Shutdown Corner has gameplay video of Madden ‘09, not due out until fucking August because fuck me, that’s why. Could do without “The Power and the Glory” shit. Normally I disdain people that get obsessARE THOSE NEW PLAYER ANIMATIONS AND CAMERA ANGLES!? Cause, really, it’s just a game and FUCK RANDY MOSS IS DOING THE SOULJA BOY DANCE! I’ve got more important things to do than I WONDER WHAT RATING RASHARD MENDENHALL GETS? HE BETTER BE ABLE TO BREAK SOME GAT DAMN TACKLES!

It was two weeks ago that Buzz Bissinger took on Deadspin’s Will Leitch during an HBO special hosted by Bob Costas, and I’m getting along like any survivor not located at ground zero of the atomic detonation: I avoided the initial blast, but the fallout lingered for a week before the winds finally changed, leaving me irradiated with media bloviation. My symptoms: exhaustion, nausea, headaches.

Everyone had a response, and a response to the response, and the newly MSM-recognized commenters responded to the responses to other responses until the fractal spun into the minutiae of oblivion. Bissinger got blasted by everyone, apologized but stuck to his guns, then performed a round of interviews in the blogosphere to show his non-maniacal asshole side. Leitch responded with typically circumspect Leitchiness, then got blind-sided by Jason Whitlock for his casual laziness toward race, causing more Leitch circumspection before Whitlock participated in a follow-up interview with FanHouse which maybe-but-maybe-not added to the mental gridlock and exhaustion that led to Whitlock’s leave of absence.

Keep in mind that (a) the above recap is only a fraction of the scores of thousands of words spent on this subject across the Internet, and (b) for something that is supposedly a sports story, none of these people are athletes.

Whitlock, before announcing his Waffle House walkabout, closed his FanHouse interview with this:

Blogs are suffering from the same problem as the MSM. We think if we ignore our shortcomings, no one will notice them. Some smart blogger will fill the void and begin the process of holding blogs accountable. There’s an audience for that. There is a good-old-boys network among bloggers that will eventually get shaken up. Lips will get removed from asses at some point. This is America. There’s always someone available to call bulls—.

This prompted some introspective hand-wringing from The Big Lead (”Hmmm, maybe we should critique blogs”), making it the unofficial response to the response to the response to the response to the response to the story not about sports but about writers talking about how to cover sports.

In order to keep this endless trolleyfuck going, I’ve prepared a statement on behalf of Kissing Suzy Kolber. Ready? Ahem…

You people are fucking gay.

We had assumed, as you yourself almost certainly had, that the whole Spygate fiasco was officially dead and buried. Not so, sayeth noted statesman and eater of fresh dog shit Arlen Specter, who is feverishly trying to resuscitate this motherfucker so bad that one would think it was casting the deciding vote in a defense-of-marriage amendment.

The Republican senator from Someplace is calling for an independent investigation, citing baseball’s Mitchell report as some sort of precedent. Specter seems to pay no regard to the facts that (a) George Mitchell was not serving in the United States Senate at any time during the production of that report, (b) Mitchell came forward at Baseball’s request, and (c) Arlen Specter is an Eagles fan, and therefore unfit for public service, or any other sort of gainful employment. We also had a (d) fact, but it included a punch line with a very obscure reference to NASA, and we weren’t sure anyone was going to get that.

Those of us here at KSK were fortunate enough to acquire a complete transcript of the Specter press conference, along with am added bonus — transcripts of private remarks Specter made after the conference was concluded. Unfortunately, these items were delivered to us by a visually-impaired, moped-riding chimpanzee named Mindy, who we rely on for most of our political news, since she has unique access to the underbelly of the political scene.

And she has her own moped.

But Mindy’s latest delivery to us was jumbled and confusing; the two transcripts were mixed together, along with four pages of a Peter Pan coloring book and pages 16-25 of the screenplay of the 1982 box office hit Tootsie, starring Dustin Hoffman.

At this point we were ready to say, “Fuck it, let’s not do a transcript post,” until the phone rang. It was one of those automated customer-service surveys, and I promptly hung up. Sure, it had nothing to do with the issue of the transcript, but the disruption to our thought process was significant enough that when pressed with the choice of resuming the diligence of our chore or, say, making one of those frozen skillet dinners out of a bag, that we headed directly to the kitchen. That was a very long sentence.

We don’t remember which frozen skillet dinner we enjoyed — I want to say Teryaki Chicken and Fried Rice, but don’t hold me to that — but after finishing and leaving the dishes out on the counter for someone else to clean up after us, our strategem evolved from “Fuck the transcript” to “Fake the transcript.”

That is, we decided to falsify a given amount of substance to justify the presence of our post that sought to oppose a Midwestern conservative dickbag that was wasting everyone’s time for his own benefit.

And, to that end, we present this artifically-conceived-yet-somehow-very-authentic-looking-document detailing the senator’s remarks in an easy-to-follow, bullet-point format that may or may not feature a gratuitous amount of hyphens.

(You can click this fucker to view it now. That was my bad before.)

Thank you and good night.

Well, well, well. Look who just just fackin’ exawnerated far cheating by Rawjah fackin’ Goodell himself? BILLY BELICHICK AND THE REST OF AMERICA’S TEAM, THE FACKIN’ NEW ENGLAND PAYTREE-UHTS! That fackin’ pussy snitch Matty Wawlsh didn’t have any hahhhhhhhhd evidence that my boys cheated in any way, shape, or farm. Case fackin’ closed. PUT THAT IN YOUR TAPE RECARDER AND JERK AWFF TO IT!

I know you fackin’ faggot hatahs out they-ah hoped far a different result. I know you held out hope, against all hope, that the fackin’ Pats jugguhnut was just some kind of illusion. But it’s nawt, you fackin’ losahs! Our collective dawminance was just as real as this Tazmanian Devil tattoo on my bicep. Look at fackin’ Taz! He’s fackin crazy, just like the fackin’ Tawmstah!

Anyway, now that The Genius and my beloved fackin’ Paytree-uts have been clee-uhed of all chaaaaaaaaahges, it’s time to collect some gawddamn restitution. That’s right! You fackin’ people owe the entiah Celtics Nation an Apawlogy.

And $3,000 trillion in punitive damages.

I don’t think you fackin’ faggots could possibly cawmprehend the terrible haaaaahtache this SpyGate case has caused, both to myself and the greater Massachusetts pawpulation. We have fackin’ suffahed a grave injustice, and now we demand to be paid far it! Now, I know you dahkies out there like to piss and moan all day long about how you deserve reparations. Maybe you fackin’ dahkies should try lookin’ far a job instead! My buddy Neil needs a busboy over at his pub/tanning salawn.

But those blackies don’t deserve any reparations. It was they-ah ancestahs that suffered. BUT WE PATS FANS AH SUFFERING NOW! This was REAL pain, inflicted by malicious hatahs! Don’t try comparin’ that to some sob stary about yah great great aunt being sold awn the open mahhhhhket! That’s unfay-uh!!

Furth-ah-mor-ah, I demand that the final scar of Super Bowl Farty Two be over-fackin’turned. That’s right! WE were not the ones who cheated! By accusing us of cheating, EVERYONE ELSE gained an unfay-uh psychomological advantage! That’s REAL cheating!

This entiah cawtroversy took an unimaginable toll on Tawmmy Brady, Tedi fackin’ Bruschi, and the rest of ow-ah heroes! You don’t think they wouldn’t have plowed the Giants like a Puerto Rican schoolgarl if they didn’t have that shit hangin’ over they-ah heads?! Such was they-ah despay-uh, that even the legendary rooting pow-ah of the great Baston faithful could not override it. And I think you know just how unlikely that is!

THIS IS AN OUTRAGE! THE PATS EASILY WON THAT GAME IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE BY SIXTY FACKING POINTS, YOU FACKS!

So I want that game overturned. And I want my money. I told my garlfriend I’d take hah to Cancun. BUT I WANNA DUMP HAH AND PAAAAHTY WITH SOME NARTHEASTERN U. TAIL INSTEAD!!!!

This has been a very hahhhd time for the great people of Celtics Nation. We have been terribly wronged. And now ow-ah great Celtics are being screwed out of a Cawnference Finals berth, depriving us awl of the Lakahs-Celts Finals that everyone in America wants WITHOUT A SINGLE EXCEPTION OF ANY FACKIN’ KIND.

All because of the refs and that facking LeBrawn dahkie. Everything thinks he’s so great. BUT HE DOESN’T HAVE KEVIN FACKIN’ MCHALE’S EYE-UHN WILL! McHale would have knawcked that big dumb dahkie right on his ass! Then the Gahhhhden faithful would have let him have it! You think LeBrawn would be tough enough to handle that?! I THINK NOT!

LeBrawn’s not so fackin’ tough! “Oh no, that guy fouled me too haaaahd! I got a booboo! Oh no! Someone put me in a choke hold!” Sack it up, BrawnBrawn. Your mama should be well acquainted with police choke holds by now!

You clearly lack the steely resolve and determination of Tawmmy Brady and Celtics Nation. NO ONE’S FACKING TOUGHER THAN US!

So please, pay us our punitive damages. We were-ah really hurt by all this.

Jerry Porter recently took part in a Hanes promotional event that yielded no small degree of painful-to-watch comedy. Much like Kerouac’s Dean Moriarty, this chap Dave travels across the country, bringing an optimistic everyman joie de vive to a hodgepodge of quirky locales. Except Dean Moriarty didn’t challenge quasi-celebrities to see who can put a pair of underwear over their clothes the fastest. This is Dave…

Even his visage bespeaks quality entertainment.

As if this whole “guys playing underwear games” didn’t lend enough of an air of fruitiness to the proceedings, Dave’s decision to groom an imperceptible speck of something from Jerry’s brow took it to a whole new level.

Jerry says he “probably won’t” win, but he’s “not going to lose.” I have no idea what that means. At the risk of spoiling the ending: Jerry cheats– a skill learned with the Raiders– in order to win– a skill not learned with the Raiders.

A final look at the scoreboard shows that Dave has four wins against eleven losses. We presume this means Dave is now mathematically eliminated from the Underwear Race Playoffs.

If you feel you simply must see the whole thing, here it is:

I almost didn’t post the video because I’m disinclined to give Hanes the free publicity. But in the end, it was too entertaining not to share. Perhaps Hanes will send us some new drawers for free. This cheap pair I’m wearing right now is like a three-star hotel: no ballroom.

What Lofa might have looked like in happier times.

Seahawks linebacker Lofa Tatupu was arrested in Kirkland, Washington Saturday and charged with DUI after allegedly blowing a Busey-esque .015 .15 on the ole breathalyser. Tatupu, who signed a $42 million extension in March and has established himself as a Pro Bowl fixture, issued an apology through the team.

Living down the taint of lawless behavior is difficult but can be achieved after intense character rehabilitation and extensive public relations work. However, there is no erasing the stigma of getting popped while driving a Hyundai Accent. Tragically, Lofa will wear the shame of his choice of automobiles like the Mark of Cain for as many days as he remains on this mortal coil.

Films that the Patriots could use to predict the migratory cycles of birds and use them in their adjustments!

I just obtained a film of me taping the TV report about Lofa Tatupu getting busted for a DUI. I did it on behalf of the Patriots, so they can know what to expect from drunk linebackers in hoopdies in the future. Just because Belichick doesn’t get the videos from me personally doesn’t mean they don’t make it to him through the pipeline. They’re very intricate cheaters.

I’m taping you! Right now! What if I were to tell you this is for the Patriots, so they’ll know how you’ll react when you’re being told you’re being filmed to benefit the Patriots. It’s a limited but useful application, commissioner.

Just let me stay relevant a little longer. I can film myself groveling.

I feal the wolst is yet to come foll Hines this offseason. Now must auction arr thing flom lestaulant. Lestaulant is plide and joy when no pray footbarr.

U.S. judiciar system make Hines serr lestaulant fixture and lestaulant birding. Why? What is banklupt? Bank rook fine to me. Just when menu begin come togethell. Finarry get cheesebulgel that big enough foll man in Pittsbulgh.

No! You save for customel, prease!

So mindbrowing. This arr happen super fast whirr my mind is focus on having herp sterrpid tarr leceivel Rimas Sweed. Smirre is wash flom face these day.

He herpriss, I think. Rimas been leceivel in correge befoll and he stirr need herp. Such bad second lound pick. What he need me foll? I become leceivel super fantastic in no time at all and no even pray leceivel in correge.

STAND STLIAGHT, ASSWHORE!

First I terr him take numbell 14 jersey because peoperr in shitty rove Near O’Donnerr. He berieve this! So sterrpid.

I terr him make sule get at reast one foot on white rine that go alound endzone. He say in correge this count as out of bound. STERRPID, I say. This rook rike correge?

Okay, get you out of face. This is no ovel, Rimas. I be on you rike kimchi sauce!

Int. Romo’s Living Room

[cellphone rings]

Tony: You got Romo!

Jason: Hello Anthony, it’s Mr. Garret.

Tony: Yo, J-dog, my man! You wanna go grab a few beers and wrangle up some low-quality tail?

Jason: Surely you jest, Anthony. As you well know, my time is far too valuable for such excursions. Besides, I do believe that philandering about town behind Jessica’s back would cause quite a distraction, something you can ill afford.

Tony: Ah, screw that, man. Jess has been getting all of these phone calls from some weird smooth-talking guy. I think she’s going to dump me, so I figure I better blow the whole thing up first. You know, gotta protect the rep’.

Jason: Indubitably. I’m sure you know best, I’ll let you get back to it then. Just please remember to review the changes in the playbook. The Annexation of Puerto Rico is quite simple for an Ivy Leaguer, but for those of us who matriculated through Eastern Illinois it could be rather complex.

Tony: Yeah whatever, broseph.

[Giggling sounds from the bedroom]

Tony: Hey Jess, are you actually talking to that wackjob with the accent again?

Jess: Shut up Tony, he’s more man than you’ll ever be. I don’t even want to see you anymore, I wish you’d just go home and stay outta my life!

Tony: This is my house you addlebrained cum-guzzler.

Jess: Whatever, you’re a loser!

Tony: Bitch!

[Jessica enters]

Jess: You can’t call me that, my new man is coming over here and his friend is gonna kick your ass!

Tony: Whate-

[loud crashing noise]

Jess: Oh KITT, I love you more than anything, and I wanna have your car-babies!

Sad but (supposedly) true, Tony and Jess are no more.

Big thanks to LSUFreek for the magic.

NOTE: I’m out shooting a TV ad this week, so I present to you this “classic” post from the old FKS blog. I promise not to make a habit of it.

My buddy Jeremy (not his real name) has a cousin named Gary. Back in ’99, Gary worked in sales for the Playboy Channel. More importantly, Gary somehow convinced Playboy executives to give him his own show on the channel. It was called The Helmetcam Show. Maybe you’ve seen it, or maybe you’re a liar.

Here was the premise of The Helmetcam Show: Gary, wearing a bike helmet with a camera mounted on top, interviewed porn stars and Playmates live in the studio, took some calls, and did field pieces from strip clubs, porn award shows, and porn star conventions. Oh, and the theme song of the show was performed by Sir Mix-A-Lot. Here’s a sample of the lyrics:

…And if you like a little three-way,
Helmetcam’s got it!
…Or a tight shot on the pussy,
Helmetcam’s got it!

There is absolutely no good reason for this show to have ever existed. How Gary convinced Playboy execs that this was a good idea is beyond me. He must be the greatest salesman in the history of the universe. Pissing off horny, lonely men is a terrible idea. Every man knows that the longest time ever comes between the moment you purchase porn and the moment you see a naked body on the screen. So imagine plunking down your hard-earned $11.99 for a three-hour block of Playboy, dick in hand, only to first encounter a short, balding Jewish man wearing a Giro helmet on top of his head. Wars start over things like this.

And helmetcams are a bad idea during football games. In porn, they’re even more useless. During the show, Gary would often stare at a stripper’s breasts, only to realize the camera was aiming at the girl’s throat, which meant he had to pan down and sort of search around for the girl’s rack. All while a perfectly competent professional cameraman, with years of experience lighting and shooting breasts, was standing five feet away.

But all criticisms of the show are beside the point. The important thing here is that Jeremy and I knew someone with his own show on the Playboy Channel, and that was fucking awesome. Our story (which happened before I met Mrs. Drew) begins at the now defunct Park Avalon restaurant near Union Square in Manhattan. That’s where I first met Gary. Jeremy and I met him for drinks there. He was accompanied by a friend of his from work. That friend was Tiffany Granath, host of Playboy’s “Night Calls”, a show Gary occasionally wrote for (make of that what you will). Here’s a picture of Tiffany that is safe for work:

If you do a Google image search (and turn the SafeSearch off. That’s for pussies.), you will find Tiffany far more naked than she is here. Not that I would know anything about that.

Jeremy and I sat down. Within 10 minutes, Tiffany was talking about losing her virginity to Pauly Shore. We were complete strangers to this girl, yet she had no problem divulging that she had lost her innocence to the douchebag from “Bio-Dome”. It’s not often you get a chance to meet someone that completely and utterly vapid. Jeremy and I were transfixed.

During drinks, Gary said he would let Jeremy call in to his show one night, provided that he not disclose his relationship to Gary while on air. Also, due to Playboy’s erratic shooting schedule, there was no telling when Jeremy would be able to call in. Gary might call him at a moment’s notice to let him know he could get on the air. Jeremy agreed to all these conditions immediately.

A bit of background on the people who call into these shows: almost all of them a) Are shitfaced, b) Have a Southern accent, and c) Claim to be “partying,” when you know damn well they’re laying spread eagle at the foot of a Motel 6 bed. So calling into these shows without making yourself sound like a convicted sex offender from Arkansas isn’t easy. But Jeremy would triumph over these formidable obstacles, though certainly not on purpose.

Jeremy and I lived together in a studio apartment on 57th St. in Manhattan. A few weeks after meeting Gary and Tiffany, I went out to drink with a few friends. Jeremy was out with people from his work, so we never bothered to meet up. Adequately shitfaced, and with no prospects for the night, I went back to the apartment.

When I walked in the door, the place had been wrecked. Given that Jeremy and I never took out the trash, did dishes, or vacuumed, it took a lot to make the place look considerably worse than it already did. No matter. My nightstand had been torn down. Sheets had been ripped off my bed. Lamps were strewn about the floor. I thought I had been robbed. Some motherfucker had clearly made off with my George Foreman Grill, and the idea of that really pissed me off.

But no one had robbed me. Over on the bed was Jeremy, out-of-his-mind shitfaced and trying to find the phone. He had come back to apartment, failed to turn on any of the lights, and decided to search for the phone by feel alone. I jumped on Jeremy and immediately began beating the shit out of him. And not in a playful way. I was actually assaulting him. Here was the conversation that ensued. Try and picture Jeremy laughing during this entire exchange:

“You stupid fuck!”
“No, wait!”
“You will fucking die now!”
“No! Gary!”
“Die!”
“Gary!”
“Fuck!”
“Gary!”
“Die, fuck!”
“I’m trying to call Gary!”
“What?”
“Tonight! I have to call Gary!”

I paused. Jeremy pointed to the TV. Gary’s show was on. Jeremy couldn’t find the phone, or the light. Yet he had managed to grab the remote, turn on the TV, and order pay-per-view porn. All while in the dark. If that doesn’t sum up the male species as a whole, I don’t know what does. Jeremy called in and got someone on the other end of the line. It was the show producer. He was going on.

This was a special night for Gary’s show. In the studio were none other than Jenna Jameson and Nikki Tyler. Mind you, this was 1999, seven years and roughly 200 kilos of blow removed from the weatherbeaten Jenna Jameson you see today. It was an electrifying moment. Jenna and Nikki sat on the couch. Gary took Jeremy’s call. With me on top of Jeremy, and literally thousands of naked men watching, this is what happened:

Gary: And, on the phone we have Jeremy. Jeremy, you there?
Jeremy: Uh… uh… Helmetcam!
Gary: Hey, Jeremy.
Jeremy: Heyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy.
Gary: Hey Jeremy, you been partying?
Jeremy: Yeah, whatever. Hey Jenna!
Jenna: Yes, Jeremy?
Jeremy: Jenna, why don’t you help Nikki out there?
Jenna, apropos of nothing: You want me to take her pants off?
Jeremy: Uh… yeah.

Jenna whipped out a pair of scissors and cut off Nikki’s pants. I have no idea why she did that. Pants are made so that you can remove them without scissors. And these were skintight Lycra pants. The odds of Jenna giving Nikki an ad-libbed episiotomy were quite high. Regardless, Jeremy was excited.

Jenna: How’s that?
Jeremy: That is… FANTASTIC.

Then, Jeremy had an epiphany.

Jeremy: Hey, Jenna!
Jenna: Yeah?
Jeremy: Why don’t you give Nikki a little kiss?

Jenna agreed and began to hoover Nikki’s face with extreme prejudice.

Jeremy: That is… FANTASTIC.

Jeremy had done it. He had called in and made himself into an impromptu porn director. It was riveting theatre. Better than “Schindler’s List.” Jeremy and I were likely the only people watching who were not climaxing at that very moment. Astounding. But then, Jeremy got cocky, and his inner douchebag got the best of him.

Jeremy: Hey Jenna, if you’re ever in New York and want to date an investment banker…
Gary, cutting him off: Okay Jeremy, thanks a lot!

And Jeremy’s offer still stands to this very day.

(An epilogue to this story: Gary made a tape of Jeremy’s performance and sent it to him. Jeremy’s entire family watched it. Jeremy’s mom said she thought the tape was “cute”. Nothing cuter than getting shitfaced and hitting on a porn star on live television!)