Having witnesst an exhibition slate markt by anemic haymakers and the stewardship qualities of a syphilite, the Bengali Tygers of Cincinnatus terminated my employment and cast your humble scribe, J.T. of the Fighting O’Sullivans, to the four winds. Fain I would say that I was not deserving of this fate.

Mine has been a peripatetic life. Mother O’Sullivan, may God preserve her ever-lasting soul, said such a quality was unbecoming of any Man not wishing to become a gypsy. Through it brings great shame, I have little choice but to be a Man of No Fixed Locus, roving from town to town in search of work to feed my ever-growing family. This is the plight the Good Lord has seen fit to assign me and I will carry out His wishes with esteem and pugnacity.

In several ways, this change is a mixed blessing. Life in Cincinnatus is best describt as an admixture of grief and more grief. Its citizens lack basic schooling or even rudimentary traits indicating exposure to civilization. Many are content to roam the street gnawing on refuse and rat leavings. And though I have bathed more times than I ever thought possible, I dread I will never remove this town’s odor from my personage. All this is to say nothing of the rampant criminality of the footballing squadron. Taken together, it forced me to excessive drink, which may help explain my disastrous play of late. In the end, however, I can bare a grudge along with my burden. I depart wishing well.

Faretheegood, Bengali Tygers of Cincinnatus. Long will I recall the scattershot and generally mentally incapacitated manner in which you conducted your footballings.

Fortune, it seems, would not allow me to stay downcast for long. Just as I arrivt at the shipping yards intent on getting a scrap ‘n’ a swig, a fellow waylaid me saying that he was a representative of a footballing squadron from the Western Territories: the Equine Lightning Bolts of Spanish Saint Didacus. Immediately, this struck me as glorious news. My greatest acts of footballing to date were done in the Western homosexual colony known as Spanish Saint Francis. I accepted his offer without delay and the next thing I knew, I was in the steerage car of a westbound train trading blows with vagrants whose expressions were not to my liking.

When I alight in Saint Didacus, I discovert the quarterbacking position I was offert was yet another subordinate one. A minor setback, but a Man does he must to earn his daily liquid bread. Just as I playt understudy to Good Sir Palmer in Cincinnatus, I am expected to do the same with the Horse Bolts. Only now I am honort to report that the top quartered back for this squadron comes from regal lineage. Never previously having the privilege to meet royalty, I togged myself in twice-washed pantaloons and my only shirt of complete integrity to report for duty.

Picturet with runner back Darren Sproles.

I must say, though, that royals are of a bizarre sort. Upon greeting, after a curious request to inquire an indeterminate question of an unspecified party, this Man loudly and emphatically demandt that I henceforth refer to him only as King Philip the Laserfacet. One expects a measure of vainglory when dealing with kings and queens, but this was on a level far beyond anything I was prepart for. It was almost as though he were the pagan god of vainglory itself.

He heaved grievous insults at me without provocation. He used profanity that would ruddy the cheeks of even the foulest lout of the shipping yard. He referred to Mother O’Sullivan as a dried out goat’s penis to be hung on the wall of the town’s most filthy tavern and used as target practice for darts.

Few men have spoken of Mother O’Sullivan in such a way and not been rendert unconscious by repeated haymakers. I was readying myself to give satisfaction when King Philip cocked back his arm and released a pass that scudded the heavens for what seemed like days. I could not turn my eyes away from it. I could not tell you exactly how long it stayed in the air, for I passed out from lack of sleep and nourishment before it descendt back to Earth. That is, if it ever did.

It is now that I understand the power from which the crown derives its rule. Heretofore, I thought royalty to be only the product of a corrupt social structure bent on oppressing the Irish. I have been disabused this notion. The king, obscene and full of vainglory he may be, is possesst of a power beyond the reckoning of any of us. I know better than to cross him.

This week, KSK is raising money for Livestrong and the Wounded Warrior Project through Captain Caveman’s participation in Fight Gone Bad. To learn more, click here. To donate, click here.

One can say a great many things about life in Cincinnatus, but surely one claim that cannot be issut is that it is unmarked by turbulence. ‘Twas only last week that word arrived that the Bengali Tygers (who still favor me with employ for who knows how much longer) contracted another brigand for the purposes of footballing. Have I joint a footballing squadron or a penal colony? This is only meant a clever jape, but sometimes I wonder.

The ruffian in question is said to have once been known by the appellation “Packman”. Bully, I thought, a fellow from the shipyards. A blue-collar laborer much like myself. However, when I approacht him and asked which vessels he had packt cargo, he responded with a lengthy list of women’s vaginae. Now, my sensibilities are as sensitive as the next Irishman’s, which is to say, as numb as an opponent’s face in the 8th round, but these statements scandalizet me.

More troubling is the legend told that he once made the sky rain paper currency. Heavens! Who knows what other sorcery this voodoo priest is capable of concocting. I think it best to keep my distance. Haymakers (for all their strength) achieve little effect against the dark arts.

By steering clear, I had hoped this would been the temporary end of the dolors. But no, as if by incantation by the voodoo priest Packman himself, more dolors arrived. Just last day, the strange Negroid Spaniard, using his mystical birdspeak device, made a communique that the Bengali Tygers were to acquire the quartered back JaMarcus Russell.

A number of things rankle me about this.

Firstly, the Tygers are sufficient at the quartered backing position. There is Good Sir Palmer. There is Palmer the Younger. There is myself. Perhaps it is only the vainglory speaking, but that strikes me as enough. Another quartered back will disrupt the balance. Yes, Good Sir Palmer travailed last season, but one must place faith in their appointed leader.

Penultimately, his name: JaMarcus Russell. It is the tradition of those of Afrikan extraction to favor odd twists when naming their brood. Were he a man of Irish extraction, he would have a honorable moniker, such as McMarcus O’Russell. If I should ever cross paths again with Packman, I will suggest he grant this name to his next unintended son.

Lastly, while little is scientifically known about the dark continent of Afrika, explorers have noted that in Akrikan tribes, those of great social stature are also those of large physique. And if this JaMarcus is anything, he is largely physiquet. I fear this means he is held is high esteem. But, ultimately, I care not. Mother O’Sullivan, saint that she is, did not raise her son to shrink from a challenge.

I have bested large men in the past. An advantage in size does not equal an advantage in will. Once, I fought a rotund cur who issut choice words about the quality of mother’s potato stew. He appeart imposing, yet I barely connected with one haymaker and the man could not be roused until the next day.

If the Bengali Tygers see it fitting to import malefactors and large Afrikan quartered backs, they will have to also deal with a cuss of an Irishmen, for he will not be dispatcht with ease. Ho!

Hope you have your pernicious racial stereotypes at the ready for the Irish and the Mexicans. In a game in which Cincy’s starters will see limited to very limited action, we’ll need something to keep us amused other than the prospect of Mark Sanchez’s four turnovers blowing the Jets’ giftwrapped playoff berth. Especially because a Jets victory means these two teams play again next week, only with both teams actually having something to play for. And that’s where J.T. O’Sullivan comes in. The prolix descriptions of his exploits will make for boisterous raillery!

This is obviously our last live blog of the regular season (it being the last game and all) but, as we did last year, we will have you covered for the postseason. Probably not to the extent that we can do all the games through the first two rounds, but we’ll have most of them for you. More info on that to come.

But enough programming notes. It was a much more mixed final day for the objective fan than last year’s finale that saw Favre, the Cowboys and the Pats eliminated all on the same day. On one hand, the Steelers were denied the postseason berth they didn’t deserve. Zulu Cop Speed also eclipsed 2,000-yard mark. However, the Eagles bed shitting, while nicely upsetting Philly turds, lets Brett Favre off the hook for choking away a two seed. Too much gray area for my tastes.

AND WHO COULD FAHGET THE DEVASTATION OF WELKAH! OW-AH HAAAHHHHTTTSSS RIPPED ALONG WITH HIS MANY GRITTY TENDONS! YOU CAN NEVAH UNDERSTAND PAIN LIKE WE HAVE! THIS WILL RUIN THE TRIP WE HAVE TO VEGAS! WE MIGHT NAWT EVEN BE ABLE TO STAY UP LATE! EVERYONE KNOWS BENAHD POLLAHD IS A CRIMINAL AND SHOULD BE MADE TO SUFFAH! THAT DAAAHKIE IS REPONSIBLE WHETHER HE HIT WELKAH OR NAWT! JAWRIES OUTSIDE NEW ENGLAND WOULD NAWT CONVICT HIM BECAWSE THEY AHHH JEALOUS OF OW-AH SUCCESS!

Something struck me ill as I betook the Bengali Tygers lost endeavors against the Norse Boatsmen of Parts Northward and Uninhabitable.

At first, I didn’t give utterance to my thoughts as I feared that they were only brought on by the mind-melting mystic qualities possesst by the enclosed structure of modern Norse manufacture. How do they secure the tepid airs when all is frigid outdoors? With such technology, it is no wonder we Tygers were found to be the lessers that day.

Soon, however, these lingering ruminations overtook all resistance when I was marshaled into the contest late for scrubsman’s scutwork duties. Menial work often frees the mind of the barriers of wayward thought.

I entrust these words to you, computing box, because I know that you will keep them in confidence. Such disclosure could find me at odds with those whom I am aligned on the field of footballing.

By my lights, Good Sir Palmer is to no longer be thought among the good.

Whereas, at the risk of dispensing vainglory, I have developed worldwide acclaim for the issuance of haymakers (one company has gone so far as to produce bundles of hay with my name brandisht upon it, so they may retail at giftly prices) Good Sir Palmer has long been in reliance of his brand of Pulverizers. It is a sound maneuver, one supposes, by not one that makes fright renderable in the opponent. Men of thought have long turned over in their head what makes men so weak in constitution – either that they are too mollycoddled by their mothers or not mollycoddled enough. Still, he is a man of stature in Cincinnatus, whereas I, a Man of Irish Descent, am cast among the dogs and the Roy Williamses.

For many an annum, Good Sir Palmers faults were run over with gloss. He had yet to fully convalesce from an affliction of the leg, they claimt. His squadronmates were not of satisfactory skill, they brayt. Perhaps such arguments were true at the time, but now the team is in all respekts as stout as a haymaker, and there is no pepper in the Pulverizers.

There would be those Cincinnatans who would run down our Pollack offensive strategist before Good Sir Palmer. Indeed, he is a fool and is frequently unawares of how we mock him in his presence. One time, we replaced his favorite chapeau with a live skunk and he did not notice until he attended his daughter’s marriage four weeks hence. However, truth be told, not all can be laid at the fetid feet of the stupid Pollack. The errancy of the Pulverizers is not part of the design (as I am privy to the designs as well).

As any True Man of Irish Descent, turbulence of thought can be eased with drink. But only for so long. I fear insurrection.

How comforting is the embrace of Maiden Victory!

I wish I could describe the ardor of her bosom as I shake my face violently into it. Pillowy is an apt descriptor. And it is this pillowy sensation that tells me that the Bengali Tygers are a force with which to be reckont. Few considert the prospect of success against the Metallurgists of Pittsburgh or the Recidivist Murderers of Baltimore. But slain they both were by our efforts!

Oh, We did feast on pillows those nights.

Still: all is not sunshine and heaving Victory bosoms in Cincinnatus. The townsfolk do not fill the galleries to their capacity! I do not think it is the work of the vainglory to suppose that a team that has achieved as ours has would be a spectacle to behold. The traveling show of oddities and wonderments must be stationed nearby. Personally, such things do not capture my attention for long, but then I am not a native-born Cincinnatan.

What is more, the thriving play of Good Sir Palmer has compelled my haymakers to reside in mothballs. I need not tell you that is not the natural state for haymakers. They ache for satisfaction, but I cannot grant them indulgence. Each night at rest, dreams show me targets for the haymakers, but the mighty arms are manacled to the wall. For this, I sometimes fear sleep. Sensing my anxiety for activity, ownership bade me into the streets to gather the townsfolk into his makeshift “jungle” dwelling. Perhaps if they espied my keen sense of excitement and bulging musculature, the women would be brought to a point of hysterical arousal and would force their male associates to escort them to the “jungle”.

I askt the ownership whether I would be furnisht a mode of transport to move about the townsfolk. Dirty though it may be, Cincinnatus is a sizeable place. Yes, he exclaimed, you shall ride shank’s pony.

Such flippancy.

So my endeavor begins. Venture I must about Cincinnatus displaying the bulges that invite arousal in the muliebrities. First, there is the arm bulge. Observe its distinct slope and veiny articulation. This is usually enough to excite most maidens. When the arm bulges prove insufficient, the pectoral bounce. See the torso bulges bound and be astoundt. A snake charmer taught me this tactic in a foreign land and it has failt on only three occasions. It was on those three when I was forced to employ a special, secretive nether bulge.

Polite discourse does not allow me to speak of this one.