My fellow Americans:

For too long we considered terrorism something that happened to other countries. But the tragic events of September 11, 2001 put this nation on notice that our borders are susceptible to the scourge of those who attempt to undermine our way of life. Today I am serving notice of my own, should the unthinkable ever happen again, you cannot sue the National Football League.

This country has worked diligently over the past several years to construct a shield comprised of strength, planning and intelligence to protect our citizenry. Only time will tell if this shield will prove to be as effective as the fortification I have constructed around the league’s considerable assets. Some have rightfully criticized America’s response to the threat of terrorism as alarmist and wasteful, the NFL’s response cannot be criticized in that manner. Self-serving, avaristic, short-sighted and insensitive– but not alarmist and wasteful.

And while America can never be 100 percent immune from the threat of terrorist attacks, you can sleep peacefully tonight with the knowledge that the NFL is 100 percent immune from any resulting litigation. I do this not as someone seeking glory and recognition, but as someone with a single, driving purpose—to protect the entrenched business and financial interests of the billionaires whose keep me dancing like the marionette I am.

Of course, we all hope and pray that our efforts are sufficient to discourage further acts of violence. But if the dreaded Moslem menace should strike again, we will emerge from the rubble like the phoenix from the ashes, dust ourselves off with heads held high and loudly proclaim, “Thanks to an act of Congress, you cannot seek legal redress for any damages for which we may be responsible!”

Thank you and God bless the National Football League,

Rog

Commissioner Roger Goodell announced this week that NFL teams will be subject to fines when their players are suspended for disciplinary reasons. While Rog was mum on the specifics, KSK has obtained a proposed schedule of fines. Here’s how much your favorite team will have to fork over for each transgression:

DUI (first offense): $25,000

DUI (repeat): $100,000, Zygi, what did you expect when you traded for Jared Allen???

Domestic violence: $75,000

Bitch had it coming: $5

Dog-fighting: Owner’s firstborn grandchild cast into the dreaded Fire-Pits of Indianapolis

Regular ol’ fighting: you owe me one gumball machine

Arson: $50,000

Arson (Comcast HQ): owner gets 15 minutes alone in the closet with Belichick’s MILF o’ the Week

Weapons violation: Spend weekend helping Bill Bidwell pick up aluminum cans (Luby’s Cafeteria isn’t cheap, y’know)

Drugs (possession): $15,000

Drugs (distribution): Must sign a McCown, a Gramatica or a Detmer.

Leading police on an interstate high-speed chase in a stolen Denali even though you’re down to the rims because they shot out your tires after they raided your crack bender at the LaQuinta with three underage Ukraine girls who were smuggled in just for the occasion: Half of whatever the owner is paying Chris Henry

So, Tommy Urbanski is hiding behind his old lady’s skirt, saying I owe him something because of what Pacman Jones’ yahoo friends did. Jesus-jumped-up-Christ-on-a-pogo stick. Look shithead, if you didn’t want to catch a few stray bullets, then your dumb ass shouldn’t have been in Las Vegas during NBA All-Star weekend. Would it be my fault if you decided to walk around Newark in a David Duke tshirt, y’bastard?

As if I didn’t have enough on my plate with Senator Assbag breathing down my neck. If I started shelling out cash to every dumb son-of-a-bitch who was in the wrong place at the wrong time when one of my players decided to violate the terms of their probation, this league would be broke faster than you could say Jack Robinson. Christ, Leonard Little and Ray Lewis alone would have set us back more than the gross national product of Peru.

But never let it be said I am not a merciful man. Solely in the interests of concluding this matter for one and for all, I made a few phone calls and have been able to put together a pretty frickin’ sweet compensation package. Just check out this spread:

• $50 Best Buy gift card
• Box of 19-0 apparel diverted from freighter to Nicaragua
• Obstructed view tickets to the Oakland Raider game of your choice
• 3 days, 2 night stay at the Port Au Prince Holiday Inn (off-season only, please)
• ‘Ironside‘ DVD season two box set (Perry Mason in a frickin’ wheelchair; believe me, you’ll eat that shit up)
• Free popcorn shrimp from Popeye’s (additional purchase required)
• Link to those naked Lindsay Lohan pics (hope your junk still works)

Urbanski, you gimp fuck, if you don’t accept this, your ass ain’t getting so much as an apple and a roadmap from me. You hear that? Kiss my ass, you crippled polack.

And don’t forget that the Rogg is one perceptive son of a gun. I know what you came hear to discover. I can almost hear the question rolling around in your head. Have I ever banged a black chick?

The answer is yes. Yes, I have.

She was an education major during my last year at Wash and Jeff. I like to call it “Wash and Jeff,” because people always ask, “Who’s Jeff?” I don’t think it’s very funny, but I enjoy making others look stupid. It’s a gift, really. Now, where was I? Ah, yes. Her name was Chrissy, and she was amazing. Big boobs, big ass, and yet somehow still skinny as a rail. She defied proportion just as she defied society’s expectations of a black woman in 1980. She always wore these button-down shirts, pleated skirt, and argyle socks. I always hoped that one day I might see one of those massive jugs bust out of that shirt. Jesus, if I had a dime for every time I had jerked off to that thought. Big titties know no season.

She had this cute little afro, usually with a headband, and if you saw her walking your way you’d swear your cock was going to detonate in your pants. She had that “it” thing, and every time I saw her I had to run off and put “it” out of “its” misery.

We had an economics class together in the spring, and I remember one day she came into class crying. I remember going up to her and gently, just gently putting my hand on her back. She turned around and, with tears still streaming down her face, she smiled at me. I thought I was going to fall over. Somehow, I managed to ask her out to dinner that night. She smiled again.

Dinner was a blur. I remember inviting her up to listen to some Earth, Wind & Fire. She came up, and before I could close the door, she was already naked. Then she jammed her hand down my pants, and I started to play with her, too. I think she could tell I was a little nervous. “You doin’ alright, baby?” I nodded; I was nervous. We laid down on the floor.

I didn’t last more than a couple of minutes, but it was great. So great. We kissed, and then I went into the bathroom to wash up. When I came out, she was gone. We had class a couple days later. I couldn’t wait to see her, but she never showed up. I found out that she had dropped the class.

You doin’ alright, baby?

A couple weeks later I found out that she’d had a big fight with her boyfriend the day she was crying. That’s why she was crying when I saw her. I fight the urge to second-guess everything that happened on that night. Our night. What was real, and what was revenge, I just don’t want to tear that apart.

You know, I could close a billion-dollar deal every day for the rest of my life, and I’d still never get the feeling I did when Chrissy came up to my apartment that night. “You doin’ alright, baby?” Sometimes I can still hear those words. Some things just stay with you, I guess. My dick still has a scar from our endeavor that evening. You wanna see it?

Thanks Rog!

Pay attention, dicksmacks, I’m only going over this shit once. You will be in the green room at 10:00 a.m. on the dot wearing a suit and tie. A regular fucking suit. Three damn buttons, no more, no less. And none of the fruity Michael Irvin pinstripe shit– black, navy or gray and a solid tie. Any deviation and I will suspend your ass on the spot. Calvin “Cheech” Johnson, Gaines “Chong” Adams and Amobi “Cypress Hill” Okoye: you three hop-heads need to show up an hour early for your mandatory drug test, pat-down/cavity search and appointment with Colonel Wags, the drug-sniffing police dog. No doobies will be smoked on my watch, fuck-o.

When waiting in the green room for your name to be called, you sit up straight in your chair with your hands folded in your lap. If a television camera focuses on you, smile politely and mime (but not utter) the phase “Hi, Mom.” Not “Hey, ma.” Not “Hello, mother.” Your mom is dead and you wish to acknowledge a different loved one? No fucking way. My mother abandoned me with a family of coyotes when I was 11 weeks old. You ever sucked on a coyote’s tit? I fucking doubt it. You don’t see me, moping over it like some broad.

When I call your name, make a bee-line for the stage, mister. Use the steps on the stage-right (west side). Use the wrong steps and I will suspend your ass on the spot. Do not extend greetings to your teammates, homeboys, girlfriends or college coach. This is the NFL, you want to do your “shout-outs” go on 106 & Park, numbnuts.

Once on stage you walk heel to toe at a sharp clip. I see any ambling, loping, shambling, purposeful strides, trots, or struts, I will suspend your ass on the spot. Keep your eyes affixed at the dais as you approach. Do not wave to, look at, or otherwise acknowledge the live audience.

When you arrive at the dais I will extend my hand, you will shake it with two pumps… no more, no less. Under no circumstances are you to look me directly in the eye. My wife doesn’t have that privilege, so why the fuck would a pissant like you? You will be handed a team hat. Immediately put it on your head. Do not bend the bill or otherwise modify your hat, as they will be collected at the end of the day so that I can return them to Champs Sports. I want to make sure they give me a cash refund and not some in-store credit bullshit.

Do not attempt to initiate any type of conversation with me. If I want to talk to you assholes, I will let you know. If I do speak to you, I will probably mention the indisputable genius of Phil Collins. If you like to keep your balls where they are, you will effusively agree with me, got that? You think Phil Collins is a musical god. Your favorite Phil Collins album is “No Jacket Required.” You think Phil Collins shits strawberry ice cream. You got that straight, you pathetic pricks?

Lastly, the hospitality room will be open to all invitees until 3 p.m., feel free to help yourself to cider, punch and soft drinks, plus I’ve heard that the waffle bar is second to none.

Bon Appétit!

-Rog

Limit two toppings, assholes.

Do you know what ‘Official Sports Drink of the NFL’ means, Brian? It means if you show up at Media Day wearing a faggy hat pimping some bullshit fortified water, I am going to fine your ass six-figures. Capiche, dickhead?

I am through playing around you bastards. David Stern thinks he is some kind of a hardass??? I’ll show him a what a hardass really is. He wants to suspend a referee for the playoffs??? I’ll push a referee down a fucking elevator shaft if they so much as look at me sideways. No more vitaminwater hats, Brian. And if you cross me one more time, I swear on all that is holy, I will make your life a living hell, do you understand me you miserable prick? With me, you do not fuck.

But to make it up to you I want to introduce you to some newly approved official NFL apparel, just for you. Enjoy, cockmunch.

Yours truly,

Rog