Dear Vegas, STOP giving this man free money with such easy betting lines. Can’t you see he’s killing you?

Thank you! You shouldn’t have! IT’S LIKE VEGAS IS HANDING ME FREE MONEY! Did you honestly think those picks would be wrong? Stop. JUST STOP. Only a Pats fan has seen enough up-and-down quarterbacking to make these kind of ironclad picks.

Fun with Peter King coming later today.

Come, gather ’round, ye scalawags. The seas be quiet, the air is still, and it’s past time that Old Bill filled your head wi’ t’ truth of this fine ship, t’ privateer Grantland.

Yarrr, Old Bill were not always t’ captain o’ t’ swiftest ship on t’ seven seas. True, they call me t’ Dread Pirate Simmons now, but in me younger years, I were no more ‘n Barnacle Bill, a lowly barhand in t’ Bay Colony, scribblin’ out me thoughts and tossin’ them into t’ briny morass. But aye, those bottled messages traveled far and wide, they did. The voice of Barnacle Bill, the stories of me voyages, me misadventures wi’ Blackjacko and First Mate Sal, gained me entry into t’ fearsome Espanish arrrrrmada.

I were little more’n a deckhand back then, but me work ethic and tireless production gained me followers, aye. Sailors and surfers alike appreciate that I’m lowborn, like them. Me father were a simple gold prospector:

Aye, look at me. A tadpole I were back then, smooth-faced and two-eyed. ‘Twas afore I took a broken bottle t’ me porthole whilst celebratin’ t’ victory of t’ Red Stockings, back in aught-four. Worth it, says I.

Where were I? Aye, me rise troo t’ ranks.

I spake t’ the common hand, I did. For I knew e’ery young landlubber enjoys T’ Karrrrrate Kid, and even t’ lowest bilge rat knows t’ career of Ryan Reynolds, t’is not SEAWORTHY! His pictures be sinkin’ ships all. Yarrr, denied by none!

Wi’ wisdom an’ insights like that, I soon helmed t’ most fearsome corsair in the Espanish arrrrmada, stocked full from bow t’ stern wi’ t’ most bloodthirsty an’ loyal pyrates ye’d never survive meetin’. Arrr, me fame and notoriety struck fear in t’ empire, it did. Tired o’ fightin’ an’ pillagin’ alongside slow-witted landlubbers like DJ Gallows, I brokered a separation o’ sorts from Espain. Oh, sure, t’ queen gets her cut o’ t’ Grantland‘s gold, but this here be Simmons’s ship.

Me ship, me hand-picked crew o’ swaggerin’ pyrates o’ prose. Klosterman, t’ Viking Pussy. He’ll kill yer brain wi’ his trickery, fashionin’ stupid arguments about meanin’less shite. T’ mountainous Wright Thompson. He’ll drink ya under t’ table an’ stick ya wi’ t’ bill. An’ we got a diverse crew o’ young’uns we stole out t’ scuppers o’ jollyboats: t’ wench Baker, a well-spake Negro, an’ a jolly giant from t’ Northlands named Jonah. Out from t’ belly o’ t’ whale he came, says I.

Wi’ this fine seasoned crew, Old Bill barely needs t’ touch t’ rudder o’ Grantland, seein’ t’ way she steers herself. Most hours, I rest easy in me stateroom, workin’ — if ye call it that — on what I pray’ll be a 10,000 word retellin’ o’ t’ finest tale e’er put to screen:

Old salts tell the tale of an accursed lad. When the moon grows full, the wretch assumed the form and manner of the dreaded fenris–surfing the streets atop his father’s hardware store van, as dolphins play in the wake of a ship.

Yarrr, a fine start that is.

When we last left The People’s Starf-cker, Bill Simmons, he was patiently explaining to you, the little people, why Ryan Reynolds is NOT a movie star, despite Ryan Reynolds’ propensity for starring in, you know movies. Terrible movies, but movies nonetheless. But don’t worry. It didn’t turn into an “I hate Ryan Reynolds” rant. Ryan’s on Jimmy’s show a lot, and Bill would hate to upend that relationship. One day, Ryan may even be part of the Matthew McConaughey All Stars, and then perhaps he will be back in Bill’s good graces because he saw him on an airplane or something.

So what about this week? Will Bill take the NBA All Star analogy full circle? Is Bill still friends with William Goldman (SPOILER: HE IS!)? Does Bill still know more than you about everything? OH YES. In fact, join Bill as he solves the NBA lockout all on his own, only no one will listen to him, which is tragic because he is a GENIUS AND VICEPOPE OF COMMON SENSE AND GOD WHY DIDN’T YOU JUST LET HIM BE GM OF THE TIMBERWOLVES BECAUSE HE WOULD HAVE HAD A TEEN WOLF NIGHT AT TARGET CENTER EVERY TUESDAY. Read on…

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As you fair readers know, we usually spend the beginning of every week here at KSK doing our whole lofty Fun With Peter King business. But because Peter King is on vacation for the next FOUR weeks (I sure hope he got to do nothing, like he said he did! No one has earned it more!), and because he left any number of informative and competent people to replace him over at SI.com in the interim, we’re gonna have to spend the next few Mondays (or, in this case, Tuesdays) finding new people to anally fisk. So I guess we should probably look around for someone who rivals Peter in terms of gushing about personal access and being a relatively easy target… OOOH! OOH I GOT IT! BILL SIMMONS HAS A FEW THOUGHTS ABOUT RYAN REYNOLDS! That’ll do!

Anyway, when we last left Bill, he was starting up the Billington Post and explaining to you how he hoped the beginning of his new website rivaled the momentousness of that one time Coldplay played on Jimmy Kimmel Live. And who can forget that seminal occasion? It’s like TV history and music history had gloppy wet sex with one another and gave birth to a NEW kind of history! He also started a reality television league, because reality television stars are so stoopid! Look at how dumb they are! Isn’t it funny when I point out how dumb they are? Anyway, while we were away last week, Simmons took it upon himself to explain Hollywood to you, the outsider. Because he’s just like you. He’s the voice of the fan, if the fan was immensely wealthy, lived in Los Angeles, had absolutely NO sense of self-deprecation, and was a complete prick. Read on…

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We get a lot of requests every week to do FJM-style breakdowns of Bill Simmons’ columns. We largely avoid this because A) Peter King is more fun to poke fun at, B) It takes about seven seconds before Simmons trolls pop into the post and tell you what a HATURRRRRR you are, C) We have Tommy from Quinzee around to serve as proxy for all our Simmons mocking.

So usually we resist. But Holy God, did you SEE this column? Sweet buttermilk titties, it’s terrible. It’s awful. It’s the smuggest smug that’s ever smugged. And it deserves your unbridled scorn in full. Let’s begin…

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