guy out in the hall is sayin’ how he’s locked out of his room and he needs to call his girl to come meet up with him, cause she’s got the other key. I get up to take a look out the peephole and see these three shady lookin’ fools outside the door.

KSK: And you opened it?

JW: Not right away. First off I told him to take his ass down to the reception desk to get a new key, or at least call his woman from the lobby phone. But he says they ain’t helpin’ him out down there cause them’s some racist assholes. Well that’s some shit I can understand, so I tell this guy that he can come on in to use the phone, but his boys gotta stay out in the hall ’cause they was strapped.

KSK: But those armed men didn’t stay in the hallway as you insisted?

JW: No, they did not. I mean, what kind of world are we living in where people can just lie like that, flat out. I can’t stand these fuckin’ liars, man.

KSK: Yeah, lying is pretty weak. So what happened after you opened the door?

JW: Those lyin’ fuckers came through and cracked me in the head with one of them guns. Next thing I know I’m on the ground takin’ a beatin’ and I’m just tryin’ to protect my playbook. You know, I’m thinkin’ maybe these guys were sent by the Broncos or some shit.

KSK: So you weren’t involved in any sort of altercation with these men at the club the previous night?

JW: Nah man, we were just enjoying a slam poetry performance when a candle tipped over and started a fire. I happened to be celebrating Tiger’s eagle on 18 with some friends, so I took our champagne and doused the blaze before anyone could get hurt. I was like, a hero and shit.

KSK: Wow, what an incredible story!

JW: Right?

KSK: So getting back to the assault, what happened after you were knocked to the floor?

JW: Well I started swallowing pages of the playbook so that Mike Shanahan and his goons could never get their hands on it.

KSK: And what made you think that these men were sent by your former coach?

JW: I’ll answer your question with another question: Who else could possibly want to harm Javon Walker?

KSK: …

JW: Exactly! So I’m chewin’ up some hot routes and these guys are pawin’ at my wristwatch, but I figured they were after the book, so I resisted. Just then I feel a crack on the back of my head, and everything goes black.

KSK: That’s incredible.

JW: Yup. So I’m layin’ there unconscious and they hoist me up and start walkin’ me out into the hallway.

KSK: Hang on a second. How did you know they were carrying you down the hallway if you were unconscious?

JW: Because when I’m unconscious all my other senses go into, like, overdrive. You know what I’m sayin?

KSK: Not really, but please go on.

JW: So they’re draggin’ my ass into the elevator and down to the main level, but security doesn’t notice, because they got this string tied around my wrist to make it look like I’m wavin’ to all my fans. It was just like that movie.

KSK: Weekend At Bernies?

JW: Exactly! It was like some Weekend At Bernie’s type shit! But the first one, not that gay ass sequel.

KSK: Where did you go from there?

JW: Well they got me out of the building and into the parking garage. I was still unconscious, but my subconscious knew what was up. Then they toss me in the trunk of this Town Car and start driving off. At some point I woke up and thought to myself “Man, I need to get the fuck outta here before they deliver me to Shanahan.” So I pry open the trunk with some MacGyver type shit I found back there. I wasn’t sure if they noticed, so I didn’t even bother waiting for them to stop, I just jumped out of that bitch goin’ about 50 down the boulevard. When I landed I cracked my orbital shit on the curb, and the next thing I knew I was waking up in the hospital.

KSK: Holy shit, man!

JW: Right?

KSK: You’re a hero!

I live suburban Maryland and work in suburban Virginia. To get to work every day, I have to cover a 10-mile stretch of the Capitol Beltway, one of the absolute worst roadways in America. Washington is #2 on the list for worst traffic in the nation, and it’s a well-earned accolade.

In my over four years of commuting on the Beltway, I have encountered pretty much every kind of bad driver you can think of. I’ve seen it all. I’ve seen Pennsylvania drivers who appear to have stepped into a motor vehicle for the very first time. I’ve seen Asian drivers who lack the ability to see any car on the road except their own. I’ve been tailgated by any number of redneck jalopies with ABORTION STOPS A BEATING HEART bumper stickers.

I’ve encountered drivers who refuse to either speed up or slow down as I try to merge onto the Beltway, going the EXACT same speed as me in order to, for whatever reason, run me off the road. I guess they weren’t happy about my Blog Show appearance. I’ve run into drivers who are constantly lightly tapping down on their brake pedals, so that their brake lights come on without them ever actually slowing down. I’ve seen any number of unmarked vans make the “swerve over three lanes to get on the exit ramp” move. I’ve seen drivers in downtown DC who just stop in the middle of the road for no reason. I’ve seen people go 40 in the left-hand lane.

I’ve encountered off duty policemen riding their Kawasaki Ninjas at over 4,000,000 mph. I’ve seen any number of families pulled over on the side of the road, not because they’re broken down, but because they wanted to use the shoulder as a kind of makeshift rest stop. I don’t want to say those people are usually black, but yeah, they’re usually black. I’ve sat behind cell phone users, Blackberry users, iPhone users, Apple Newton users, Koala Pad users, etc. If there’s an electronic device to operate recklessly while driving a motor vehicle, I’ve seen a driver use it.

From my experience, I have become not just an expert in shitty driving, but also a bad driving enthusiast. They’re just such a diverse group of retarded people. It’s quite fascinating. Often, my better half and I will try and figure out who the very worst of the lot are. Not by racial stereotype, mind you. That would be wrong. Also, we’ve already done it.

No, we’ve tried to break it down strictly by make. Which brand of car engenders the shittiest driving? Well, here is my Top 5. Keep in mind that I spend at least two hours a day dodging these accident-seeking missiles. I’m also the occasional bad driver myself. So I know of what I speak. A couple qualifiers here:

-No semis are on the list. We all know semis are fucking awful.
-No old cars on the list. Any old, banged up car with a shitload of bumper stickers obviously houses a dumbfuck motorist.
-No motorcycles. Again, they’re all terrible.
-No buses. God, I hate bus drivers.
-No high-end sports cars like Ferrari, because they’re too rare. Porsche is right on the edge.
-No individual models.

Anyway, right to the Top 5:

1. BMW

Second place isn’t even close. Beamer drivers are, bar none, the most selfish, pushy, assholic drivers on the American road. Every BMW driver I’ve encountered seems genuinely offended that they have to share the road with me. They tailgate with almost a 100% frequency. And they are constantly, CONSTANTLY, trying to show off their Beamer’s speed and handling. Hey fuckhead, you’re not on the fucking Nürburgring. Take off the fucking driving gloves and find an embankment to crash into.

2. Volkswagen

I’ve been vehicularly harassed by too many Volkswagens to count. These fucking yuppie chicks with their zippy little fucking bugs. Jesus. I blame the whole “Drivers wanted” campaign. “We want people who love to drive! Who want to take advantage of our German engineering to cut off multiple cars on the road in just seconds!” Put down the fucking Starbucks, turn down the Nick Drake, and take your fucking foot off the gas. You overpaid for a German Buick. Your car is a poorly thought out, overpriced piece of shit. Go buy a Prius like every other liberal asshole. Das auto? More like Das cockpumper.

3. Saturn

A different kind of company. A different kind of fucking idiot. Yes, Saturn. The car for people who don’t know what kind of car they want. Designed in Japan. Built in America. Driven, apparently, by epileptics. It’s as if they aren’t even using the steering wheel. Quite amazing, really.

4. Lexus

I’m convinced 50% of all DC Lexus drivers are between 16 and 17 years old. Yes, if you’ve always wanted Daddy to buy you a luxury car and pay off the DMV inspector before your driving test, Lexus is the way to go for you.

5. Lincoln

Lincoln makes two kinds of cars: The Town Car, for insane car service drivers, and, of course, the Navigator. I don’t know why it’s called the Navigator. Drivers of that car don’t seem to have sketched out a navigational plan of any sort. Perhaps it’s because Navigator drivers are usually filthy rich suburban housewives trying to calm down the seven kids sitting the back.

So, to all you haughty Beamer drivers, all you overly-peppy VW drivers, and all you clueless Saturn, Lexus, and Lincoln drivers, let me just say…

HOOOOOOONKKKKKKKK!

ASSSSSSSHOOOOOOOLES!

FINALLY! We won! WE fackin’ won! YANKEES SACK! YANKEES SACK! YANKEES SACK! YANKEES SACK! YANKEES SACK! YANKEES SACK! YANKEES SACK! YANKEES SACK! YANKEES SACK! YANKEES SACK! YANKEES SACK! YANKEES SACK! YANKEES SACK! YANKEES SACK!

(keys nearby car)

I don’t know how WE did it, but somehow WE fackin’ pulled together as a Nation and fackin’ gawt it done! Even with fackin’ Dahkie Rivahs in chaaaahge! Even with the fackin’ refs havin’ in it far us, like they always do! We thah fans took this team on ow-uh backs and WON IT ALL! ANOTHER FACKIN’ TRIUMPH FAR THAH CELTICS NATION! You fackin’ hatahs out they-ah just gawt sarved up anathah fackin’ dose of fackin’ BEANTOWN GREATNESS!

(smokes thirty Parliaments at the same time)

Gawd, when I think of how fackin’ lawg we’ve been waiting far this title. I had to spend ovah twenty fackin’ yee-ahs nawt giving a fack about the Celtics. Then that one dahkie died. Then that othah fackin’ dahkie died. Then that fackin’ greasy dago Pitino came through the fackin’ do-ah. NO OTHAH FAN BASE COULD PAWSSIBLY UNDAHSTAND WHAT THE FACK WE WENT THROUGH!

(smashes nearby Latino man with pint glass)

And now ow-uh loyalty has been fully repaid! We fackin’ earned this title! No way this team wins jack shit without the legendary suppart of the QUINZEE FAITHFUL! After everything we’ve been through, this title was lawng fackin’ ovahdue! WE DESERVE THIS TITLE MOR-AH THAN ANY FANS OF ANY OTHAH FACKIN’ TEAM HAVE DESERVED ANY OTHAH TITLE!

(keys another car)

I would just like to take this awppahtunity tah extend a haaaaahty FACK YOU to commissionah Rahjah Goodell of the NFL. You fackin’ prick! You let the gawddamn Giants win the Supah Bowl when everyone knows full well that the fackin’ Pats were-ah the bettah team that day. YOU CHEATED US, GOODELL! This should have been the greatest sparts yee-ah one city has evah had. AND YOU DROPPED THE FACKIN’ BAWL! You gawt sam fackin’ nerve, yah fackin’ red-hayuhd assbandit!

(takes off shirt, waves it in air for 90 straight minutes)

I will never farget this! Even when we dawminate, WE CAN’T GET ANY JUSTICE! I won’t be able to enjoy the title as much as I want to now! It’s nawt fackin’ fay-uh! WE WERE-AH RAWBBED!

And to awl yah fackin’ Bawston hatahs out they-ah, I’d like to invite you to FACKIN’ SACK MY CAWK! Jealous much, pillowbitahs? Well, if you can’t appreciate a fackin’ Bawstun team winning a championship, MAYBE YOU DON’T LIKE SPARTS! Far real, you should seriously rethink yar priarities, YAH FACKIN’ LOSAHS! Everyone knows that the warld is a bettah place when a fackin’ Bawston team is on tawp. THIS CANNOT BE DISPUTED! No othah town has this kind of history, or fan base. WE MAKE EVERYTHING BETTAH!

(cranks Godsmack album)

And how can you hate this C’s team? If you love basketball, or only like it when yar team is good like I fackin’ do, THEN YOU GAWTTA LOVE THIS TEAM! Look at Pawl fackin’ Pee-uhce. I never thawt that dahkie would amount to jack shit. Looks like one of my Chaaaaahlestown boys finally stabbed some sense into him! And Kevin Fackin’ Gaaaaaahnet? WE DESERVED HIM! HE’S OW-UHS NOW! And my boy Eddie House! Everyone loves my buddy House! I wish a REAL playah like LARRY FACKIN BIIIIRD were on the team. But what the fack can you do? Gawd, Larry was the greatest EVAH!!!!

This is the kind of team everyone should get down on their fackin’ knees and warship, even if you aaaaaahn’t from hee-ah. Even if yar a Lakah fan. If you can’t appreciate this team or it’s amazing fans, MAYBE YOU DON’T DESERVE TO EVAH BE HAPPY!

(gets 33rd tattoo)

Especially you, Lakah fans. You faggots don’t even show up to the game on time. YOU DIDN’T DESERVE THIS TITLE, YOU CAWK-SACKIN’ ASSFAGS! Maybe you can find some Kleenex is yar fackin’ man-parses, yah fackin’ assticklahs! We Bawston fans show on time, cheer far the home team, and boo the othah team. LET’S SEE SOME OTHAH GROUP OF FANS DO THAT! You guys ahhhh just a bunch of wannabes! Yar just a bunch of fackin’ staaaaahfackahs!

Omigawd, is that Matt Damon? HOLY SHIT, MATT DAMON IS AWN MY FACKIN’ STREET! HE’S NAWT LIKE THE REST OF HOLLYWOOD! HE’S TRUE TO HIS ROOTS! MATTY, GIVE TAWMMY AN AWWWTOGRAPH!

Damon: Get away from me.

No prawblem, Matty! You ahhhh the fackin’ MAN!

(keys one last car)

So savor this moment, Bawston fans. Once again, we have proven that no one can fackin’ stawp us! Sack on that, Kobe! For once, YOU gawt the surpise buttfackin’!

YANKEES SACK! YANKEES SACK! YANKEES SACK! YANKEES SACK!

UPDATE: Yup, just as I expected

Not included:

“where Larryoke happens”

“where ratting out your dealer happens”

“where Senior Seau happens”