Redskins cut Shaun Alexander, thus rendering obsolete one Redskin fan’s totally boss “full Shaun Alexander uniform” costume. Why, he’s even not wearing the helmet!  Just like Shaun on the sidelines!

Photo: Sports Bog

The Giants are 10-1 right now and look to be the best team in the NFL. No matter your rooting inclinations, it’s hard to deny that the Giants are talented, versatile, and well-coached. Well, we at KSK will not stand by and watch as one team plays the game the way it should be played. Oh sure. The Giants were cute last year. But they were supposed to spend the majority of 2008 cratering back to Earth, missing the playoffs in the wake of horrific injuries and wildly inaccurate Eli Manning passes.

Instead, they’ve decided to continue being good. And that just won’t do. I don’t know about you, but I fucking hate it when some asshole NFL team that isn’t the one I root for decides to play good football for very long stretches. You had your moment in the spotlight, Giant fans. Spread the goddamn wealth, you glory hogs! Giant fans, your team is no longer the feisty little underdog. It’s now a fire-breathing colossus everyone expects to win. Therefore, it is time for all of us to give Giant fans their long-awaited heel turn. I hated the Pats. I hated the 90′s Cowboys. I hated the 80′s 49ers. And now, I hate YOU.

Because if my team can’t win jack shit (and they can’t), they I don’t want you enjoying your team’s success. Fuck you, Giant fans. You iceball-throwing, chest-painting, mouth-breathing pizza slice folders. Die.

Now we’ve had our fun fans of other teams here at KSK. And, since we are now tragically bereft of the weekly musings of Carl Brutananadilewski, it’s up to us to create the perfect mocking stereotype of Giant fans. But where would we begin? Well, I think it’s obvious that our perfect asshole Giants fan would need to be wearing a Shockey jersey…

Bavaro will also do in a pinch. Now, of course, our Giants fan must have a great deal of civic pride…

“NEW YORK CITY IS THE FUCKING GREATEST CITY IN THE WORLD, YOU FUCKING COCKSUCKERS!”

…despite never actually having lived in any of the five boroughs…

“Rockaway, New Jersey, born and bred! MORRIS KNOLLS HIGH SCHOOL FUCKING RULES!”

…and he, of course, should always act more Italian than he actually is…

“My fucking uncle’s stepcousin is fucking Sicilian. These are my fucking people, you prick. You fuck with them, you fuck with me. Hey, who do I gotta blow to get some gabbagool around here, am I right?”

…Now that I think about it, he should probably just say “am I right?” at the end of every sentence…

“Look at that tits on that broad, am I right? I’d put my proshoot in that hoagie roll, am I right? Tell you what, I’d let that broad suck my dick ALL DAY LONG, AM I RIGHT?”

…And swear to God often…

“SWEAR TO FUCKING GOD, the girl’s mom also gave me head. SWEAR TO GOD.”

…Oh, and he should be misogynistic. I mean, just repellently misogynistic…

“So I’m fucking this broad the other night, right? And get this: She wants me to eat her pussy. And I say to her, uh excuse me. But maybe if your drain didn’t smell like a dog’s open mouth, maybe I’d consider it. Then I hit her in the face with my cordless phone. She’s gotta play by the rules, AM I RIGHT?”

…Yes, yes that’s it. He should always be demanding that you think he’s right…

“The Giants are the fucking best team in the league. AM I RIGHT, FUCKO?!”

…and he should always state obvious facts as if they are amazing observations he is kind enough to bestow upon you, and dare you to disagree with him in a very menacing fashion…

“All’s I’m sayin’ is that the Giants have a fucking great running game. SWEAR TO GOD. YOU WANNA FUCKING TELL ME THEY DON’T?!”

…He should probably quote Bronx Tale or Goodfellas whenever he can…

“IT WAS RESPECT!”

…And he should really hate Puerto Ricans…

“SPEAK FUCKING ENGLISH! Jesus. You believe these spics?”

…And liberally use the n-word without shame…

“Sure, Plaxico Burress is a great deep threat. But he plays like a n—-r, am I right?”

…He should probably be drunk…

“Dude, I’ve already had, like thirty fucking beers. And it isn’t even noon. How many beers have you had? Ten? You’re a fucking faggot. This guy’s a fag, am I right?”

…And belligerent…

“DRINK THAT FUCKING BEER, OR I WILL KICK YOUR WIFE IN THE FUCKING CUNT. I DON’T WANT ANY FUCKING FAGGOTS AT THIS TAILGATE. You don’t drink that beer, I will fucking slit your mother’s throat while your dad watches, I FUCKING SWEAR THIS TO YOU.”

…Of course, he should be fat. And a cop…

“Good morning, Mr. Magary. I’m calling from the Policeman’s Benevolent Association. And we’re holding our 35th annual holiday party this year. We were wondering if you could contribute over the phone, because we’d like to have a fucking ice luge at the party this year.”

…And he should only root for the Giants as a winter-time diversion from his real passion: obsessing over the Yankees and calling into the WFAN to propose trades…

“Mike, why isn’t Cashman going harder after fucking Liriano? THAT’S THE RIGHT MOVE, AM I RIGHT?!”

…He should look down on the Jets, despite the fact that they play in the same stadium and have equally trashy fans…

“The Jets? They’re not a real fucking team.”

…Oh, and he’s gotta love the Boss, and Bon Jovi…

“We’re livin’ on love! They say we’re we’re living in sin! O-OOOOO WHOAAAAA WHOAAAAA!!!!”

…Finally, he should have a trashy-looking, overly bossy girlfriend who has a terrible French manicure, thinks she much better looking than she actually is, and is somehow even more loud and obnoxious than her man…

“YOU GUYS DRINKING AS MUCH AS I AM?! GO HARD OR GO HOME! GOD, KEVIN BOSS IS SO FUCKING HOT! I’D LET HIM STICK A FLASHLIGHT IN MY ASS! WE’RE GOING TO THE ‘SQUAN THIS SUMMER! GOOOOO GIANTS!”

Yup, I think that should do it. But your suggestions are also welcome for our new creation. Any pictures of our potential asshole Giants fan stereotype in would also be appreciated. Let’s call him ASSHOLE IN A SHOCKEY JERSEY for now. That should work. Oh, and fuck the Giants in the goat ass.

Putting together this week’s Meast was more vexing than anticipated. Every time I tried to give the serious contemplation befitting such an esteemed mythical internet award, I was distracted by a stream of troubling questions. Maybe some of them are plaguing you as well:

Do I try to squeeze in three or four rushed, unfulfilling Thanksgiving visits, or make a single quality visit and try to work in everyone else at Christmas?

Should KSK feature more accounts of light-hearted cockplay? Or should we leave that to experts like Chris Cooley?

Where does that little twerp Michael Cera get off thinking he can suddenly big-time all his Arrested Development co-stars? Ungrateful little bastard.

Am I ready to live in a world were a venerable Monday Night theme song crooner suddenly becomes “Senator Bocephus”? If he runs on a populist “Cadillac Pu$$y in every pot” platform, who knows how successful he could be?

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Marge Klindera worked the Butterball Hotline for more than 25 years, helping harried housewives put together the best Turkey Day presentation possible. With Marge getting on in years, we’ve decided to enlist the services of the Broncos advice-giving QB to help with your holiday queries. Go ahead, Jay.

Oh, for love and misery, I just didn’t plan accordingly for the gosh darn holiday. I had this huge bird and not enough room to jam it into my freezer. Trying to think on my feet, I shoved the thing into a snow bank to store overnight and cook the next day. ‘Course, when I get up the next morning, a new blanket of snow had fallen and I can’t find where I put the stupid turkey. What can I do and is the thing even safe to eat if I do find it? I’m at my wit’s end.

Heather, Fort Collins

Ha. You’re dumb. But if you’re desperate, just do what Brandon Marshall does: Get McDonalds to make you a really huge McNugget. He’s a Nuggnuts, just like the ad. You seen it? Whatever, I don’t care.

So I’m stuffing the turkey while nearby my son and my sister’s kid were horsing around with some Hot Wheels cars or whatever. The hubby called me into the next room just before I stuck the thing in the oven. Hours later, when I took it out, I find there’s a melted toy car stuck right inside the bird. I know it was Bonnie’s kid. She has no idea how to parent. I asked her to host the goddamn holiday this year, but of course she told me her house isn’t in order. Like it ever is.

Sandra, Tulsa

Ha. Your family is dumb. Was it a Hazmat Hot Wheels? If not, it probably wasn’t carrying any dangerous materials. Safe to eat. Or not. I don’t know. Are we done?

Ok, so I know white people only eat pumpkin pie and black people only eat sweet potato pie, but my shitferbrains cousin Henry married one of those Obama-mixed race people and is bringing her over. Do I have to make a special sweet pumptato pie for her. Should I hide the silverware, too?

Kerry, Nashville

I grew in Santa Claus, Indiana, so I never met a black person until I signed with the Broncos. Brandon says they don’t have pumpkin or sweet potato at McDonalds, so you should go with the apple.

What type of shit do I feed to a family of Cutlerfuckers, you Cutlerfucker. I think possum shit would be good, but it’s so hard to find around these parts. Ibex shit, maybe? DON’T GET TOO COMFORTABLE, ASSHOLE. 6-5 DOESN’T GUARANTEE YOU SHIT, BILL GATES THE QUARTERBACK. THERE’S STILL TIME FOR A LATE SEASON RUN. KING PHILIP THE LASERFACED WILL PREVAIL. FUCK YOU.

Laserface, San Diego

Why don’t you shut up, Rivers. You…you…Shut up! I beat you already! Nothing wrong with my haircut. Maybe you got stupid hair, you STUPID HAIR! I HATE YOU!

For those who didn’t charge off into the night midway through the broadcast intent on killing Tony Kornheiser for invoking Brett Favre’s name after every play, it was merciless offensive onslaught by the Saints, led by Drew Brees and Lance Moore. It was so overwhelming, in fact, even Jeremy Shockey showed flashes of competence. Meanwhile in the KSK live blog world, a furious maelstrom of cheese punnage broke out. The Saints obviously couldn’t get enough scoring, as they were still running trick plays up 20-plus points in the 4th quarter. Still, as bad a night as Aaron Rodgers and The Pack had, it certainly wasn’t as bad as this guy’s.

After the jump is the usual cavalcade of crowd oddities and video of Greg Jennings getting KTFO.
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Don’cha wish your girlfriend live-blogged like me? No?  Well, whatever.  MNF live-blog kicks off at 8:30 tonight.  See you then, in a chat-room kind of way.

You have probably heard that this week the NFL will take their next step three dimensional experimentation when they screen the Oakland-San Diego game in a special theater for select broadcasting partners and various tech nerds. Of course this has left many NFL fans who harbor memories of strapping on cheap cardboard “glasses” to catch a glimpse of Kelly Bundy’s sweet sweet tits to ask why the fuck anyone would want their football in 3D. Here at KSK we embrace the forward-thinking automatons in the NFL marketing office and we’ve come up with a list of undeniable advantages to watching the magic in three dimensions.

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From the reinforcing stereotypes department comes this e-mailed observation from reader “Juice” about how New England fans have fallen madly in love with TRUE PAY-TREE-UT John Lynch, despite the fact that he never played a regular season game for the team. Hmmm. Wonder why.

Last week I was up in Boston for the Pats/Jets game (I’m a Pats fan – insert joke here). Needless to say I missed several days’ worth of KSK entries during my trip. Today I decided to go scrolling back through the archives to see what I missed when I stumbled upon the picture of the Pats fan in the Lynch jersey per your entry.

Well I’m writing you today to tell you this – New England fans LOVE John Lynch. I saw no less than 15 John Lynch jerseys at the game vs. the Jets I attended. Pretty impressive for a guy whose Patriots career totaled 12 total tackles over the course of three pre-season games.

Probably the most telling part of NE’s love of Lynch was in the pro shop. Inside, they have two racks of replica jerseys for probably sixteen different players in all. These jerseys ran seventy-five dollars apiece. They also had a rack of jerseys of players who are no longer with the Pats, and these were marked down to twenty-five dollars a piece. On this discount rack there were such jerseys as Eugene Wilson, a decent safety for the Pats over his five year career, and Chad Jackson, receiver out of Florida who ended up being a massive bust.

The most telling part came when I noticed that of the sixteen jerseys being sold at $75 a pop, fifteen were active players on the Patriots. Only one wasn’t (throwbacks none withstanding). That, of course, was the jersey of Mr. John Lynch, now retired. So not only is there a market for John Lynch Patriot jerseys, celebrating his three-game preseason career as a Pat, but there still bringing in $75 a pop.