Zak Keasey is drooling at his computer AS WE SPEAK.
“So Michael, tell me more about how tight those LZR swimsuits get.”
Thanks to reader I’m Your Huckleberry.
As someone with a fully functional frontal lobe, I of course disagree. As did Leitch, who wrote about the article — and McIntyre’s disconnect with reality — yesterday on Deadspin. That prompted this response on The Big Lead:
And then a flurry of emails saying, “[The Deadspin post] is like Puffy laying in the cut setting up Tupac at the studio and now it’s time to bust back!” Sorry folks, I never really played that game. This guy named Matt Ufford attempted it repeatedly, and I just elected not to engage in it.
Oooh, “this guy named Matt Ufford.” That cuts deep. The Big Lead barely knows I exist! Why, he’s far too busy fellating local columnists to know who his peers are! Golly, thanks for turning the other cheek, mister! Otherwise I would have wasted all sorts of precious seconds destroying someone with the verbal acuity of a community college dropout. Or, say, an US Weekly staffer.
Just so we’re clear: I never attempted to “engage” Jason McIntyre in anything. After months of occasional and frustrating dialog over email, I told him precisely why I don’t respect him professionally and asked that he not email me. I’ve also occasionally expressed my opinion — usually via subtle digs, once openly — that I don’t like The Big Lead. So, breaking news: I don’t like a website. It doesn’t mean I’m trying to engage said website’s author in some wasteful war of words. Besides, everything bad about me has already been said: I’m overly sensitive, I’m egomaniacal, I’m condescending, I’m pretentious, I won’t hesitate to lord my military service over people, I peddle smut – really, the list goes on. There aren’t any more original angles to take on how much of an asshole I am. Not that McIntyre would be able to take one, anyway.
But, while we’re on the subject of a hypothetical battle royale, you’ll pardon me if I yawn while I contemplate his pointed barbs. Here’s McIntyre’s sharp-tongued response to a commenter who questioned his typically twisted syntax yesterday:
Didn’t know EB Shrunk read the site. Good to know!
You know, it would be funny if it were an act. After one of McIntyre’s readers sends him this link — Lord knows he doesn’t read any blog posts that aren’t served to him over email — perhaps he can purchase his very own copy of the essential guide for anyone who cares about written communication, co-authored by the foremost American belletrist of the 20th century, E.B. White, and one of his professors, William Strunk. Strunk. With a T. You fucking clod.
Until that happens, McIntyre, keep my name out your mouth, unless it’s to say, “Thank you, Matt Ufford, for having the decency to not reveal my identity while I was collecting paychecks and wasting oxygen at US Weekly.”
Leave me to my nice little bubble of cheap jokes and frivolity, and get back to doing what you do best: counting your page views and sucking media cock.
It was two weeks ago that Buzz Bissinger took on Deadspin’s Will Leitch during an HBO special hosted by Bob Costas, and I’m getting along like any survivor not located at ground zero of the atomic detonation: I avoided the initial blast, but the fallout lingered for a week before the winds finally changed, leaving me irradiated with media bloviation. My symptoms: exhaustion, nausea, headaches.
Everyone had a response, and a response to the response, and the newly MSM-recognized commenters responded to the responses to other responses until the fractal spun into the minutiae of oblivion. Bissinger got blasted by everyone, apologized but stuck to his guns, then performed a round of interviews in the blogosphere to show his non-maniacal asshole side. Leitch responded with typically circumspect Leitchiness, then got blind-sided by Jason Whitlock for his casual laziness toward race, causing more Leitch circumspection before Whitlock participated in a follow-up interview with FanHouse which maybe-but-maybe-not added to the mental gridlock and exhaustion that led to Whitlock’s leave of absence.
Keep in mind that (a) the above recap is only a fraction of the scores of thousands of words spent on this subject across the Internet, and (b) for something that is supposedly a sports story, none of these people are athletes.
Whitlock, before announcing his Waffle House walkabout, closed his FanHouse interview with this:
Blogs are suffering from the same problem as the MSM. We think if we ignore our shortcomings, no one will notice them. Some smart blogger will fill the void and begin the process of holding blogs accountable. There’s an audience for that. There is a good-old-boys network among bloggers that will eventually get shaken up. Lips will get removed from asses at some point. This is America. There’s always someone available to call bulls—.
This prompted some introspective hand-wringing from The Big Lead (”Hmmm, maybe we should critique blogs”), making it the unofficial response to the response to the response to the response to the response to the story not about sports but about writers talking about how to cover sports.
In order to keep this endless trolleyfuck going, I’ve prepared a statement on behalf of Kissing Suzy Kolber. Ready? Ahem…
You people are fucking gay.
The celebrity Super Bowl pick is a time-honored tradition, one we at KSK are super fucking 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 the Pink Taco! Up next, it’s the cast of Project Runway!
Tim Gunn: Sooooo… talk to me people. How we doing? Super Bowl picks?
Christian: Patriots by 13. This pick is too fabulous to be wrong. I’m too fabulous to be wrong.
God that was easy. What’s taking everyone so long?
(/gets beaten to death by people who weren’t homophobic until they saw him)
Gunn: Amazing. Fabulous. Jillian?
Jillian: I don’t know. I just don’t know if I have time to make this pick. I think the score will be tied at ten after the first quarter, then a Patriots touchdown on a Randy Moss catch-and-run give them the lead before both teams turn it over on consecutive possessions, and I know I want the final result to be a Giants win outright, but now I don’t know if I’m going to have the time to finish this insanely detailed prediction. I’m not sure if this is going to work out. Maybe if I can glue some touchdowns on Plaxico? Oh God I hope this works.
Rami: I think Jillian’s pick is really daring. She’s just a really talented prognosicator.
(/eye-fucks Jillian)
Jillian: (/blushes and smiles)
Rami: I tried to make my pick a little more sophisticated. I mean, there’s a history of Super Bowl blowouts when an excellent team faces an outmatched opponent from a weaker conference. Niners-Chargers in XXIX, Redskins-Broncos in XXII, Niners-Broncos in XXIV. So I like the Pats by 30.
(/eye-fucks Jillian more)
Gunn: I like it. Daring.
Elisa: I took a bath in vinegar once. It put me in touch with my soul.
Ricky: I…
(/begins crying)
I didn’t think picking a winner would be… so… hard.
(/wipes tears from face)
(/wears stupid fucking hat)
Sweet P: …Giants by 20?
Gunn: Oh no. Nonononononono. Sweet P. What. Are. You. Thinking?
Sweet P: I thought it’s kind of hip…
Gunn: Hippity-dippity, more like. Make it work!
Sweet P: (/furiously reworks prediction)
(/new prediction still sucks)
Heidi Klum: Then we’ve reached our decision?
Patriots, you have won all of your 18 games so far this season. But your year was marred by a videotaping scandal that was completely unnecessary for a team of your talent. In addition, one of your key defensive players was suspended four games for using human growth hormone, and your fans are insufferable morons. We want you push the limits at Project Runway, but at times you have pushed them too far.
Giants, you’ve come a long way from where you started. The judges are impressed by your perseverance, but we’re not sure you have the raw talent to survive a Super Bowl against a more talented, more experienced team with a far better coach.
(/dramatic pause)
Patriots, you’re in. Giants, you’re out. Auf Wiedersehen!
(/gets masturbated to)
Yes, Seacrest knows the pregame show is starting soon. Fucking FOX. Starting the pregame show 72 hours in advance. That’s a lotta time to fill, people! It’s a good thing Seacrest is here to preside over the festivities in a brisk, vacant manner. When you want it done right, you go with a pro. That’s why they brought in Seacrest for this. Everyone says they can do Seacrests’s job, and THAT is the key to Seacrest’s success. He makes it look far easier than you could possibly imagine.
But Seacrest is not ready to go out there yet.
What, Robin? No, the foundation is all right. A little uneven. Not your finest work. But good enough. And the suit is excellent. The tapered legs and skinny tie really show off how hard Seacrest has been working with his personal krav maga instructor. Look how streamlined this body is. It’s almost an optical illusion.
Can Seacrest get a spritz?
(Assistant comes over and sprays rose water in his face)
Thank you, Fran. Now, about the hair. Obviously, you were right to not go with the faux hawk. Now that Beckham is here, it’s far too domesticated. I know we shifted from the faux hawk to a kind of Deryck Whibley look last year, but I think that was too juvenile. If Seacrest stands for anything, it’s poise and professionalism. Now, where is Seacrest’s juice?
(assistant comes over and brings juice. Seacrest spits it out)
What is this?! There’s no grapefruit in here! Remember: It’s one third guava, one third tangerine, and one third grapefruit. With a clove of garlic. And the orange in here was not organic. Seacrest can taste its Chinaness. Forget it. Just bring Seacrest a bottle of Kona Nigari. Filtered through a cheesecloth. AND CAN SOMEONE PLEASE GIVE SEACREST A PUMICE STONE EXFOLIATION ON HIS HEEL? There’s excess buildup.
Did anyone here see “No Country For Old Men”? Yes? What did you think? Well, to tell the truth, Seacrest wasn’t moved by it. There were things he would have done differently, for certain. Didn’t like the sound design. Thought it telegraphed too much.
Have any of you practiced Taoism? Seacrest is thinking of dabbling.
What? We’re on in five? Well, that’s no good. Seacrest isn’t ready yet. No, it’s not you, darling. You’re fine. But we’ve only got five minutes here, and no one has brought Seacrest his morning cock to suck.
So, where’s the cock? The cock is usually here by 8. So, where is it? Dick Clark didn’t have to wait for HIS cock. So where is Seacrest’s?
(ten naked men are brought in)
Oh, this isn’t a good assortment. Are these cocks local? They look like they were flown in. They hardly smell fresh. They smell like Archway cookies. Where are the cocks from Ojai Seacrest asked for? THOSE are good cocks. These cocks are hardly anything special.
Well then, we’ll just have to wait. Get that large black guy who hosts the pregame show to fill the time. I’m sure he can giggle his way through something and give them the weather. Seacrest isn’t going anywhere until he gets a decent cock to suck.
(ten more naked men are brought in)
Better. But they still lack a certain je ne sais cock. Send them back.
(five more naked men are brought in)
Hmm. Not bad. Well groomed. Not much wrinkling. Nice texture. I suppose these cocks will have to do. Robin? Fran? Could you leave us alone for a moment? Seacrest has to prepare himself.
(they leave)
What do you gentlemen think of canary yellow this year? I hear canary yellow’s gonna be very big.
This is old news, but I’d like to talk for a moment about Larry Craig, that one Senator who was busted in the airport for trying to score a quick layover motorboating. I don’t give a shit about the politics of Craig’s situation. What I care about is the fact that, in order to get laid, all Craig had to do is hop on the Internet, find a good “hot spot”, then walk into a shitter and tap his feet.
Are you fucking shitting me? That is AWESOME.
I wish I were gay.
Seriously, you gay men have it so easy, it makes me sick. I spent 20 long goddamn years trying to score with a girl before at last succeeding. And even then, it wasn’t all that great. (I blame her.)
But you, Dorothy, you can just stroll into a restroom or a local park, click your heels together, and PRESTO! A fresh cock is yours in no time. It’s like goddamn magic. We heterosexual men, we have to wine ladies, and dine ladies, and listen to them talk for hours on end about what a dick their LAST boyfriend was. And then maybe, just maybe, we get a reluctant blowjob. But you, Johnny Cakes, you don’t have to do any of that shit. You want a hot cock tonight? No problemo! You don’t even have to talk to other guy. He just strolls in, ready to bang. For free!
That is such bullshit.
We hetero gents have always dreamed of a day when women are just as horny and unselective about who they bang as we are. There are, of course, some women like that. But those women are sluts, okay? Totally undesirable. We heterosexual men need women who understand just how deep and depraved our libidos are, and are happy to indulge it. But you Just Jacks never have to worry about that. Your women ARE men! They totally get it! They’re into the latex thing! Is that worth suffering through a 100 Stonewalls? Fuck and yes.
So think about how blessed you are, gays of the world. You get more of the sex and none of the effort. You lucky bastards.
Your Meast of the Week is Matt Birk and the Vikings’ o-line.
On Sunday, they opened holes wider than Larry Craig’s bruised asshole, helping the Vikings tally almost 400 yards rushing. An incredible effort by Birk, Steve Hutchinson, Ryan Cook, and Anthony Herrera (but not Bryant McKinnie. He blows). And terribly exciting to behold. But it’s no Cock On Demand, I tell you.
