Marcus: LaDainian, LaDainain, LaDainian, do sit for me a moment. I hope the day finds you well. Please, have a profiterole. They’re as good as original sin.

I have taken your specifications and implemented them into the Air Force 1s. I think you will agree it is a masterstroke on par with the Dancing House and that new chicken sandwich at McDonalds.

LaDainian Tomlinson: Yeahyeahyeah, but is it fresh?

Marcus: In a minute you will have the chance to take them into your own hands. First you must know that despite the spare schematics you gave me, this was no small challenge for me. I toiled for hours while I could have been to the Gossip Girls DVD. The kids at the maquiladora, in particular, had a devil of a team sewing your initials in the heel. Many lost fingers. They’re a pain to clear off the floor, you know?

Anyway, te presento!

Tomlinson: They look nicest when you hold them like a waiter holds a salver.

Marcus: Oh yes, I agree. The pastel. The white croc upper accent. Very gustatory. The alimentary system is practically engaged through your feet.

Tomlinson: Which part of the alimentary system gets the girls wet?

[Door flies open]

Philip Rivers: Ya betta ask someboddddaaaayyyyyyy!

Rivers: “Oh, loogit me: I’m an injury prone running back with fancy shoes and fitted hats that still have the label on them.” GET BACK TO PRACTICING YOU LIMPDICK HOBBLEBACK!

Tomlinson: So you like the shoe?

[Rivers grabs the pair and hurls them out of a window, they hang in the air for four and a half minutes before coming to rest draped over a phone line]

Rivers: NO, I DON’T LIKE YOUR COCKDAMNED SWISHY NIKE SWOOSH SHIT! AND FUCK THAT EXTRA POWDERY BLUE ACCENT! It looks like the 18 rooms in my house my high school sweetheart wife had painted for my kids. Those fuckers are supposed to be confined to the servant’s quarters until they’re 12 and she knows it.

Tomlinson: Doesn’t mean you need to be barging in on my private shoe unveiling. This was reserved for me, Marcus, and 34 of the freakiest underaged girls he could find.

[34 underaged freaks cower in the corner]

Tomlinson: See what you did?

Rivers: Unless one of those overpriced moon boots can cure a torn knee ligament we got ourselves a bit of an issue, Mr. Backfield Receiver.

Tomlinson: I thought you rehabbed those. Like, you had Nate Kaeding scrapbook the whole thing.

Rivers: Not mine, Scroter Rooter. We got a raping, ‘roiding linebacker with a loose wheel that stands to jeopardize our whole season of redemption. Where you are during all this? Farting around with a bunch of faggy sneakerhead bottom twirlers.

Marcus: Actually we have a number of styles that can be of some assistance to those ailed by such infirmities.

Rivers: WHO ASKED YOU TO SPEAK, BUMFORD? HUH? WHAT? HUH? FUCK YOU!

Tomlinson: I think he just tried to give you some useful information.

Rivers: An easier way to hit Antonio Gates in triple coverage? Ways to yell at the crowd without attracting media scorn?

Marcus: Not exactly. But these shoes may help your rapacious friend.

[River snatches the box away and charges out of the door]

Tomlinson: Can those shoes actually do that? Cause you might need to slide a few my way.

Marcus: Oh heavens no. Though I imagine this Merriman fellow will a touch displeased when the shoe doesn’t deliver on its promised properties.

Tomlinson: A touch displeased? The only way Shawne’s displeased is if it’s just one touch.

[ via Big Fat Whale ]

Barry: This has been a long, difficult search. I needed someone with a real WOW factor. Someone tough on defense. Someone with Southern appeal. Someone that could win over white, working class voters. I didn’t think there was anyone out there that fit those criteria.

But then I found you.

This won’t be easy. But I think you’re up to the task.

Will you join my ticket? Can you help me reshape America?

Jerry: YEEEEEHAWWW!!!! WOOOOHOOOO!!!!! YES I GODDAMN CAN! THANK GOD YOU DIDN’T PICK THAT LESBIAN BULL IN THE PANTSUIT! WHAT A COOZESLURPER THAT CHICK IS!

(fires sixty guns in the air)

Barry: Oh, dear.

Jerry: Don’t you worry, blackie. We’ll get along just swell. I’ll happily be your LBJay! JUST KEEP YOUR MITTS OUTTA MY GODDAMN POPCORN! That fat fuck Peter King licked the inside of my goddamn bucket!

Barry: Oh, I’m not one for popcorn. I prefer a good heirloom tomato.

Jerry: Sure you do, fella. SMOTHERED IN GRAVY WITH A BISCUIT AND SOME ORANGE SUNKIST I BET! WE’RE GONNA WIN THIS GODDAMN ELECTION! THEN I’M GONNA FUCK ME SOME DIPLOMAT PUSSY! IF YOU NEED ANYTHING, I’M GONNA BE LIVIN’ IN THE ANAL OBSERVATORY!

Barry: Maybe this was a bad idea.

Jerry: YEEHAW!!! WOO HOO! I AM FUCKING CRAZY!!!!

I’m sure that Cameron (or whatever her real name is) is actually a nice girl, but we’ve already ripped on effeminate men, shown disrespect for the dead, and disseminated tactics to boost album sales. There’s no better way to end the day than some classic oogling.

There has been some debate in the KSK office over what this girl’s native name might be. My money’s on either “Dances With Foreskin” or “Cocka-jewea.” Whatever.

Enjoy your weekend.

Why, you’d get 49er reserve running back Zak Keasey, who was prominently featured in last night’s exhibition game against the Bears. Yes, that’s Zak with a K. TO THE EXTREME HE ROCKS THE MIC LIKE A VANDAL.

Zak comes to us from Princeton. And if you don’t think he had a Che Guevara poster on his dorm room wall, played hacky sack, protested the WTO, and read lots of John Updike books in order to tell people he read lots of John Updike books, then you don’t know preppy white assholes with dreadlocks as well as I do.

If you’re gonna handcuff Zak to Frank Gore, you better make sure those handcuffs have pink fur on them. He’s auditioning to be the bassist for Incubus as we speak.

This post contains YouTube videos that may not be safe for work.

Italian DJ Benny Benassi learned a while ago that if you can stick a pair of tits on it, you can sell it. I think the boost to the global economy and the risks of objectifying women cancel each other out, personally. But anyway, Benassi presented this album of house music, Hypnotica, in 2002. The first single off that album was “Satisfaction.”

Below is the original video for “Satisfaction.” Warning: it’s techno. Or electro house. Fuck, like I could tell the difference. Anyway, you only need to watch the first minute or so to get the idea.

Artistic. Original. Ufford would probably bang that red-head, you know, if he was having an off night. Whatever. But surprise surprise, nobody gave a shit about the video. So what happened? Benassi enrolled at the Tits And Ass Institute. With his newfound knowledge in melding the two worlds of business and poontang, he went back to the drawing board and rolled out this motherfucker:

Goddamn, look at that. The double-entendre. The ass. The adherence to safety standards. I think I just built a treehouse in my pants. Oh, and the song went up to No. 2 on the UK charts, while Benassi couldn’t decide whether to drown in pussy or money. He made some more albums, going back to his own playbook when he released the video for Who’s Your Daddy? (NSFW) in 2006.

The moral of the story is that boobies really do serve a purpose in society, and that purpose is to take stuff that wouldn’t gather our attention by itself and make it totally awesome.

THE AFTERLIFE — The late Gene Upshaw has been as active as ever.

Even after suddenly abandoning his post as former NFL Players Association presiden, Upshaw has taken a new position in the NFL’s labor battle. He’s now spearheading an effort to increase benefits for deceased NFL players.

“It’s high time that some of those dead players saw that money,” Upshaw said. “I know the money’s there, because I saw it and didn’t give it to anyone else.”

Upshaw points out that deceased players that played less than three years in the league currently receive a annual pension of $0, while those who played three years or more receive a payment of $0 per year.

“That’s despicable,” Upshaw said. “How’s a dead man supposed to live on zero dollars?”

The League’s ownership seems to be resistant toward Upshaw’s efforts.

“While I’m sympathetic to the various needs of dead players,” Patriots owner Robert Kraft said, “The money simply isn’t there. And secondly, lots of dead players are getting by on what the Players’ Association currently provides.”

Upshaw conceded that organizing the tens of thousands of deceased NFL players will be difficult.

“We’re not going to let these players just rot away, not while all the living players are earning millions. We’re going to get organized and we’re going to knock on the NFL’s door and get what we feel is rightfully ours.”

NFL commissioner Roger Goodell was not available for comment.

I guess I should preface this by saying that, sincerely, I’m not a fascist person. I think a world where everyone is doing their own thing can wonderful, and can enrich everyone. It’s been said that our flaws are what make us beautiful, and no statement rings truer in my dainty ears.

That said, there are a bunch of assholes out there ruining this place for the rest of us. And most of those fuckheads are men. Yes, it’s regrettable that women out there have rights and stuff now. But that doesn’t grant you license to drag your feet through life like a little girl who just had her favorite doll chopped up in the lawn mower. Next time, don’t leave it laying in the yard, you big sissy.

YOU’RE A FUCKING MAN! Act like it. We’re all in this shitstorm together. If one of us fails in upholding the standards of manhood that took literally thousands of years to establish, WE ALL FAIL. No man is a fucking island. Yes, it’s a burden being the only gender that actually takes life seriously. If it was easy, anyone could sew on a dick and do it.

And that brings us to the scenario for this week’s Mock Draft…

A new dictatorship has just taken over America. And instead of this new government deciding to burden you with the complex annihilation of specific civil liberties (and the moral implications involved therein), the new regime has given you the easy job: refining the stronger half of the human race. You’re selecting one attribute or act that would identify any man half-assing his way through mandom. Anyone seen on the street engaged in this act will be hauled off and put out of his misery, thereby putting us out of ours. Anything that YOU identify as a red flag is in play.

(And please leave your historical precedents at the door; we’re just picking stuff that annoys us.)

My first selection is any man with an earring.

This isn’t even “rebellious in a conformist sort of way” anymore. It’s like stapling a dick to your face. What could this possibly add to your self image? “Dude, check it out! HOOPS!” Get fucked, Jo-Jo. Off to the guillotine with your sorry ass.

You’re in charge now. You know the rules. Get to work.

In closing, gentle reader, I’d like to thank you. ‘What’s that?’ you say? Me thanking YOU? No, it’s not a misprint, for you see, I enjoyed writing this book as much as you enjoyed reading it. The End.

We had a fantasy football contest last year. We got a shitload of entries, many of them outstanding, and in the end we picked the girl who was willing to hook up with Maj. Only a fair trade, I suppose. HUGE sacrifice on her part.

So, as the season nears, we’re gonna have another tips contest. Only this time the prize is even MORE self-aggrandizing. It’s an advance copy of Men With Balls. The book comes out on October 27th, but you’ll get to read it two months before everyone else! Think of how cool you’ll feel! It would be like some ComicCon jackass getting into a free “Watchmen” screening! ZOMG!!!11!!!111!!!

I can’t really tell you how funny I think this book is, since I’m the asshole that wrote it. All I can do is show you one of the blurbs on the back of the cover jacket.

No, that isn’t a misprint. Nor is it unauthorized. I’m pretty sure that if Buzz enjoyed the book, so will you.

All you have to do to win your advance copy is submit something awesome. I don’t care what it is. Send us an awesome tip. Make a great photoshop. Send more drunk photos of Orton. My email and the KSK staff email links are on the sidebar. You’ve got until next Thursday. Show us your balls, people.

The Central Florida Jort Aficionados Association Packer Backers got together recently and O-town got tore up Wisconsin-diaspora style. Nothing says dignified sportsmanship like flinging yellow toilet seats around an otherwise scenic locale. Now you know how the CFPB rolls.

Some Wisconsinites went on vacation to Disneyworld and loved
the smoked turkey legs so much that they just stayed.