When we last left java-engulfing oceanic garbage patch Peter King, he used his considerable weight to try and bully restaurant Sibling Rivalry into serving him a more substantive $25 cod dish, and to de-bitter their espresso (We can only hope the coffee was bitter because someone poured Roundup into it). More importantly, King declared that he was “dying to tweet,” and soon made good on his horrible, horrible threat. ‘Tis the Seventh Sign, people. Demi Moore must offer to sacrifice her baby to Jurgen Prochnow, or the clouds will turn to ash and we all shall perish in a giant lava tsunami.

King thanked two people for helping break down all the Byzantine intricacies of setting up a Twitter account. But Jon Pyle over at Pyle of List tells us that even two people weren’t enough.

Drew,
It actually took more than two people to get him tweeting. A friend of mine works for SI and as a youthful person actually taught him how/what to write. She didn’t get thanked though, so perhaps she’s a ghost writer.

I think the reason she didn’t get thanked is because she didn’t offer Peter the kind of brunch spread that Pam Whiteley does. You have to go the extra mile to make MMQB, my dear. I like the idea of a ghost-written Twitter. “God, I’d like to be retarded right now, but I simply don’t have the time.” Let’s check out some of the early King tweets.

God. Who put that picture next to my Tweet? 8:30 AM Apr 18th from web

I dunno, Pete. But I do know that changing it is a monumental task on par with the rebuilding of Ground Zero (http://twitter.com/account/picture).

Just finished one of the daunting tasks in my SI history–pinch-hitting for Dr. Z on the mock draft. It’ll be in the mag next week. 8:31 AM Apr 18th from web

Indeed. Very daunting. Almost as hard as changing a Twitter photo. After all, everyone expects a mock draft to be 100% accurate.

Just talked with Mark Sanchez. Dedicated lad. Worked out at his old high school tonight. Will go to class all week at USC. More in MMQB. about 11 hours ago from web

Works out AND goes to class? Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down there, Johnny Damon! Even the Army isn’t that productive.

So yeah, quite the promising start for King’s KitterKat feed. Now let’s go to today’s column.

“I like the angle,” former USC quarterback Mark Sanchez said to me a little after 11 Eastern Sunday night. “I hope it still looks good Saturday. I hope it doesn’t blow up on you.”

“But enough about you, Johnny. What do you think of my story angle?”

In the last 10 days, I’ve spent hours (only my cell phone company knows how many for sure) foraging for crumbs for my Sports Illustrated mock

Actually, your cell phone company will send you a detailed log of every call you’ve made, and will tally your minutes into a cumulative total for you. Peter, I suggest you look up the number of minutes of your longest call to Brett Favre, and then try and break that record.

Last Friday, the last night teams could host, wine and dine players from out of town in their home market, (Dan) Snyder and vice president Vinny Cerrato took Sanchez out to dinner at an Italian place in downtown D.C. after Sanchez had spent the day with Washington coaches and personnel people. Big deal? Maybe. Maybe not.

It’s only a big deal if their lasagna had nutmeg in it. If Jay Glazer had reported this item, he would have provided a full transcript of the evening’s conversation AND caught Cerrato heading to the shitter to order a Polish she-lizard escort on Snyder’s tab.

Good quarterbacks get the blood boiling in coaches and GMs, and in this case, owners.

And there’s your broken metaphor of the week. A speed pass rusher who can also defend the run gets plenty of hides chapping in front offices across the league!

What I want to do now is try to tell you a few things I’ve learned on the phone and via text messages in the last week or so, in no particular order:

Okay. I’m ready. TIME FOR SOME REAL FUCKING REPORTING. What did you learn, you quasi-famous man, you?

Detroit, as of midnight Sunday, wasn’t tipping its hand or negotiating with anyone for the first pick. Tom Condon, the agent for both Stafford and Jason Smith, was in Detroit Thursday, and the agents for Aaron Curry were at the Lions on Saturday. No significance to either visit because the Lions didn’t tell either side who they were picking.

So you learned nothing.

New England loves UConn cornerback Darius Butler. New England is smoke-screening by letting on that it loves UConn cornerback Darius Butler.

So you learned nothing again. Hang on a second, Pete. I gotta clear out space in my brain for all this knowledge you be dropping! “Dropping knowledge” is a phrase people use in Tweetland. It really gets their blood boiling!

San Francisco won’t pick Josh Freeman.

Or they will!

Denver won’t pick Josh Freeman.

Unless they do!

“John Madden is the best sports broadcaster — not just the best football broadcaster — of all time.”
-NBC Sports chairman Dick Ebersol, after Madden retired last week.

Really, Dick? The guy who hands out turkey legs every year is clearly better than Jim McKay, Bob Ley, Chris Fowler, Vin Scully, Harry Kalas, Howard Cosell, Keith Jackson, Marv Albert, Pat Summerall, Verne Lundquist, Harry Caray, and roughly 708 other people I forgot? Ooh, wait! His name was on a video game! Never mind. THAT SEALS IT!

“Chad Johnson called me today. Crying. He wonders why everyone can get traded but him.”

-Former Johnson teammate T.J. Houshmandzadeh, now with Seattle, on NFL Network Friday night.

He was also upset that no one out there is willing to make pants for his arms.

Enjoyable/Aggravating Travel Note of the Week

Someone made merriment in the Acela quiet car!

It’s the new green me.

Green King? Run, restaurateurs of the world! THIS ESPRESSO IS BITTER! GREEN KING SMASH!

It’s not like I’m going to be surrendering my car now than I’m a city guy,

Oh, so you’re cityfolk now, are you? Well la di da, Mr. Urban Elitist! Lemme get Tom Wolfe to help you shop for your new wardrobe.

…but being without it is increasingly enjoyable. Check out this 28-hour experience that began Thursday morning:

Oooh, an itinerary!

Walk 10 minutes to the Back Bay train station to catch a train to New York.

And includes stopping at four different dog bakeries.

Take the train to New York.

Where someone next to me farted!

Take a cab to visit buddy Jack Bowers in the hospital after surgery.

Get well, Jack. Everyone would be pulling for you if they knew who the fuck you were.

Take a cab to SI in midtown Manhattan for an afternoon of meetings.

“Only we didn’t have a meeting. We went to the new Yankee Stadium in a Corvette limo instead! Isn’t that grand?”

Take the subway to Queens for Mets-Padres.

“And my Bluetooth never went out!”

Take the subway to Manhattan after the game.

Walk to Penn Station.

But how long was the walk? I must know for my spreadsheet.

Take the train back to Boston.

Walk the 10 minutes home.

Notice this trip was SO FUCKING EPIC that each leg of it merited its own paragraph. It’s as if I’m reliving the day of Leopold Bloom, and the enormity of human existence can be found in our most mundane activities. This was more than a simple walk to Penn Station for Peter. This was an AWAKENING. This trip is nothing short of a found poem, a tale that should be passed from one generation to the next via oral traditions. I shall now write my own:

Drove 25 minutes to work.

Parked car.

Entered work.

Worked.

May or may not have masturbated. Twice.

Left work.

Drove 40 minutes back home.

Fin.

Not an unpleasant trip on any of the legs. You people in cities have been hiding how great it is to get along without a car.

That second sentence killed me. “Huddle up, fellow city dwellers. Let’s agree right now to conspire and prevent people outside our city limits from realizing that our public transit infrastructure and population density allow for us to minimize our use of motorized transport when compared to people in the suburbs. MOST OF ALL, DON’T TELL KING. HE’LL RUIN THE WHOLE FUCKING THING FOR ALL OF US.”

This travel note has all the hallmarks of classic King libtardery. Observe the process of thought required to write something so clearly inane and pointless.

1. Ooh, I just did something good for the environment! Let me tell people how awesome I am for not using a car!
2. I just found out something everyone else knew about living in cities! Let me write about it as if no one had any clue of the phenomenon!
3. Let me use my example to imply that you should change your life in a similar fashion to keep up with my good-doing! I bet you people still use cars! YOU MAKE ME RETCH.

I’d say King belongs on the op-ed staff at the New York Times, if the New York Times hadn’t been so heartless as to threaten to shutter the Boston Globe so that they can remain solvent! NEW YORK TIMES, YOU GET MY BLOOD DEBOILING.

I think if I were Buffalo GM Russ Brandon, I wouldn’t be thinking, “Eleven’s too high to take Brandon Pettigrew.” If I couldn’t trade down four of five slots (and, as you can see by history above, the Bills don’t trade much on draft day), I’d take the best all-around tight end to come out since — well, since maybe Jeremy Shockey — right there at number 11.

If someone as potentially awful as Jeremy Shockey is there at 11, you gotta take him!

I think you made your bed, Chad Johnson. Now you’ve got to lay in it.

Better not be a twin bed.

I think I’d like to apologize to you, Everette Brown. I don’t have you in my mock draft for SI this week, and I fully expect you to be picked … somewhere.

Peter called 56 different GM’s to get you that crucial piece of information.

I can’t figure out where, and too many people in the bottom 20 of the round found too many holes in Brown.

Shouldn’t it be “too many holes in you?” if this is a direct apology? Perhaps this should have been tweeted.

I miss the Star-Ledger. Good, important newspaper.

Lofty newspaper.

So here’s my quickie review of Citi Field

WHY CAN’T I GET FREE COFFEE THERE BEFORE 4:15AM?!

I did note that, from my seat down the left-field line in the lower bowl, that I could see 79 ads around the stadium.

Outdoor advertising? In a stadium?

These are the good ol’ days for “The Office.”

Indeed. Strained plots and forced hijinks? This show has hit its stride.

Good luck, Cris Collinsworth. You won’t need luck, though. Prepared, talented guys don’t ever need luck.

Then you must have needed a goddamn barrel full of it.

How cool it was this morning dropping my brother-in-law, Bob Whiteley, at the Boston Common at 6:45 so he could board one of the hundreds of yellow school buses for the 45-minute ride to Hopkinton and the start of the Boston marathon. Good luck, Bob. What a great scene.

You drove him there in your car?

So much for the green you, you fat bastard. Now I’m not gonna give you this Kit Kat with Jesus’ face in it.