The celebrity Super Bowl pick is a time-honored tradition, one we at KSK are more than happy to take part in. For the next two weeks, stars from all over the world will drop in to make their picks. Today, it’s Republican Presidential hopeful Newt Gingrich.

By the end the fourth quarter, the Patriots will have won this game by a score of 37-26. Tom Brady will have thrown four touchdown passes, and Aaron Hernandez will have caught three touchdown receptions. Brady will win the MVP by a decisive margin, just as I shall win by a decisive margin in the Nevada caucuses on February 4th.

Five weeks from now, I will have overcome last night’s loss in Florida, won a majority of states on Super Tuesday, and cemented my place as the GOP party nominee. I WILL be the nominee. In November, I will defeat Barack Obama by a margin of 60 electoral votes and take back control of this country from Socialists and freeloaders. By the end of my first term, we will have created 5 million new jobs, ten percent of them located on the moon. We will have established a permanent base on the moon, and will send out a team of privately funded super buggies to survey the entire surface of the moon and bring back 400 kilotons of moongold, securing this nation’s economic future for the next 700 years. Here is a simulation of that Moon Patrol.

By the end of my first 100 days, we will have learned to control the weather, summoning rain in dry seasons and sunshine in wet seasons. We will be able to grow hydroponic corn inside hotel saunas. We will have also completely weaned black people off of welfare for good, forcing them to either finally get a job or leave the country. My preference, frankly, would be the latter. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with saying that.

We will have assassinated Vladimir Putin and installed in his place a fully functional Yakov Smirnoff android, who will sign favorable deals with us to export Russian oil and underage Russian call girls. By the end of my first term, I will have divorced my current wife, married one of these call girls, given her a position in my Cabinet, fired her over creative differences, and replaced her with a 23-year-old GOP pollster with killer legs and a pretty mouth.

By the end of my second term, we will have invented cold fusion. Now, we’re gonna need a place to store all that free, clean energy. And I will have set up permanent energy stations in formally blighted urban areas vacated by minorities who were too lazy to afford proper health insurance and died as a result. We will have bulldozed many of these corpses out of the way to make room for clean, efficient new ultramalls that will offer people fine food and clothing at reasonable prices.

We will have annexed China. We will have taken over that nation completely and finally gotten them to stop spitting on the sidewalk. We will build an elaborate system of treehouse condos that will be the envy of every other nation. We will have cured death, and found a way to accommodate the resulting spike in population. We will have expanded the United States by 20,000 square miles by building an elaborate network of man-made islands shaped like a palm frond. We will have cured obesity thanks to a special new brand of prescription chewing gum. EVERY American will have an IQ over 150. People that wish to replace their defective limbs with robot parts will be able to. We will have developed a special DEATH RAY that can take out alien spacecraft from 22 lightyears away, more than enough time to fend off the coming Xerophians. We will have fully irrigated the Moab desert and learned to clone pineapples. And we will have finally made auto-fellatio a skill all men possess.

All of this WILL happen.

The celebrity Super Bowl pick is a time-honored tradition, one we at KSK are more than happy to take part in. For the next two weeks, stars from all over the world will drop in to make their picks. Today, it’s Drive star, Ryan Gosling.

Mmhmm.

Yeah.

…

Yeah, I got a Super Bowl pick.

It’s a good Super Bowl pick.

I could share it.

[Stares at you fixed for two minutes, blinking at exact 20-second intervals]

I like the Giants.

Big Blue.

31-24.

[Nods slightly for 20 seconds]

That’s the final score as I see it.

Could be different.

Sure, could be.

That’s just my guess.

Why?

…

I got reasons.

[15-minute single take shot of him flipping through a sports magazine]

See, look:

The Giants play good defense.

That’s important.

The Patriots play defense too.

The Giants play it better.

I think so, at least.

Uh-huh.

[Lights cigarette and smokes it while not breaking eye contact for five minutes]

The Patriots have the better offense.

The Giants have a good offense.

It just ain’t as good as the Patriots’.

Mmhmm.

I guess I make it sound about even.

No, sir. I don’t see it that way.

Remember, defense wins championships.

I don’t know if that’s true.

That’s just what they say.

…

But it’s comforting to believe.

People need things to believe in, sometimes.

Sure.

It helps when you’re scared or overwhelmed.

Who doesn’t get that way?

I do.

Don’t you?

Part of being human.

[Stifles cough]

Those teams are scared.

They don’t wanna admit it.

They’ve played this game before.

They’re still scared.

All that pressure.

It’d get to anyone.

You ever felt pressure like that?

Did it get to you?

I’m the best at what I do.

It still got to me.

…

Hey girl.

The celebrity Super Bowl pick is a time-honored tradition, one we at KSK are more than happy to take part in. For the next two weeks, stars from all over the world will drop in to make their picks. Today, it’s hard-bitten crime novelist James Ellroy.

Eli.

The car idled.

He puzzled over the permutations of his name and which larger words the letters could fit into, neatly and with meaning:

E-L-I-T-E
B-E-L-I-E-V-E
C-E-L-E-B-R-I-T-Y
E-L N-I-N-O

No dice: he dismissed the exercise as foolish and detrimental. He hated his indulgence. He hated that so many others had no problem doing the same.

Eli forced his mind toward Dick Contino, Italian crooner who purveyed the fatalism that was his own. In his mind, Contino croons the wah-wah ballad “Angel Act” achingly, full of baritone tremolos – quintessentially the pussy-whipped loser in lust with the noir goddess who’s out to trash his life.

E-L-I-M-I-N-A-T-E-D

No time: there’s the door.

Tom and Bill crashed out of Rainbow Gardens, three ladies in tow. Two slinky gamine types trailing Tom with high-pitched giggling. A sloppy mother figure barely able to prop herself on Bill. Her exposed breast cupped in his hand with the insouciance of a child being guided across a street. Eli eyed the party closely. It was a scene he had seen played out on a near nightly basis with as many permutations as there were with his name.

L-E-I-S-U-R-E

Tom and Bill, nut-cutting bigwigs with a penchant for pad prowling and and big boy narco scores. Kings of ’50s Los Angeles and livers of the dream. Ladies provided the filler around their tandem. In gestalt, there formed meaning.

Tom Brady: leading man looks with leading man talent. It worked for him and he worked it with playboy ease and bon vivant bravado. Tom possessed dark traits that the zeitgeist was happy to conceal. Eli half-expected flash bulbs popping around him even at this hour.

Bill Belichick: power broker who had little need to conceal anything. He did anyway. Bill was a Svengali to starlets but a compatriot to Tom. Bill fed Tom innocent woman and beaucoup drugs. Tom didn’t need Bill’s help to score either of those. He took them just the same. More important was that being with Bill meant he didn’t have to hide anything.

Eli wanted to brace them. He always did. It gave him no satisfaction that he finally made pissant charges stick on Tom and Bill years back. Those in the department predisposed to leeriness of Eli’s abilities laughed it off as dumb luck at best and a waste of time at worst. They were probably right. It was only a minor setback to the duo anyway. Here they are in this shit-ass place yukking it up and fucking around like nothing ever happened.

Tom spotted him. It didn’t matter. This wasn’t a mission to surveil. Tom shot him the mega-watt grin. Eli reciprocated for the fuck of it. Here’s lookin’ at ya. Years of being resented and mocked for his glory boy family pedigree by coworkers and quarry alike made Eli keenly aware of his lack of intimidation. He rolled with it.

Eli wanted to know if he was getting to them. He wasn’t.

Good. They suspected nothing. They rode off.

Something else tweaked him: AMBUSH. Eli yanked from the car. They slammed him. He flailed. He got clotheslined, he got rabbit-punched, he got tape slapped on his mouth. He was full-fledged fucked.

His last thoughts were of mom. She would have counseled against being so bold.

Three shots. Eli’s stare lingered on the pavement. Still here. He made himself roll over. It registered immediately: His swinging dick spic informer Cruz had tailed him. Bailed him out. He must have expected he would have had to. Cruz looked pissed.

“Get up.”

The tape stifled Eli’s annoyed sigh.

“Get up.”

He did. Olivia would be waiting later with soup.

The celebrity Super Bowl pick is a time-honored tradition, one we at KSK are incredibly excited to be a part of, as we have in the past. For the next two weeks, stars from the world of entertainment, politics, and more will drop by to make their picks for the big game in Dallas! Up next, it’s rapper Kanye West.

A lot of people come on here and they give you predictions and I feel like, what is there behind them, y’know? It’s like pop culture wants to force feed a dumbed down perspective to America. I don’t know why they do that. It’s like they think the audience is stupid. I know they’re not stupid. Picks is art, man, picks is art.

These are two teams at the highest level of their artistry. One of the problems I see with sports today is that fans really only seem to enjoy them at a base level. What the Steelers and Packers are is storytellers of sport. I can respect that because I lyrically try to accomplish the same things in my music. I can see that in their formations. The visual references they use is, like, crazy to me. Sometimes I see the Packers come out with six DBs and it’s like Luis Bunuel and Fellini is teaming up to call the plays. And I’m from Chicago, man. That’s a place where you’re not even supposed to be liking the Packers, you get me? It’s in your blood. I was at that place at one point. I was a hater. I can admit that. But I remember watching one of their games earlier this year and I was… I was awestruck. I’m thinking, “these cats brought it to another level, man.” You gotta mentally transcend the limits of your fate sometimes. My fate said to me that you can’t like this team, but the power of the respect in my mind elevated above that. And now I have respect in my mind and my heart for the Packers.

The Steelers. Yeah. Oh man, the Steelers got this, like, visceral virtuosity vibe. If you’re someone like me, who lives through his art, you know how to spot that right away. But I’ve seen them play a few times and I came away from it kind of confused. I couldn’t pin down where they were going with their style. It was scattershot and deliberate at once. Then one day I was walking through the MOMA and came across one of my favorite paintings, “The Charnel House” by Pablo Picasso.

I literally sat there looking at for an entire afternoon. Transfixed. But by the time I left, I understood all the mixed feeling I had about the Steelers. Their whole aesthetic makes perfect sense to me now. The shifting of the linebackers. The five-wide formations on 3rd and 1. All of it.

So if I’m gonna do it for the Super Bowl, I gotta go for the gusto. I can’t be bringing the tired wack shit. I knew I had to make the signature work that would define the event. And I did it. Now I can share it with the world.

[Repeating succession of piano notes]

I think I fell in love at the Super Bowl

Tune in, grab some chips

Tune in, grab some samples

I come in, bitches grab they ankles

She like my credenza game

She like my Clemenza game

You know me

I like to entertain

Highest ratings ever, biggest share

If that’s what the news say

You know I was there

Not at halftime, not in pregame

They wanted Black Eye Peas

They want it fucking lame

Don’t bother me though

I’m rocking pea coats

I’m clocking C-notes

Doing fancy shit

I’m docking steam boats

[Overly dramatic interlude]

I think I fell in love at the Super Bowl

And died in the luxury box

Concussed head on the carpet

Caught a view of Favre’s crocs

[Pause]

The Steelers is gonna win the Super Bowl!!!!

[Throws hands in air, struts off stage to wild applause]

The celebrity Super Bowl pick is a time-honored tradition, one we at KSK are incredibly excited to be a part of, as we have in the past. For the next two weeks, stars from the world of entertainment, politics, and more will drop by to make their picks for the big game in Dallas! Up next, it’s comedian Louis C.K.

I don’t know whose brilliant idea it was to have me pick the outcome of the Super Bowl, but you should probably be fucking fired from whatever it is you do.

Look at this. Look at this gut overlap here. This sorry, flabby, flaccid excuse for manhood. Does this look like the physique of a person who has any insight whatsoever into professional sports? Into athletics AT THE HIGHEST LEVEL OF HUMAN POSSIBILITY. We’re talking about immensely talented, tirelessly worked gladiators of sport. And it’s up to fat stupid worthless schlubby assholes like me to comment on what they do. Is there any profession in the world, as a collective, less qualified at their job than people who gab about sports for a living? These fat fucking smug talentless self-satisfied unaccomplished assholes. In a just world, I wouldn’t be called upon to predict anything other than how an evening at home watching my two daughters is going to play out.

“You know, guys, this might not be the conventional wisdom, but I can totally see me sitting on the couch eating my weight in Rold Golds as the girls watch a bootleg copy of Tangled. I’d place the over/under at three times jerking off after I put them to bed. To Tangled, of course.”

I’ve tried to watch football with my daughters a couple times. You’d expect the youngest one to have questions about the rules and what’s going on, but no. Nothing like that. Instead, every time a player hits another one, she stares at me for what I swear is, like, 15 seconds and asks, “Why did that man hit the other man? What did he do?” And this repeats because the only rational answer I can give is “that’s his job, sweetie.” And this invariably leads to, “isn’t hitting wrong?” AWWWWW FUCK! JUST LET ME WATCH THE GAME! STOP STICKING YOUR INNOCENCE IN FRONT OF THE SCREEN!

I mean, how do you explain moral relativism to a kid? So of course she wants to know what other situations in which hitting might be okay. Look, I just want to watch this stupid, pointless fucking game. This game that has no bearing on my life. I want to relax for 30 goddamn minutes, so I give in to my worst impulses. “People who wear helmets,” I tell her. “Anybody who has a helmet on is allowed to hit anyone else wearing a helmet. That’s how hitting is okay.” And I instantly know what I’ve done. There’s no way I’ll ever get this girl to ride a bike because she’s gonna assume some 300-pound behemoth is going to have free rein to destroy her because she’s being forced to wear a helmet on her bike. All because I needed quiet time for 30 fucking minutes. You have to wonder how many terrible traits were ingrained in people just because their parents needed a breather. Probably most. Most fucking problems, I would bet.

So, yeah, I’ll deal with that in five years or so. Who’s even in the Super Bowl this year? The Packers and the Steelers? What kind of retarded method do they use to name football teams? Did they just flip through the dictionary, find random mundane nouns and verbs and add an -ers on the end.

“Let’s see – we could have the Signers. The, uh, the Laundryers. The Spacers. You guys good with the Rafters? Well, I don’t know, it fits on the marquee. Let’s hear a better basic noun, then, douche. Huh? You wanna get stuck with Douchers? ‘Cause that works.”

Seriously, what the fuck a Steeler? Is that even a thing? In what other context have you ever heard that word? No wonder the American steel industry collapsed. We didn’t even have a proper name for the people who worked in it. “You there – you helped create steel, you… steel…er.” And Packer just sounds fucked up. “Let’s hope the euphemisms for anal sex don’t evolve beyond their current state or this team could be in trouble.”

These names are already quaint by today’s standards. What are we going to do 50 years from now when the average American has even less of a concept of what manual labor is? They’ll have to change the names by then. It’ll be the Pittsburgh Online Content Producers vs. The New Inflatable New Orleans Facebook Updates.

Honestly, I have no idea who’s gonna win this game. Does it really fucking matter? Like, at all? In the grand scheme of things, is it really going to improve your stupid, rudderless existence, even if you actually like one of these teams? You know who really wins? Whichever fucking company has the most popular commercial. ‘Cause that’s what the majority of the people watching the game give a shit about anyway at their stupid party where it’s another American holiday masquerading as time to get shitfaced. They’ll forget the winning team by the next day and giggle to themselves in the grocery store that it sure was funny when the man hit himself in the nuts trying to get a bag of Doritos from a pretty lady. That’s my pick – Doritos over those GoDaddy teasing cunts. But don’t hold me to that shit.

The celebrity Super Bowl pick is a time-honored tradition, one we at KSK are incredibly excited to be a part of, as we have in the past. For the next two weeks, stars from the world of entertainment, politics, and more will drop by to make their picks for the big game in Dallas! Up next, it’s an angry man of color trying to check out at your local grocery store.

Excuse me…no, excuse me…hey, why the fuck you keep tappin me on the shoulder, yo? EXCUSE ME. I am just trying to ring up my Golden Grahams and get the fuck outta here. Is that alright? IS THAT ALRIGHT WITH YOU, SIR?

Look, I really don’t care what you want…I really don’t…Whoa whoa whoa, does it LOOK LIKE I wanna give you any damn Super Bowl picks. Not to YOU, motherfucker. I’m just trying to ring up my Golden Grahams here and get on with my motherfuckin day. THAT AIGHT WIT YOU, FOOL?

WHAT YOU SAY FOOL? You can’t believe a BUH-LACK MAN don’t wanna talk football? Maybe I got shit to do. Maybe I wanna live MY OWN LIFE without some randy-assed cracker getting ALL UP IN MY BUSINESS asking me about some damn Super Bowl. STOP TALKING TO ME.

[finishes checking out]

Damn, 87 bucks? All I bought was some oranges…And 20 boxes of Golden Grahams. Hey man, if I give you summa them picks, you think you could spot me?

The celebrity Super Bowl pick is a time-honored tradition, one we at KSK are incredibly excited to be a part of, as we have in the past. For the next two weeks, stars from the world of entertainment, politics, and more will drop by to make their picks for the big game in Dallas! Up next, it’s Abed from “Community.”

This isn’t really me. This is one of the blog writers pretending to be me. I don’t like sports. Sports are on TV and I like TV, but I prefer scripted programs. Even though scripted shows tend to employ standard plots and cliches, they still offer more variety than what happens in sports. One side wins; one side loses. Gatorade is wasted. I find it kind of boring.

Christmas Ape is the guy writing this. He likes the Steelers. He’d prefer for me to pick them. But he also knows the readers jump down his throat anytime a hint of his fandom betrays his writing. So he’ll probably have me pick the Packers. I’m fine with it either way.

For such a supposedly important cultural institution, not a lot of shows dedicate episodes to the Super Bowl. I think that has something to do with the fundamental divide between sports people and drama people. I guess that makes me a drama person. But not a drama person in the sense that I want to participate in acting, which is funny because I’m a character on a TV show. Remember “The Simpsons” did that thing for a while where they showed the episode where Homer bets on the Super Bowl, but each year they changed the name of teams in an attempt to keep it current. Lisa would probably pick the Packers. She would have an issue with Ben Roethlisberger.

Of course, “The Simpsons” is on FOX. So is the Super Bowl this year. There’s very little chance NBC would allow my character to reference a show on a rival network talking about the Super Bowl during a year when they don’t have broadcast rights. Christmas Ape isn’t doing a very good job keeping this believable.

Personally, I think I was a weird choice to do this. I’m part of an ensemble cast. I’m not a strong enough personality to carry a story by myself. That’s why you’ll never see an Abed spin-off. It if it ever did happen, it’d just be a Palestinian version of “Outsourced.” Which is to say, a white guy leading a terrorist cell. Might not go over so well.

As for the pick, I’ll go with the Packers, because they’re the “good” team. You don’t really see me side with villains. That’s the team Annie and Britta would root for, meaning Troy’s on their side, too. Jeff’s with the Steelers just to be playfully antagonistic. Shirley likes Pittsburgh because she has the hots for their coach. Pierce enjoys the contest because he was born before the teams were formed. And Chang is planning to sabotage our Super Bowl party to get attention.

I wish we had used more claymation in this Super Bowl pick.

/Troy and Abed spend a minute acting out a bit as Joe Buck and Troy Aikman

The celebrity Super Bowl pick is a time-honored tradition, one we at KSK are incredibly excited to be a part of, as we have in the past. For the next two weeks, stars from the world of entertainment, politics, and more will drop by to make their picks for the big game in Dallas! Up first, it’s San Diego Chargers quarterback Philip Rivers.

Ha.

Hahaha.

Bahahahahaha!

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

AAAAAAAAAAAAHAHA

King Laserface is a great many things. Best field general ever. Watchword for bravery. Spiritual leader of the abstinence movement. Master of the Float. Conqueror of the Fetushead. Unattainable standard of achievement for those with false hope. Living example of humility. But I am also a devout man.

There are times when even those as incredibly blessed as I turn to the heavens and question why it is I am forced to bear the cross of scrot-throat Norval as a millstone albatross keeping me from the many championships that are my destiny.

WHAT? HUH? WHAT? FUCK YOU, NORV. YOUR CONTINUED EMPLOYMENT STANDS IN DEFIANCE OF GOD’S WILL!

But then God sent a personal message to Laserface on Sunday by having both Cutlerfucker and LaToeInjury epically ass-cream the bed in their conference championships. Did you see lil’ Cutty mope around like a pregnant preteen who’s forced to trade her newborn for another score of meth. Sorry, I don’t know where that came from. Just trying to imagine life in Santa Claus, Indiana.

By pussing out from his inevitable collapse with an injury that the inferior quarterback who I displaced as starter played with all season, all the world now knows that the path of Rivers is the way to football salvation. Would I have quit on my team with some silly ligament strain? FUCK AND NO! Football fans remember the 2007 AFC Championship Game, when I took the field with a boar spear through my throwing hand and still almost won even though the Patriots cheated and added three more spears before the game ended. IT’S ON THE FUCKING TAPE! WATCH IT!

Sunday also showed how all my previous titles were sabotaged by incompetence. What’s wrong, LaToeInjury? Rex Ryan suck your bunions tender so you couldn’t drop one single sorry-ass yard into the end zone? YOUR DEVIANT SEXUAL LIFESTYLE WAS YOUR UNDOING! GOD BRINGS A MIGHTY SMITING UPON THE CROMARTIE LEGION OF BASTARDS AND THE FAT MAN’S THIRST FOR FOOT FUCKING!

History will recall this as a turning point when the retard – possibly Mooslim – holdouts finally embraced Laserface as their true champion and conduit to a higher power. Men will become men again, and Cutlerfuckers will be stoned for their pussyanimousness. Let it be so!

Oh yeah, this year’s Sucker Bowl. You did the right thing by asking somebodddddaaaayyyyy, Not that anyone cares because I’m not there, but fuck Rapistperver. Everyone knows King Laserface is the true gem of the ’04 quarterback class. No more rings for you, Rapenstein. Not that it matters since I will single-handedly impel my super soldiers to minimum eight consecutive championships beginning next year, until such time that success bores me and the league names me commissioner, whereupon I will eliminate all franchises I dislike, which is most of them.

ONLY THEN WILL THE TRUE AGE OF LASERFACE DAWN ON THE EARTH AND AN AGE OF ABSTINENCE AND FLOATS WILL MARK A GOLDEN AGE OF MAN!

Me-m-me-m-m-me! Me-m-me-m-m-me!
Me-m-me-m-me-ME! Me. Me. Me. Me.
Me-me-me-me. Me-me, me! Me-me.
Me-me-me-me! Me! Me. Me. Me!

Thanks, Beaker! More celebrity picks to come!

The celebrity Super Bowl pick is a time-honored tradition, one we at KSK are incredibly excited to be a part of, as we have in the past. For the next two weeks, stars from the world of entertainment, politics, and more will drop by to make their picks for the big game in Miami! Up next, it’s musician and unofficial ambassador for New Orleans, Harry Connick Jr.:

As many of you know, I call New Orleans home. I’ve been all around this wide world many times and have yet to find a city that compares to her. New Orleans has a captivating charm that is impossible to communicate to those who have never been to our fair city, but instantly identifiable to those who have spent as little as a moment with us. A place steeped in culture and baptized in the arts. It is home to a unique blend of heritages: French, Creole, Cajun and many others—none of whom expect the Saints to get within 20 points of the mighty Indianapolis Colts.

Here in the Crescent City, we keep one foot in our rich past and an eye towards our bright future. The city of Bechet and Armstrong is now the city of Brees and Vilma—a fact that will not change after our calamitous defeat in Miami. Our resolve to rebuild this city is galvanized by the fighting spirit of our brothers on the gridiron. We have sworn to one another that there is no setback, no tragedy, no natural disaster that can extinguish the spirit of New Orleans. This town can truly do anything—except, of course, win the Super Bowl next Sunday.

Whether it’s fine-dining at Galatoire’s or a catfish po’ boy from the back of an old truck in Gentilly, the cuisine in New Orleans is beyond what can be found anywhere else in the world. New Orleanians have a love affair with food. And you can bet your bottom dollar we will all be consoling ourselves with our favorite dishes while we lick our wounds after the Saints are annihilated on Super Sunday.

While they have zero chance of coming anywhere close to winning the game, we will cheer them on nonetheless. Our hometown frère Peyton Manning simply cannot be stopped. His precision, deadly; his arm, a cannon; his victory, preordained. The Colts defense is a fearsome bande de guerre that will smash our brave but out-manned offense into bits. We can but hope that our beloved Saints can acquit themselves with some semblance of honor in the face of certain slaughter.

So go out there Saints and make us proud—and remember when you come home bowed and bloody after your inevitable defeat, this city will embrace you in its welcoming bosom. I invite you all to visit us. Celebrate in the Vieux Carré, take in the splendor of the Garden District. Pick up some Saints NFC Championship t-shirts that will be worn with pride for years to come after we get our asses handed to us in the Super Bowl. Laissez les bons temps rouler!

Colts 63 Saints 10