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.

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!)

(at a party)

Random Girl: Oh no! No one’s showing up to my party! Omigod, I planned this house party for weeks! I made guacamole, bought all kinds of booze, made sangria, and decorated the house in an island theme. I even strung up the chili pepper lights. And no one’s here! I feel so rejected. Where is everyone? I invited 200 people, for God’s sake. Someone’s gotta walk through that door.

(door flies open)

Matt: BRAH!

Nick: BRAH!

Matt: Brah, this party sucks, brah!

Nick: I knah, brah!

Random Girl: Omigod, thank GOD you guys showed up!

Matt: Brah, where’s the vodkah? I need some vodkah, brah!

Nick: And some cranberry juice to go with it, brah!

Random Girl: I have that! I have a handle of Skyy right here. I got it just for you two.

Matt: Nah, brah. Nah, brah. I need Ketel One, brah! (gets text message) Brah! I got a text message! Someone’s texting me, brah!

Nick: Who it is, brah?!

Matt: It’s Angelah, brah! She’s having a fiestah, brah! LET’S GO GET MOJITAHS, BRAH!

Nick: Brah, that’s a fucking plan, brah!

Matt: BRAH!

Nick: BRAH!

Random Girl: No, wait! You can’t leave! You just got here. Please. I’ll do anything to get you to stay.

Matt: Really, brah?

Nick: For shizzle, brah?

Random Girl: ANYTHING.

Matt: Brah, she’s good to gah, brah!

Nick: I nah, brah! She’s not wearing a brah, brah!

Matt: Brah, who gets to hook up with her first, brah?

Nick: Brah, brah. Gotta flip a coin, brah!

Matt: Brah, I don’t wanna be in her vaginah after you’ve been her vaginah, brah! That would make me gay, brah!

Nick: She needs a friend, brah!

Matt: Yeah, brah. You need to find a friend.

Random Girl: My friend Leona’s on her way over?

Matt: Is she hawt, brah? Because I only hook it with hot chicks, brah.

Random Girl: She’s pretty.

Matt: (outraged) Pretty? BRAAAHHH!!!

Nick: Nah nah, brah!

Random Girl: Wait, wait! I have another friend, Gina. She’s smoking hot.

Matt: Whatevah, brah. She battah show up, brah. (gets text message) Brah, I got another text message, brah!

Nick: BRAH!

Matt: Let’s wait for this Ginah while we figure out a plan, brah. This music sucks, brah!

Random Girl: What music do you like?

Matt: GAVIN DEGRAH, BRAH!

Nick: YEAH, WE WANT DEGRAH, BRAH!

Matt: Or Jason Mraz, brah. Mraz and I are brahs, brah.

Nick: But not as good a brah as me, right brah?

Matt: No way, brah! You’re my best brah, brah!

Random Girl: Okay, I’ll change the music.

Matt: And order some food, brah! And get an ice luge in here, brah! I want some Fiah watah, brah! And get some ATV’s in here, brah!

Random Girl: Okay, I’ll order it all now (orders it all). Hey, where are you guys going? I just threw down $5,000 for that stuff you wanted.

Matt: Gotta gah, brah!

Nick: Yeah, brah! We’re gonnah go to Vegas and hit a casinah, brah! C’mon brah, let’s hop in my Carerrah, brah!

Random Girl: I can’t believe this! You two are just a couple flaky, vacuous douchebags!

Matt: Konichiwah, brah!

Random Girl: This is the worst night of my life.

Nick: BRAH!

Matt: BRAH!

This is Casie. Casie was your girlfriend for 18 months. Despite her flawlessly toned body and affinity for making love on top of dryers, Casie put you through absolute Hell on earth. Seriously, dude. She was certifiably insane. She told you she went to Dartmouth, when in fact she attended New England College. And when you checked the Dartmouth directory and couldn’t find her name, she got mad at you for “spying on her”. Then she kicked you in the chest.

She claimed to have been best friends with Nicole Eggert, but you couldn’t verify it. She told you she worked at Christie’s Auction House, but building security had no record of her ever being an employee. One time, you stepped on her foot by accident in the middle of a crosswalk, causing her to argue with you for ten minutes WITHOUT FINISHING CROSSING THE STREET. She had an invisible cat named “Ollie”. Sometimes she talked in a little kiddie voice. You had no clue why.

She called you fat. She broke down in tears once because you got a haircut she didn’t care for. She was also an anti-Semite. One time she met one of your buddies, then after he left the room, she asked in exasperation, “God, are ALL your friends Jewish?” She loved talking about how much richer her ex-boyfriend was compared to you. She demanded you get a job in finance. She booked restaurant reservations at four-star restaurants you couldn’t possibly afford, then made you take her anyway.

One night, she woke you up at 3AM to tell you how much she hated your family. That was the last straw. You got out of bed, put on your clothes, and started to leave the apartment. She grabbed your arm and tried to restrain you from leaving. You shook her off, running down the stairs to catch a cab. And on that cab ride home, you exhaled. You were free. You knew this was it. No amount of make-up sex would draw you back this time. You knew you would never see her again, and you didn’t. It was the best you felt in ages.

Somewhere, deep in the back of your mind, you wonder if she was ever named Casie to begin with.

As you know, MTV doesn’t play videos anymore. They air shows like “The Hills,” which is half an hour long and has three lines of dialogue. Bill Simmons thinks it’s comic genius. That fact that Music Television is now 100% music-free, combined with the slow death of the music industry due to file-sharing, has all but ended the existence of music videos as an art form. You may still get the occasional big-name artist dumb enough to produce a $500,000 music video that comes out of his own future royalties (read the contract, Kanye), but those are few and far in between.

The Golden Age Of The Video has all but passed us by. And that makes me said, because music videos have long been an excellent source of hearty spank bank material for yours truly. That Big Boi sure knows his way around a big phat azz. A true humanitarian, for sure.

Videos used to be safe haven for chicks who were too untalented to be real actresses but hot enough to deserve camera time of some sort. We have put legions of smoking hot, semi-skanky women out of work. They only work they get now is the occasional Coors Light poster. What’s a Hawaiian Tropic girl to do? It’s not right.

I have two criteria for any music video to be successful. I think you know what they are. That’s right, baby: HOT CHICKS AND HOT LICKS. Which is why it’s odd that my favorite video of all time features neither, and comes from a group that, under usual circumstances, I can’t fucking stand.

Now that’s high art. You can’t go wrong with Nathan Wind as Cochese.

Anyway, your turn. We’re making MTV an all-video channel again and you’re picking the videos that deserve to be in the rotation. THE RULES: Pick one video at a time. Once you pick, YOU MUST WAIT UNTIL TEN MORE VIDEOS HAVE BEEN CHOSEN TO SELECT AGAIN. And try and provide a link to your favorites if you can, so we can all share in the goodness.

Also, once one video from any artist has been selected, that artist is off the board. That makes your choices a little dicier. Which video from Video Vanguard award winner Tom Petty will you choose? Will it be “Mary Jane’s Last Dance,” or will it be nothing? I bet I can guess.

Chris Matthews: Wow, what an amazing day. We’ve got TWO enormous primaries going on. Indiana and North Carolina. Lots of big, big delegates up for grabs. The impact of what happens today is gonna reverberate ALL across the country. You know… this is amazing! This is REALLY amazing! Ya gotta love it! Howard Fineman of Newsweek joins us now. Hey Howard…

Howard Fineman: Yes?

Chris: Isn’t this election just like a great FOOTBALL GAME? I mean, like a great knockdown, drag-out football game, where people are hitting each other really hard and really going at it? Don’t you think it’s just like a football game?

Howard: Not really, no.

Chris: I think it’s just like a football game, I really do. It reminds me of, you know, going to the stadium and seeing two teams just BATTLE back and forth. Only now we’re in OVERTIME! Isn’t it just like an OVER TIME FOOTBALL GAME?

Howard: Again, no. Football is an athletic contest played on a field whose outcome is determined by some combination of physical skill and good luck. This is a presidential primary election, whose outcome hinges on grass roots organization and effective if sometimes duplicitous PR and ad campaigns. It’s, you know, totally different.

Chris: Yeah, but can’t you just see Obama as the cocky young quarterback, who isn’t favored to win, but finds himself with a giant lead at the half? Only now he’s just trying to hang onto that lead, while the original favorite storms back and makes him sweat a little? Huh? I think he’s just like that. Don’t you think he’s like a football UNDERDOG here? A football underdog who kinda becomes the favorite, only to slip a little and therefore regain his underdog status? Isn’t he kinda like a slightly favored underdog?

Howard: What?

Chris: And can’t you see Hillary Clinton as the savvy veteran coach over on the other sideline? And she’s been through THE WARS! I mean, she’s seen it all! And now this young upstart throws her off at the beginning, so now she has to use all her wiles to get her team back in it? Don’t you think? You know, I think she’s just like Weeb Ewbank!

Howard: I don’t really see the connection.

Chris: I mean, isn’t this just FASCINATING! I think it is absolutely FASCINATING! The twists. The turns. Just a RIVETING five months. Don’t you think?

Howard: No, not really. I think many people found it interesting the first week or so, but would now happily mash their testicles in a garlic press rather than have this god-awful slog carry on one excruciating day longer.

Chris: It IS great, isn’t it? Say, don’t you think Obama supporters are just like Jacksonville Jaguars fans? I mean, they’re new to the whole football-slash-politics thing, BUT THEY LOVE IT! Then reality sets in a bit, and they kind of have to weather the storm. And they say, “Hey wait a second! This isn’t fair!” But then they figure it out it’s just HOW THE GAME IS PLAYED! Don’t you think Barack Obama is just like David Garrard?

Howard: Who?

Chris: Let’s bring on Tim Russert here. Tim, don’t you think this election is just like a great FOOTBALL GAME?

Tim: You said it. A real barnburner, Chris.

Howard: Jesus.

Tim: You know, it reminds me a lot of when my dad, BIG RUSS, and I watched Bills games together. Just one of those real back-and-forth games. You had Jim Kelly, the great, All-pro quarterback. And you had Thurman Thomas, the wonderful running back. Those were real competitions. And that’s what we have here. A REAL competition. With Barack Obama, whose this sort of great, unpolished talent. Very much like Vince Young, the quarterback down in Tennessee.

Chris: I agree. I think he’s just like Vince Young, right down to the gay throwing motion. This REALLY is astounding. I’ve always said politics is just like football, and it’s showing here.

Tim: Actually Chris, you have deviated from that platform on occasion. I have a quote here that YOU gave to MSNBC just two months earlier where you said, quote: “I think this election is just like a GREAT HEAVYWEIGHT BOXING MATCH,” unquote. So you said boxing match back then, and now you’re saying football. How do you reconcile those two positions?

Chris: HA! That’s amazing, Tim! God, you’re just like a GREAT TENNIS PLAYER! Always volleying back and forth with all kinds of moves. It’s amazing! Let’s bring on Senator Clinton here for a moment. Senator Clinton, don’t you think you’re just like BILL BELICHICK? Always scheming, sort of seeking out that winning edge any way you can find it? In fact, don’t you and your husband combine to represent Belichick perfectly, with your knack for evil plotting and your husband’s penchant for hot cougar tail?

Clinton: I don’t really know about that, Chris. All I really know is that we’re gonna need someone who is ready to lead this country, someone with over 35 years of experience. I also know that Jeremiah Wright is the sort of dangerous, untamed black man who could single handedly destroy this nation with his bare hands, and that his Unruly Negro Disease could have been passed on to Barack Obama at any point during his 20 years in the church. And I think white people in rural areas really need to think about that.

Chris: Omigod, Jeremiah Wright! He’s incredible. Don’t you think he’s EXACTLY like Terrell Owens? Always coming by to throw a monkey wrench into the team chemistry?

Clinton: Yes, that’s an excellent analogy.

Tim: And John Edwards kinda looks like a young college basketball coach.

Chris: Let me ask you both. Don’t you think John McCain is just like Tom Coughlin? With the all the pent-up anger and what not?

Howard: Christ.

Wade: Well, that was quite a draft we had for ourselves. I really like this Jones kid. He’s gonna really help open up our offense in new ways. Dag gummit, I’m excited! This is gonna be some fun havin’ all these weapons out on the field! Yessiree, I think we could turn a whole new corner this year.

Well, you know what? I do believe that I am just a touch TOO excited. Oh, dear. Little Wade, stop actin’ up like that! You know we talked about doin’ this sort of thing during daylight hours! Ain’t no good gonna come from it!

Then again, it sure is quiet around here. I couldn’t possibly… could I? I dunno, Wade. That sounds awful dangerous. You were damn near caught red-handed just the other week. NO. Nonononononono.

Maybe.

Okay, yes.

(locks door)

Okay, time to fire up the ol’ computer.

(pulls down pants, logs onto givemepink.com)

Oh, my! Oh wow, that is somethin’. They’re really just all out there, ain’t they? Never ceases to amaze me.

(Firefox quits abruptly for no reason)

Doggone it! This Firefox program keeps quitting for no reason! Dang nammit!

(doorknob rattles)

Uh oh.

Jerry: Say, WHY IS THIS DOOR LOCKED?! Are you in there, Tubby! What are you doing in there?!

Wade: (pulls up pants) Uh… coming, sir!

Jerry: I bet you are!

Wade: Just one minute!

Jerry: What’s going on in there? Are you sitting on the floor surrounded by empty donut boxes again?! OPEN THIS DOOR, FATASS! THIS IS MY DOOR! YOU’RE RUINING MY ENTRANCE!

Wade: Hold on…

(door breaks, flies open)

Jerry: YEEEEEEEEHAAWWWWWW!!!!!! YIP YIP! YIPPPPPEEEEYAW!!!!!! Buenas dias, Senor Pauncho!

Wade: Oh, crud.

Jerry: WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN HERE, you big fat masturbadon?! Jerking your Jimmy Dean on company time, are you?! I got half a mind to show your fat ass the door right now. Though I’m betting your ass has never been shown a door it wasn’t scared to death of going through!

Wade: Sir, nothing inappropriate was happening at all. In fact, the computer is down. I need to call IT.

Jerry: Oh, callin’ for IT, are you? I assume you’re trying to order an INTIRE TURKEY for yourself, eh Jennie-O? Cause if you ain’t jerkin’ somethin’, you’re sure as shit eatin’ somethin’. Lord knows you don’t stop to take a breath in between.

Wade: Nothing. Happened. This dang computer just keeps freezin’.

Jerry: Really, Florence Tubbingale? Well, I would have gotten you a laptop. BUT YOU AIN’T GOT NO LAP, BLOB EVANS! I suppose you won’t mind if I take a look now, will you?

Wade: I thought you said computers were for faggots, sir.

Jerry: And they are! But we live in one big, faggoty world now, my friend. The Double-J ain’t gonna fall behind the times! You better believe I know my way around a PC! Now, let me take a look at this thing. What do I use to steer this thing? There’s no gearshift!

Wade: You move the mouse, sir. But really, you don’t need to…

Jerry: A mouse? You fondle a fucking mouse to work this thing? Well, that is the gayest damn shit I ever heard, Hubba Bubba. What do we got here? “My Pictures” Wow, is that your family?

Wade: Yes. But like I said, the computer’s broken, so we should probably wait…

Jerry: Wow. Who knew they could all fit in the goddamn frame! You folks look like a big bag of Jet Puffed Marshmallows!

Wade: (very nervous) Thank you, sir. But I really do think you should just leave it…

Jerry: What’s this? “My History”?

Wade: NO! No no no, that’s nothing. You could freeze it up again, sir.

Jerry: “Givemepink.com”? I’m assuming that’s some sort of cotton candy lovers site, yes? (logs on)

Wade: SIR!

Jerry: HOOOOOOOOLEEE SHIT!!!!! Good God, I can practically see the roof of that girl’s mouth through her ass! You are one SICK FAT FUCK, chubbers!

Wade: (terrifed) Please, sir. I can explain, sir.

Jerry: And look at this Sandra girl! Holy dogshit! I didn’t even know you could put stuff in THAT hole! Maybe this computer shit ain’t so faggoty after all!

Wade: (terrifed) Please, sir. I’m begging for some discretion here.

Jerry: Oh never mind that shit, Fat Jemima. I don’t care about you gummin’ up yer keyboard with your special sauce. At least you ain’t looking at that chub porn. You can’t tell where one ass ends an the other begins when you look at that shit!

Wade: I was really just trying to open up a spreadsheet.

Jerry: Boy, the only sheet you spread is the one you use for your daily wing picnic out in the courtyard! Quit your groveling. You’ve given me a whole new idea, fatass. You know, we live in an awfully open society these days. What’s to stop anyone from hopping on this computin’ machine and checking out girls like this getting their asses hammered? I ask you: What?

Wade: Uh, nothing?

Jerry: Elementary, my dear Fatson. Nothing at all! We could use this at my new stadium!

Wade: Sir?

Jerry: Didn’t I tell you my boy ROMO was a goddamn star? Didn’t I? HE’S A GODDAMN STAR! Not only is he a star, but he’s a sex symbol! And he calls the shots for America’s sexiest team! I want my new stadium to be the most sensual new sports venue in the world! WHY SHOULD VEGAS HAVE A STRANGLEHOLD ON OPEN PUSSY?!

Wade: I think that’s a bad idea, sir. This is a family venue.

Jerry: Shut up, John Donut. If you can see it online, you should be able to see it at my stadium! Hey, Princeton Boy! Get in here!

Wade: What?

(door flies open)

Garrett: Oh, dear. A fat man with pornographic images at his computing station. Why, there’s something you see every day now, don’t you?

Wade: Oh be quiet, you big jerk.

Garrett: I’m just considering the machinations required for you to be able to manipulate yourself to orgasm. My engineering friends back in Princeton will be quite interested to know how you “pulled it off,” so to speak.

Wade: I hate you.

Jerry: Jason, what you think about having these young gash-spreaders at the opening of my new stadium?

Garrett: Hmm. Bold. Daring. Innovative. I like it, sir.

Wade: You’re just kissing his ass.

Jerry: Adam! Come look at what’s on coach’s computer!

Wade: No.

(door flies open)

Pacman: Them bitches be prudes. Ain’t no fire hose up in there. Pacman ain’t down wid it.

Jerry: Hmm. We need more feedback on this. Everyone! Can you all come in here please!

Wade: NO!

Jerry: Take a look at what Jerk Nowitzki was looking at in here.

Wade: This is the worst day ever.

Jerry: YEEEEHAW!!!! WOO HOO!!! LOOK AT THAT PORN! I’M A GODDAMN GENIUS, FATBAG! WHOOOOOOPEEEEE!!!! I AM GODDAMN CRAZY!!!

Okay, so here’s a video clip (via the wondrous and newly outed Awful Announcing) of Buzz Bissinger completely losing his shit on Will Leitch last night and quoting from one of my columns (Yeeeeahhhh, free publicity!!!).

I hadn’t had a chance to see this clip until today, because I cancelled HBO recently (“Tell Me You Love Me”? More like “Tell Me I’m A Self-Absorbed Jackass”). But I have to say, now that I have seen it, I am fucking OUTRAGED. Not because Bissinger pounces on blogs like I pounce on a box of Crunch ‘n’ Munch. No, I’m pissed because the greasy old fucker GOT MY NAME WRONG.

Let me tell you something, Buzz. IF THAT IS YOUR REAL NAME. I’ve been an uncredentialed blogger and board uncertified dick joke technician for over two whole years now. I take my vocation very, very seriously. This is not some frivolous pursuit. This is MY PASSION, particularly since “Heroes” is still in reruns. I put a lot of blood, sweat and tears into this career. Mostly sweat. And some Hershey’s Syrup. Regardless, I MEAN BUSINESS, you big, slouching assfister. (Seriously, would it kill you to sit up in your seat, buddy?)

My screen name, Big Daddy Drew, is quite possibly the dumbest screen name ever conceived. But I put a lot of sweat equity into this moniker, you heartless bastard. How dare you corrupt my precious brand name by getting it wrong in front of a live television audience? That’s shoddy journalism, and I won’t stand for it. I don’t need to take this kind of crap from a dude who kinda looks like acclaimed character actor John Billingsley.

Perhaps, Bissinger, you weren’t aware that we at KSK happen to have STANDARDS. No, I’m quite sure you breezed right by them. But let me tell you something, you dirty horsefucker: The next time you use my name, YOU DAMN WELL BETTER GET IT RIGHT. And, to help you make sure you get all aspects of KSK terminology correct, I’ve provided you with this very handy and portable study guide. Print it out if you like. You do know how to use a printer, don’t you, Oldie McGeezerhead? Good.

-“Big Daddy Drew” is capitalized. There are no Balls anywhere in the formal title. BDD is an allowable acronym, but only if you write the full name first.

-“Fucktaster” is not hyphenated.

-In fact, no hyphens are used here. That requires extra typing, and I don’t like doing that much work.

-“The Sex Cannon” is two words, always with the definite article preceding it

-Facts of any kind must not be used. Facts are for, like, nerds and shit.

-Bill Simmons EATS a fat dick. Always use the present tense.

-“Christmas Ape” may be shortened to “Xmas Ape”, but only if say something mean about the Washington Post first.

-“Armcock” is one word. No spaces.

-“Buzz fucks horses FARTHER up the ass than any man alive.” Never use further. That fails to connote proper depth.

-The term “Pussybasket” is of Kazakh origin and should be used sparingly.

Oh, and one more thing: THIS IS A COMEDY SITE. If you’d like to read real journalism, with real sources and credentials and shit, by all means do so. I won’t stop you. I read it myself all the time. I wouldn’t have anything to make fun of if I didn’t. Assbag.

If you folks have any other style guidelines to pass on to our new friend, please help him out. I’m sure he’ll assume I wrote them all anyway.

[Apely note: I'll be appearing with trained writers WHO AREN'T AFRAID OF THE FACTS at Varsity Letters in New York tomorrow to discuss the events of my untimely demise from the MSM. Maybe they'll verbally waylay me the way Bissinger did. Maybe if I get "totally fucking hammered" enough, I'll read some Marmalard. Never know.]

I have to apologize to you, the people of the Internet, about my tirade on last evening’s episode of CostasNow. It was completely out of character with who I am as a journalist and as a human being.

I respect writers trying to make a name for themselves online. I really do. I just think a lot of that gets lost in all the crassness and hatred that gets spewed out there. And my concern is that, as this sort of filth becomes more and more prevalent, it will soon be accepted as the norm, and overshadow some of the great work that hard-working journalists, such as me, do.

I don’t want that to happen. I put 40 years of hard work into writing books and articles. I don’t think it’s fair that I be branded part of a “dying medium” when a lot of the writing I see online is just random name-calling and thoughtless invective. Does it make me a relic to fight for what I believe in? Perhaps. But I say, to hell with it. Maybe I’m a relic, but I have principles, dammit. And I’ll fight for relics like myself to the very end.

Still, my actions at last night’s roundtable were out of line. I stooped to the lowest common denominator to defend my craft, which I should not have done. I couldn’t help it. I was angry. I was frustrated. I was trying to make a point.

But, more critically, I hadn’t fucked a horse in over a week.

There’s a stable near my home out in the stick named May’s Riding Stable. As you walk towards the stable, you can see the horse patties littering the road. Some of them are fresh. But many of them have dried out. Deprived of all their moisture, with much of the fecal matter stripped away by the rain, you can see their remains disintegrating, turning back into the chewed up hay it once was. And this chewed up hay soon rejoins the earth, becoming part of the soil and growing new hay for the horses to eat once more. It’s a beautiful cycle of transformation and rebirth. It is an everlasting symbol of renewal.

And it makes me wanna fuck a horse so badly.

Man oh man, do I love to fuck horses. With their long legs and firm, rippling bodies. I could fuck a horse for hours and hours on end. Sometimes, when no one is at the stable, I sneak in the early, early morning. I slip through the electric fence and walk at a brisk trot (yes, I trot!) to the main part of the stable. As I walk, I kick up a lot of the dust surrounding the barn. I find this horsey dust, this shit mist, absolutely intoxicating. It’s so earthy, and profound. God, just thinking about it now makes me want to jam my dongbone right in an Arabian.

Once in the main part of the stable, I find my favorite horse of the pack. Her name is Daisy Blue. She isn’t the biggest horse in the joint, but she’s got a lot of fight! She’s got a sort of milky gray coat, almost like a cup of Earl Grey tea. And when she flares her nostrils, I am at a loss for words. I stare into her eyes, which must be the size of tennis balls. And in her eyes, I see only the purity of existence. There is no fear or anger. Daisy Blue is simply BEING.

That’s when I know she’s ready for the Buzzcock.

Quietly, I grab a bit and bridle and slip it on her. That’s the thing about horses. They don’t mind letting me be in control. I get the extra long reins so I can handle her from behind. Then, I stroke her mane gently, to let her know that I want to know the secret to her uncommon grace. Then I horse-whisper in her ear:

“You ready for a little hot Derby action?”

Quickly, I grab a three-step footstool from the corner and place it behind her. You aren’t supposed to walk behind horses. It’s dangerous, which is why I find it so engorging.

Then, I grab my riding crop, pull my pants down and prepare to MOUNT MY STEED. At first, she bucks a little. But after stroking her majestic horseadonk a few times, she settles back down. Eeeasy, girl! Then, it’s equimounting time. I rip open my flannel shirt and begin to thrust in and out of Daisy Blue, my cries of pleasure rattling the stable walls down to the ground.

Sometimes she poops, but I love a mudder.

After just a few minutes, I’m ready to deliver my “sugarcube” to her waiting maw. And she gobbles it right up. Soon, my seed will come out of her and rejoin the ground, nourishing the plants and wildlife below. It is an ever-going circle that cannot be unbroken, and it is beautiful.

Once finished, I feed her some oats, because she’s such a good girl.

So you see why I was so ill-tempered last night. When I go over a week without that kind of powerful horse-fucking experience, I tend to go a little bonkers. But I still stand by the sentiment of my comments. There needs to be a place in the world for REAL journalism, practiced by men who have been there, in the belly of the beast, doing the hard work, and plowing the occasional mare on the side.

That is all.

Hey! Hey, honey!

(whistles)

Hoo hoo hoo, look at you, honey! You are lookin’ fucking NICE! Jesus, look at those tits. Those are some serious fucking bowling balls. I should just call you Womangini! Those water balloons look like they’re about to fuckin’ burst, sweetie pie! My old lady don’t look like dat! That old crone’s got tits that can play pattycake with her fuckin’ knees! It’s like handling week-old pizza dough!

Gah head, honey. Come on in to the ampitheater.

(blocks entrance)

Just kidding, honey. There’s no way me and my boys are lettin’ you into this draft without seein’ those gascans.

(fans cheer)

Gah head, honey. Show poppa those luscious cupcakes.

(grabs boobs)

Whaddaya mean, no? What are you, some kinda fuckin’ dyke? Everyone’s havin’ a good time here! We started drinking at 5 in the morning just for this! Cut my boys some slack. Give ‘em a little taste of those funbags. Come on! Loosen up! Everyone’s havin’ fun! Why you gotta go ruin that? C’mon, cutie. Hey boys, let’s give her some encouragement, eh?

T-I-T-S TITS TITS TITS!
T-I-T-S TITS TITS TITS!
T-I-T-S TITS TITS TITS!
T-I-T-S TITS TITS TITS!
T-I-T-S TITS TITS TITS!

Huh? Is that fucking great or whaaaat? Come on honey, how’s bout taking a peek at those volcanoes, eh? You know, my brother’s a cop. If you don’t show us those vavooms, I can have him arrest you. For what? For being a fucking buzzkill, that’s what.

Hey, where you goin’? Oh, so you’re like one of these feminist types? Fine. Fuck off. You’re a fucking whore, you know that, honey? No, no, no, see, because me and my friends were nice to you. We welcomed you in here. We even offered to shower you with Michelob. We were gonna invite you to come throw bottle caps at Darren McFadden. But you had to go and be a fucking BITCH! Boo! BOOOOOOO!!!! Boo her, boys!

BOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
BOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
BOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
BOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
BOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

Yeah, that’s it. Walk away! Walk away, fatty! Yeah, that’s right! You’re fucking fat! How you like that, now? All you had to do was show us those donut holes. But you didn’t, so bye bye, chubby. And don’t ever let me see you around Jersey way again. Because JERSEY DOESN’T PUT UP WITH STUCK-UP WHORES, YOU STUCK-UP WHORE.

(throws hot dog)

Hey, look at the tits on that girl over there! Yo Brett, go spit vodka on her chest.