Brett Favre burnt in effigy by some Packers fans. WARNING: this video contains an Eagles song. Proceed with caution.

I don’t think it’s appropriate to just throw out random links of porn sites, espeically since your typical Friday fare includes more family-friendly fetishables. But this week is different, partly because “fetishables” isn’t really a word. Unless you read TBL, and then you might as well throw the entire fucking dictionary into the fireplace. Do you even have a fireplace? We have two, but we don’t use either one. I always thought it would be neat to stick a TV in there that was actually showing an image of a burning fire, but getting that together would have been a waste of time. Kinda like this entire paragraph.

This week’s cheerleader pic comes from Hottest Girls Of Cheerleading. It’s a Texans Halloween party. Or something. I think an orgy was about to break out before there was this big bomb scare. And then Tiffany lost her keys and had to get a ride home from Melissa who drove into a ditch and now she can’t see the color orange anymore. In other words, it was a typical Texas night.

And if you’re looking to stay indoors this weekend, I have a movie recommendation for you…

Later on.

There have been times when I’ve wanted my own entrance music. Whether I was walking into a party, running to jump in a swimming pool, or barrelling into a teenager’s vagina, I would have appreciated a signature tune being played over the loudspeaker beforehand, just to let everyone know I was en route.

Your mission today is to choose your own entrance music. This music will be played everywhere you go. It will be your Hail To The Chief, if you will. Every good hero should have some theme music. So sayeth Keenan Ivory Wayans.

My music will be Redman’s Time For Some Action, as heard in this highlight reel:

I don’t care whether it’s 1990-muthafuckin-2 or not.

You know the rules. Get to it.

Holy Taco.com has been on my radar for a few weeks now and consistently delivers teh funnay. But today they had to go and ratchet up the hilariousity. I believe the following meets or exceeds minimum federal requirements for a “laff-riot.”

(more…)

Competitor (seed): Tom Zbikowski (4)

Nickname: Tommy Z (think about it…)

Height: 5′11″

Weight: 215

Reach: Taken by the Ravens in the third round.

Sponsor: Affliction

Ring Music: Notre Dame Victory March

Hometown: Arlington Heights, Illinois. It’s also been called home by a deaf chick, a couple of soccer players, a YouTube guy, and a dickhole (actually the deaf chick called it something more like “ho-am”).

Pedigree: He’s actually a real boxer.

Strength: He’s one of those rare white athletes that doesn’t require qualifiers like “scrappy” or “gritty”.

Weakness: Football

Predilection towards violence:

Fighting Style: Tommy would prefer to work his way inside against the larger boxers in the heavyweight division. He can land looping and lunging power shots from the outside, but if he stays on the end of his opponents punches he’s going to find himself in a lot of trouble. Since he’s a Notre Dame product he already fights like a champion today, or so he likes to think.

(more…)

Wade: My oh my. Finally, training camp is here! You know, we had to work awful hard to get ready for this year, but finally we get to run out there and do some real daggum practicin’! It feels great! It’s just so nice to get back into the swing of things. This is what you live for, gosh darnit! Walking out there, smellin’ that fresh cut grass, hearing those shoulder pads poppin’. Yup, I reckon there’s no finer way to spend a summer afternoon.

Well, before we head on out there, maybe I should read the ol’ paper. Get caught up on the news of the day. Now, the boss man may not think reading the paper’s workin’, but I reckon it does any ball coach a bit a good to be up to date on world events. Let’s see what we got here.

“COWBOYS’ COACH: ‘GET YOUR RING FINGER READY’”

Oh, shit.

Oh, shit oh shit oh shit oh shit. That was off the doggone record! Better hide this paper before anyone sees.

(locks paper in desk)

Phew! Now I just have to hope that…

(door flies open)

Jerry: YEEEEEEHAW!!!! YEE! HAW! YEE TO THE HAW! HAW TO THE YEE! YEE HAW, HEE HAW, KICK YOU IN THE GODDAMN JEW JAW!

Wade: Oh, man.

Jerry: BUENOS NACHOS, you big fucking cheesebleeder! Finishes up taking your mid-morning butterscotch bath, lardass?

Wade: I’m getting ready to hit the practice field, sir.

Jerry: I tell you, son. I’m not sure our field has enough drainage to handle the chicken grease pouring out of your skin! DRAINAGE, MY BOY! DRAAAAAINAGE!

Wade: I’ll do just fine, thank you sir.

Jerry: Whatever, Louie Anderson. Now, move away from that desk. I hide all my HUSTLER XXX issues in there, and it’s time for the ol’ Double-J to look at some interracial contraband pussy! MOVE IT! MOVE YOUR FUCKING BLOWHOLE, MOBY!

Wade: Sir, I don’t think there’s anything like that in this desk.

Jerry: Shut up shut up shut up. Move your orbital ass away from MY DESK! That’s my poppity, Tubgut. AND YOU DON’T FUCK WITH A TIXAS MAN’S POPPITY!

Wade: All right, all right. (moves)

Jerry: Let’s see what we got here. There they are! HOO DOGGIE! Look at that schoolgirl getting’ at both ends room from those two black guys. Man, are they black! It’s like shadow fucking! I’ve seen people drill oil, BUT I NEVER SAW OIL DRILL PEOPLE! SHOOT THAT BUBBLIN’ CRUDE, MY MAN!

Wade: Please, sir. This is very lewd material.

Jerry: Look at this one. Looks like he’s about to give the girl a lobotomy with that tree trunk of his. That’ll teach her to pass notes in class!

Wade: Well sir, I think you found what you were looking for. What don’t we just close that drawer right back up…

Jerry: Hold on there, Fattylicious. I see somethin’ else in that desk! Hey, it’s a newspaper! Keep your emergency fish and chips in here, do ya Arthur Treacher?!

Wade: No, I was just…

Jerry: What’s this? “COWBOYS’ COACH: ‘GET YOUR RING FINGER READY’”

Wade: Sir, I swear it was meant to be off the record.

Jerry: YOU STUPID, STUPID, STUPID, STUPID BIG FAT ASSHOLE! OFF THE RECORD?! I’D FUCKING STRANGLE YOU RIGHT HERE AND NOW IF I COULD FIND YOUR NECK! GET ME MY FLESHLIGHT! YOU FUCKING MUUMUU-WEARING, TITJIGGLING, JELLO-SNARFING GUNTFLAPPER!

Wade: Sir, it was something said in the middle of casual conversation.

Jerry: Oh, really? Did the reporter take you to Sonic again?! Yes, there’s no truth serum for ol’ Wade that works quite as well as a Sonic Gingerbread Blast! Drunk on fucking liquefied cake icing again, Asstrodome? God dammit, you are stupid. How’s my boy ROMO supposed to concentrate when he’s got his retard coach flapping his big fat beef-lips about winning a ring?!

Wade: It was just a misunderstanding, sir. It was off the record.

Jerry: I DECIDE WHAT’S ON OR OFF OF RECORDS HERE, LARDBUTT! And I’ll tell you one thing that is definitely on the record: You are fatter than the people in the airport terminal. Your big fat ass is gonna jinx us out of a goddamn SUPER BOWL, ONION RINGMASTER!

Wade: (start to cry) I’m sorry, sir.

Jerry: What?

Wade: (crying) I’m sorry, sir. I’m just so sorry. I was really excited for the season, and I was just so happy to be out there, and I didn’t mean it! I just want to go out there and coach! I was really looking forward to this and now I’m just so sad.

Jerry: Whoa, whoa, whoa. Now don’t go crying on me, fatass.

Wade: (crying) I’m sorry, sir. I’m just very sensitive sometimes.

Jerry: Come here. (puts arm around him) Shit, I’m sorry, fatty. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. The Double-J cares about people! I just want you to learn to think before you go opening up that porkstuffer of yers.

Wade: Yes, sir.

Jerry: Like I said, I apologize. You’re doin’ a damn fine job for the DALLAS FUCKING COWBOYS.

Wade: Thank you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted sometimes. Just some encouragement is all.

Jerry: I understand. I also understand we’re gonna have to do something to correct this.

(door flies open)

Pacman: Yo yo. No one say two bitches wit switches be goin’ at it up in dis shit. Pacman ain’t down wid it.

Jerry: Adam, did you bring the prod?

Pacman: Hyeah hyeah. Pacman’ll brand a bitch. Like we always do at Alpha Phi Alpha.

Wade: You’re branding me?

Jerry: Damn right, tubby! You got flesh to burn. SO THE DOUBLE-J’S GONNA BURN IT!

Wade: Wait… you can’t possibly…

(door flies open)

Garrett: Mmmm. Yes. Indeed. I have been told we were going to consecrate the bond of obedience?

Pacman: O hell yes. We gon giv dat bitch a mark. Make her go buc wild.

Wade: YOU CAN’T DO THIS! THIS IS ILLEGAL!

Jerry: Not on my POPPITY, it ain’t! Now drop those drawers, Buttercow! We got ourselves quite a canvas to work with!

Garrett: Indeed. Diego Rivera himself could not ask for a greater swath of blank whiteness. Oh, how this reminds me of my days at the eating club. Where we would EAT. And then DRINK. And then TORTURE.

Wade: Don’t do this.

Jerry: Shut up, cattle ass. You talk shit to the media, you git branded! Brand ‘em, boys!

Pacman: Woot woot. Let’s take dat bitch ta Sizzla.

Wade: NOOOOOO!!!!!!!

Jerry: YEEEE HAWWWW! LOOK AT THAT ASS BURN! BIGGEST BARBECUE IN THE WHOLE DAMN STATE OF TIXAS! MAKE SURE YOU GET THAT MAN-HAM NICE AND CRISP! YEEHAW! WOOHOO! I AM FUCKING CRAZY!!!!

The Titans are always at the leading edge of innovation in the NFL. For example, on Monday they just installed lights on one of the three fields at their training facility. Lights! The kind that run on some sorcery called el-ek-tris-soty. Sounds evil, but it grants them the ability to run drills at night without the use of a bordering phalanx of druids holding votive candles. Those druids are threatening to unionize, you know.

Here are some other additions the Titans eventually hope to add to training camp:

The forward pass.

Next year: concrete in the parking lot.

A can opener, so Albert Haynesworth doesn’t have to open groceries with his foot.

Mashed potatoes now made with potatoes

Water

Pillow cases now filled with pillows

Invites to wide receivers

Brisket with 30 percent less gym mats.

Really nice trough for LenDale

Shiny yard-marking rocks

Tabletop Pacman machine (not functioning)

Animals that perform the tasks of basic appliances, but not without giving you lip first

Wii Fit for LenDale (Jevon Kearse will use it though – old people love that shit)

Coach’s loudspeaker that operates on fist-pumping

Training camp is here! Training camp is here! Training camp is here! YEAAARRRGGHHH!!

/cream jeans

God, it’s just so nice to kinda not really have the NFL back. And if there’s anything that heralds the near-arrival of yet another NFL season, it’s that late-July/early-August time when your brain, as if on some sort of internal clock, says to you:

“Hey, you better get your fantasy league going, asshole.”

Oh, how I just adore planning for my fantasy season. Like any real NFL team (even the Lions!), this is the time of year when my record is 0-0 and the harsh survival-of-the-fittest process of the regular season has yet to cleave my spirit in two. I could win a championship year! I really could! This could be THE year, fuckos! God dammit, it’s fun to be so naïve.

This is the time of year when I run to the newsstand to pick the $8 fantasy annual that will give me terrible, terrible advice. I never pick the same one. One year I went with Street and Smith’s, which I think is published sometime around February 1st. Another year I went with Pro Football Weekly’s. That one was okay. Then I tried Lindy’s, which isn’t fit to line a snake cage. And don’t even get me started on Athlon. I swear it’s written by some sort of computer program. Worst of all, last year I picked the ESPN annual. Dunno why I did that. If you like your fantasy football delivered with Poochie-sized doses of synergized attitude, plus Mike & Mike’s gay bantering in written form, that’s the annual for you.

All of these annuals will help you compile your draft board, a draft board I assure you’ll end up deviating from during the draft (“Wait, maybe I should take Marques Colston instead of Calvin Johnson! FUCK IT, I’M DOING IT!”). But none of them will help with the most important preparation of all: naming your squad.

Well, we here at KSK are here to help. Time to bring back our now annual fantasy team naming guide. Tired of naming your team Magic Man And El Diablo, like you do every year? Well, fear not. Once again, we break it down by category.

Dirty Names
-Mangy Little Pussyflaps
-Sexy Friday Flautas
-Dana Cuntstubblefield
-Chief Executive Boners
-Fuckshovels
-Shovelfucks
-Ladyfingerers
-Fuck Town
-A Bunch Ah Fackin’ Dahkies
-Dongbones
-Nutz On Ya Chin
-Faceless Pussies
-Ass Hammers
-Giant Snatches
-Cockpunchers
-Nipple Pullers
-Chocolate Dongs
-Fuck Lions

Film/TV/Music/Internet References
-Jenkem Huffers
-Tiny Brained Wipers Of Other People’s Bottoms
-Not Your Fwiends, Guy
-Vertimaids
-Leeeeeeeeerrrroyyyyyyyyyy Jennnnnkemmmmmm!!!!
-Tell Me How My Ass Tastes
-Bologna Hammers
-Cock Swallowing Toilet Rapists
-Steaming Bags Of Pony Cunt
-Johnny Human Torches
-Friend-O’s
-We Are The Third Revelation
-Bastards From A Basket
-Hey, That’s My Asshole!
-Hayden Panettiere Hymen Busters
-Guitar Queeros
-YOU. ARE. FAGS.

Football/KSK References:
-Kellen Kolber’s 12 Dads
-Cooley’s Bag o Dicks
-Sean Taylor’s Thigh Hole
-Tedy Bruschi’s Skull Clot
-Kenny’s Suitcase Midgets
-The Fightin’ Cutlers
-Santonio’s Dong Rodeo
-Chubtards
-Shawn Merriman: Office Rapist
-Brady’s Bunch O Cock
-Biff Kings
-The Worst Team Dan Snyder Can Buy
-My Sauces
-Favraros
-Emmitt Smith’s Debaclers
-Matt Jones Toilet Rail
-Ken Stabler’s Ass Stapler
-Cedric’s Sun Chips
-$1000 Bounty on Daunte Culpepper
-Defenestrators
-Jack Nastys
-Billy Belichick’s MILF-Hunters
-Rainmakers
-Todd Sauerbrun’s Gaping Vag
-Joe Simpson’s Daughter Touching Company
-WELKAHHHHHS
-Reggie Bush’s Tush Regiment
-Brett Favre’s Intercepted Texts
-Emmitt Smith’s Guide To Renuciation and Dicked-chin
-Matty Ice Bukkake Latte
-Jerramy Stevens’ Mickey Slippers
-Smirre If You Want Team Win

News References
-McCain: Let’s Get Silly
-Tim Russert’s Humble Infarction
-God Damn Americans
-Hezbollahs Fist Bumps
-Angelina’s Adopted Children
-Michelle Obama, Whitey Receiver Coach
-Obama Been Fondlin’
-Heath Ledger’s Ambien Stash
-Holy Gay Bissingers
-Amy Winehouse Dead By Week 3
-Teddy Kennedy’s, Er Uh, Tumahs

Puns
No pun teams this year. You’re better than that!

Yours in the comments. Get ready for fantasy football, gang.

Here’s a leopard killing a crocodile, filmed in a revolutionary new 2 frames per second format. I heard Werner Herzog loves this new technique. They call it “Retarded Flipbook”. Lars von Trier is going to make a 5-hour rape musical using this film speed, and only using natural light. Shot entirely in a hay loft. I can’t wait to not see it.

Here’s one of our favorite players of all time, Kenny Irons, presumably reenacting a scene from his favorite Wreckx-N-Effect video. No midget sucking his dick this time. Perhaps American Airlines lost the little fella.

These pictures come via thedirty.com, and I have to tell you that disappoints me. That is a fucking horrible, horrible website, yet people send them great pictures all the time. People, for shit’s sake, send those pictures to KSK, so they can receive the mocking they deserve.