Michael Jackson. Ed McMahon. Billy Mays. Farrah Fawcett. David Carradine. Steve McNair. Arturo Gatti. Oscar Mayer. A lot of celebrities have passed away recently, some under bizarre circumstances. We didn’t know what to make of all this, so we asked our weekly in-season analyst, God, to come in and help explain why so many stars are dying.

UNTO Almighty Me, we commend the soul of our brother, or sister, or single guy from Kung Fu who liked some freaky ass shit, departed, and we commit his body (or, in Michael Jackson’s case, his body and other assorted synthetic parts) to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, Hart to Hart; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection unto eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ…

Wait, wait. I dunno why the kid always gets credit here.

…in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection unto eternal life, through our Lord, Me, THE FUCKING LORD HIMSELF, BIG POPPA, at whose coming in glorious majesty to judge the world and any number of Hawaiian Tropic swimsuit competitions.

You know, then number one question I get at any funeral is, “Why, God, why?” This question annoys Me. First of all, it’s not very specific. I mean really, do you want me to explain why I set up biological processes as they currently are and how such processes came to a stop in your daddy? I don’t think you do. I think most people are looking to me for answers.

People who do this are fucking retarded. No less than three thousand people at the Jackson funeral looked up at Me and said, “Why?” Why? Really? You need Me to help you deduce why Michael Jackson died, people? The answer is laying right in front of you, morons. Maybe if Cobra Commander there didn’t pump himself with enough drugs to kill a longhorn steer on a daily basis, he might still be around. That’s why he died, shitheads. You really think I somehow claimed him at some unfortunate moment? Christ, you’re lucky he lived that long.

And I saw everyone at the funeral was all like, “Maybe everyone will leave you alone now, Michael.” Pfft. That’s not happening. I know what that freakshow did. I’m not leaving him alone. I’m re-blacking him and I’m gonna cordon him off from the kiddie cloud. Not so heavenly NOW, is it?

Same with everyone else. Wanna know why Billy Mays died? It’s not because I thought it was time. It’s because that guy should have laid of the Orange Juliuses. Then he’d still be around to sell the OrangeGlo. Then there are all these conspiracy theorists who are like, “Oooh, these things always come in threes.” No, they don’t. Trust Me. I have a Star Death chart. They’re much more evenly spaced out than you realize.

Now, I will admit to giving Farrah Fawcett ass cancer. I have my reasons. Let’s just say she was far stingier with Me than she was with Ryan O’Neal. Well, the tables have turned, O’Neal! Oh, Me! Oh, man! Oh, Me! Oh, man!

Suck on THAT.

As for McNair and Gatti, again, the answers are right in front you. Don’t blame all My mysterious ways for the reasons they died. Blame the women! Those bitches are crazy! Just like Farrah! It’s true!

The truth is, I don’t control any of this shit. I just set up the game simulator and watch how it plays out. Far more enjoyable that way. If you’re looking to Me for some sort of divine explanation, you are wrong. In fact, next person to do it gets ass cancer. Believe it.

Oh, and if I were Supreme Court Justice John Paul Stevens, I might be in the market for a sturdy casket right now.

To stave off the specter of boredom or maybe just to sublimate our own latent rapey urges, the Gay Mafia occasionally engages in hour-long sessions of e-mail-based rape joke bandying. Really works out the dark urges. Yesterday, in what began innocently enough as a discussion of which reader has creeped us out the most at various blogger meet-ups then quickly morphed into a whirlwind brainstorm of how rapists would alter popular board games. Because we’re sick deviants like that. And, being so, we enjoy passing our pathology onto you, the reader. Preferably against your will.

**No rapist’s game shelf would be complete without handcuffs, And, of course, the game of Battlerape!

“You sunk my Rapesub!”

And now there’s Electronic Battlerape! With sound effects!

“D-Rectum? It’s a hit!”

“Beware the submarine — long, hard, etc.”

**A rapist sets up a spy cam in the dressing rooms in Mall Madness.

**They always like a good game of Connect Four Toddlers.

**Rapists naturally love Rape-opoly. Sample Chance card:

“You win first prize in a beauty contest. And then are raped.”

**Every time he captures a country in Risk, he rapes you using methods specific to that nation.

**Rapists love Twister. RIGHT FOOT LEFT LABIA

**Rapists claim Parcheesi is Hindi for “forced entry.”

**When playing Trivial Pursuit, a rapist goes right for the pink triangle.

**Only a rapist will call his scrotum the “Popomatic bubble”

**I’ve found that many rapists love a good game of Chutes and More Chutes.

**Candyland is the #1 game played in their windowless vans.

**Rapists are hard at work developing a new version of Mouse Trap, complete with a cage capable of subduing even the lithest tween.

**rapists adore a good game of TABOO. Guess the word without saying these five clue words!

crime
penetration
violation
bruising
rope

**A rapist will always choose rapist as their profession when playing The Game of Life. Then they rape all the pink and blue stick figures. Then the spin wheel.

**A rapist was the first and last champion of “Win Ben Stein’s Skin and Internal Organs.”

**A classic among rapists: Guess Who…Is Sneaking In Your Bedroom At Night

**Kerplunk is the noise it makes when he takes his dick out of your ass.

**They play Sorry! with kids only AFTER raping them

**Yahtzee is what a rapist screams when he rapes an ESPN anchor

**Rapists win every game of Scene It?: Rape Edition

**Rapists write letters to the makers of Operation demanding they supply them with the missing Penis Bone.

**The rapist version of Jeopardy! The Home Game! has nothing to do with the TV show.

**A rapist loves playing Clue, but it’s the same result every time. Col. Mustard, in the ass, with the candlestick.

**The rapist version of Chinese Checkers involves a confused 12-year-old and some anal beads

**Don’t challenge a rapist in Horny Horny Rapists. He always get more balls.

Hello, my children. How joyous this day when it has been revealed that I’ve given you a new presidential messiah. And you fools thought he was a secret Muslim. Nope. God went and got freaky with a black chick and he had Him a second son. Wasn’t the first either. That’s right. Jesus had Aretha Franklin at his inauguration too. So enjoy.

To Warner and Roethlisberger, I am not yet ready to disclose which of you will take home your second Super Bowl title and which I will consign to bitter, Meforsaken defeat. But know this: to whomever I go with, the checklist of thank-yous just got longer. Postgame, you thank, in order: Me, then Jesus, then Obama. I will not have my sons spurned! You fucked up last time Ben, and I gave you an asphalt facial. This time it gets updated to magma.

You know, I initially was going to make it so the Ravens made it to the grandest stage (other than personal one I got up here with all the nekkid dancers) so I could hear Ray Lewis and Kurt battle to namecheck Me the most during pregame, but that Joe Flacco makes it so obvious that he’s going to throw it Derrick Mason that even my divine powers could not stop defensive backs from intercepting his telegraphed passes. I only help those who help themselves. AND BOTHER TO TRIM THEIR ME-DAMNED UNIBROW! CLEANLINESS IS NEXT TO ME-LINESS!

I allowed the Cardinals to win even though their fans are wayward in faith and burn shit into the opposing quarterback’s lawn, because, well, did you really think I was going to give Philadelphia two major sports titles in one human lifetime? Not fucking likely.

Go in peace my children. Actually don’t. Be violent. I need something to entertain me during this pointless week off before the Bowl.

Many people scoff at the idea that God can control the outcome of sporting events, or that He even cares. But those people are wrong. God does control the games, AND He cares a great deal. Today, He explains why He let the outcomes of Round 1 of the NFL playoffs happen as they did.

Before I get to this week’s games, I want to address the issue of Kurt Warner trying to draw Me…

Excuse me, Kurt. Would you mind if I go just right ahead and direct you to the Second Commandment. You know, the one I wrote…

Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above…

See that “heaven above” language right there? That me means Me. I’m from heaven. I built the damn place. YOU DON’T FUCKING DRAW ME, MOTHERFUCKER! I WILL NOW GIVE YOUR FUCKING FAMILY CANCER!

/gives family cancer

These fucking people… they claim to live by Me, and then they go and just doodle Me (badly, I might add), as if it’s nothing. As if they aren’t VIOLATING ONE OF THE MOST FUNDAMENTAL TENETS OF MY HEAVENLY LAW. JESUS FUCKING CHRIST.

I don’t like it when people try to draw Me. They never get it right. They always fuck up the nose. I have a good nose. I don’t have one of those fucked up Owen Wilson noses. Besides, I can take on many various forms. Sometimes I look like a human being. Other times, I like to turn myself into fine mist and then sneak into ladies’ bedrooms when they’re fingering the honeypot. That’s some solid misting, right there.

Other times, I like to take the form of a cloud. Why? NONE OF YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS, THAT‘S WHY. I also enjoy taking the form of a very bright white light. That’s a classic one. And at night? That’s wolfie time.

Didn’t think God was a lycanthrope, did you? Well, I am. Sometimes, I like to turn into a wolf. Then I run into the forest, find a six-point buck, and then rip its throat right out. BAM! NATURAL SELECTION THERE, BUCKY! MY SELECTION! YOU GOT SERVED.

You know who it’s fun to turn into from time to time? Dylan McDermott. You should see the looks I get on the street when I turn into that guy. I bet he’s just drowning in pussy. Good stuff.

Anyway, it bears repeating, DON’T DRAW ME. And since you, Kurt Warner, have crossed Me once more, I assure you Deangelo Williams and the Panthers will tear you a new Godhole come Saturday night. Fuckhead. Enjoy the loss. And the cancer.

Last week, I allowed the Ravens to beat the Dolphins because the city of Miami is a den of sin and sodomy. Sometimes I turn on the Godscope and point it a Miami, and I swear I have no clue what I’m looking at. Are those three Cuban men fucking in that alleyway? Four? Why is there a Chihuahua there? Why are they smearing bananas on each other? Yuck. Not cool.

I also allowed the Chargers to beat the Colts. A lot of people might think I like Tony Dungy, since he worships Me and all. Well, to be frank, I think he’s stealing a bit of My thunder. I get it, people. Tony Dungy is a swell guy. But you don’t praise him. You praise ME. STOP STEALING MY THUNDER, TONY DUNGY! ONLY I KNOW HOW TO MAKE IT!

As for the Vikings… FUCK THEM. THEY’LL NEVER WIN A TITLE IN A MILLION YEARS AS LONG AS A SHADY JEW OWNS THEM! I DECLARE IT SO!

Tomorrow marks the fifth anniversary of the Namath-Kolber incident, otherwise known as the namesake for this fine Interblog dickjokeacoppia we run here. Let us all get in the Matron Saint’s Day spirit by drunkenly hitting on people in horrendously inappropriate and possibly scandalous ways, which should be a huge departure from how readers of this site typically act.

Despite being described by some as “thick in the britches,” the Matron Saint is seldom given her due as an objet du sexy. Blasphemy, if you ask us. Therefore, in observation of this most holy day on the KSK calendar, we offer some sexified images of other holy women in her honor.

Enjoy the weekend and a most bibulous Matron Saint’s Day.

Many people scoff at the idea that God can control the outcome of sporting events, or that He even cares. But those people are wrong. God does control the games, AND He cares a great deal. Today, He explains why He let the outcomes of Week 8 in the NFL happen as they did.

Ladies and gentlemen of the internet, I regret to inform you that God could not be with us this week. Actually that’s not correct. Of course He could be with us, I mean, He is God after all. I guess it would be more accurate to say God had better shit to do this week. Mostly he’s just been masturbating. Yep, that’s right, God masturbates. He masturbates just like you do, only he’s way better at it than you could ever imagine. You know how God’s voice makes your head explode? Well if you saw God stroking it your balls would melt and run down your leg forming a puddle at your feet. But I digress.

Joining us in His stead this week is none other than His Son of Sons, Jesus “Hominum Salvator” Christ!

Hello my children. It is I, Jesus of Nazareth here to explain the mysteries of the eighth week of this NFL season, and lo, what a week it was.

-While I, like my father, am supposed to love all my children, I, like everyone else, finds it nearly impossible to love the Patriots. I once asked Bill Belichick, “What shall it profit a man if he gains the whole world but loses his soul?” He responded by pulling out a copy of his contract. Apparently by finishing last season with a perfect 16-0 record he hit a contract escalator that includes the use of three virginal souls to do with as he pleases. They got back to their winning ways this week, because sometimes evil wins a round over good. Especially when good’s best player is held out with a tender groin.

-The lowly Bengals of Cincinnati were throttled by the Texans of Houston because they must be punished for hiding the true light. You see, I’m no Bengal fan, and I too grow tired of Chad Johnson’s constant yapping, but when he’s playing well he’s more entertaining than Mary Magdalene after a jug of wine. You had a great thing going there Marvin Lewis, but you had to go and shit all over it, didn’t you? Remember, no one lights a lamp and puts it in a place where it will be hidden, or under a bowl. Instead he puts it on its stand, so that those who come in may see the light. So let that be a message to you, and let Ocho Cinco shine through the art of dance.

-Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. Oh, except for you Detroit. You’re a fucking abomination and I will see to it that all doors are slammed in your worthless fat face. You know my dad was drunk when He made you. Also, you were adopted. Sorry, but it’s true.

-The Buccaneers of Tampa Bay were unable to overcome the Cowboys of Dallas because I felt they deserved such a punishment. It is written again, thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God. Especially not with such hot pieces of ass. Dad’s been spilling enough of his seed without your temptresses of evil urging him forth. Besides, I’m already dating the blonde with the kickin’ body, and I don’t need Dad ogling my woman.

Thanks, Jesus!

Many people scoff at the idea that God can control the outcome of sporting events, or that He even cares. But those people are wrong. God does control the games, AND He cares a great deal. Today, He explains why He let the outcomes of Week 7 in the NFL happen as they did.

The weak, pliable mortals let out a hue and cry because there have been so many injuries this season. Of course there have. Injuries are awesome. Not only do they serve as a reminder that seemingly powerful football players are but mere meatbags, but they’re funto watch. Speaking of fun, seeing Rodney Harrison getting carted off with a career-ending injury gave me the most heavenly wood since I hand-crafted Lucy Pinder. Fuck that Rodney Harrison. I hope he enjoys the medley of diseases I have lined up for him after his playing days. For the love of Me, even Satan thinks that guy’s an asshole.

And I hurt Reggie Bush because the size of his girlfriend’s ass makes me question whether I believe in myself.

-I let Sebastian Janikowski make a game-winning 57-yard field goal to beat the Jets because Eric Mangini makes a mockery of the act of creation by naming his kids after Bill Belichick and Brett Favre. Those are abominable and insult the glory of Me. I demand you immediately rename them both after your left tackle.

-I enabled the Steelers of Pittsburgh to beat the Bengals of Cincinnati because Ryan Fitzpatrick endeavors to explain away my divine workings with secular Harvard butthole empiricism. Look, you Ivy League fucktaster, if I wanted everyone to have all the answers, I’d put some actual facts in the Bible. No, I want you Earth-dwellers to all be as stupid as Michele Bachmann, you got it?

-The Packers of Green Bay made short work of the Colts of Indianapolis because I want to facilitate the decision for Tony Dungy to leave coaching after the season. Once retired, I’ll totally make him discover that he’s gay. Think of all the new chapters he’s going to have to write for the books he already put out?

-I totally fucked with the lights at Ralph Wilson Stadium because the fans of Buffalo are profligate wasters of condiments. You know how hard ketchup is to make? Still, they won the game because I’m still not sure if Darren Sproles isn’t a gremlin.

Many people scoff at the idea that God can control the outcome of sporting events, or that He even cares. But those people are wrong. God does control the games, AND He cares a great deal. Today, He explains why He let the outcomes of Week 6 in the NFL happen as they did.

-Many of you are undoubtedly wondering why so many of Sunday’s games were decided in the final 10 seconds of play. Well frankly not enough obese men have been suffering massive heart attacks and strokes as of late. The numbers needed a little padding, so I figured, why not kill the fatties with some excitement? You mortals can trust that I feel the pain of the loved ones they have left behind, especially the ones in Chicago. I may be all-knowing, but I hadn’t expected Atlanta’s ridiculous comeback to wipe out a third of Chicago’s adult male population. To be fair, Lovie Smith should shoulder some of that blame with me. Oh and the Cubs. Yeah, it’s totally their fault! I’d send Kosuke Fukudome to an eternity of damnation, but Japanese Hell is not my domain. Nope, way too much tentacle rape for my comfort level, so I just let them do their own thing.

-Not only did keep the Cowboys of Dallas from beating the Buzzsaw of Arizona, I also broke Tony Romo’s pinky finger. Call Me overly harsh if you must, but I expect a little extra prayer from that guy. You know, if the Sodomites found some more time for earnest worship I would have let a lot of that stuff go, and such is the case for Romo. My favored son has had every advantage over the past few years, and all the while he’s been living a life envied by all. But instead of thanking Me at every occasion, he spends all of his time on the phone with that blond temptress and fumbling in the endzone. Besides, his name ends in a vowel, so I naturally expect a bit more churchgoing.

-I, in my infinite foresight, told you that the Chargers-Pats game would be tits on ice. I didn’t even feel the need to keep things close, because as we all know, everybody is just tuning in to watch New England get curb-stomped. Me damn, I hate those douchebags. I mean, I created all of you equally, and I’m supposed to love all my children, but they totally cheated. And Bill Belichick once molested a ferret. I saw that shit, for I am everywhere.

-Shaun Alexander has indeed signed with the Redskins of Washington. As a punter. For some reason he thinks I not only healed his foot, but also gave it super Christian kicking powers. Silly Shaun, I only bestowed that gift upon Jason Elam. For he is My Kicker, and you are my lamb.

-Okay people first thing first, I don’t even know TO. We met at a party like once, and now the guy is talking about Me like we have some intimate relationship. Fuck that. So listen up TO, you need to stop pretending like we’re friends or some shit. Everybody knows you’re full of shit, so there’s really no use in pretending anymore. Do me a favor and get my name off of your damn lips, then go wrap them around an exhaust pipe. By which I of course mean Wade Phillips’ ass.

-The Giants of New York and the Redskins of Washington were both victorious because they are easily the two best teams in the NFC. What, did you not see that coming when they played that crapfest in Week 1? Well that’s why you’re you and I’m Me.

-I had no choice but to destroy Sage Rosenfels. Don’t get me wrong, I’m totally down with the Jews, but having a Jewish quarterback succeed in the NFL would be a bad influence for young Jews across the country. While it’s nice for all of the little Berg’s and Stein’s out there to see a nice Jewish boy out on the field, but I don’t want their heads filling with dreams of NFL stardom. No, that space is best reserved for dreams of Wharton (perhaps with AU’s business school as a safety).

-It is I who is responsible for the Ed Hochuli’s precipitous decline as a referee. Surely his will be the greatest career collapse the NFL has seen since I fucked with Shaun Alexander’s foot.

-The Chiefs of Kansas City were defeated so thoroughly and convincingly by the Panthers of Carolina because after last week’s win Herm Edwards didn’t give me nearly enough credit, so this week the Chiefs were on their own. Me forbid he should open up his press conference by offering Me thanks for allowing his abominable football team to miraculously beat their rivals. What, you think you did that shit by yourself, Herm? My ass. If you were really in control of shit you’d get shut out every week like you did against Carolina. You make me fucking sick!

-While it’s true that I made Ben Roethlisberger in my own image, I will admit that I was totally fucking hammered that day. Brain functionality aside, I think I did a pretty okay job all things considered.

-Did you watch that boring piece of shit that was Tennessee vs. Baltimore? Well I didn’t because I was busy watching next week’s New England-San Diego game. Trust me, it’s going to be awesome.

Thanks, God!

Many people scoff at the idea that God can control the outcome of sporting events, or that He even cares. But those people are wrong. God does control the games, AND He cares a great deal. Today, He explains why He let the outcomes of Week 4 in the NFL happen as they did.

First of all, happy new year to all of my chosen people out there! Except for that one fucking yid. You know, the blowhard asshole on ESPN who is always making up crappy nicknames. Oh come on, you know the guy I’m talking about. Big fat lump of shit that’s always laughing at his own jokes, even though his shtick got old around the time those no good fuckers started penning that “new” testament. Me damn it, what the fuck is that asshole’s name?

Anyway, let’s move on to the other stories I’ve helped influence over the past week after the jump. Why the jump? BECAUSE IT IS MY WILL!

BERMAN! That yid’s name is CHRIS FUCKIN’ BERMAN! Me damn I hate that douchebag. That assclown has the nerve to work on Rosh Hashanah in direct defiance of my wishes, and then he has the nerve to wish the chosen audience a happy new year? Fuck that shit. You have two choices Berman, you can be a Jew who celebrates Rosh Hashanah and drops a “shana tova” on all the choicest hook-nosed PA’s, or you can be a glorified gentile who works on the high holidays and slings pork sandwiches for a donut shop. So maybe one of these years you could take off the ONE NIGHT A YEAR I ask of you. I know you’re not opposed to the laziness inherent with staying home from work, I see what you do when you’re doing your “homework” for the show. Masturbating and falling asleep in your custom oversized bathtub is not how a professional prepares to go on television as some purported expert (except for Erin Andrews, and even she only does that in my Godly dreams). And seriously, I didn’t give you people anal orifices so you could go shoving turkey legs up there. That’s just sick and wrong.

Speaking of mortals that piss me off to no end, Shaun Alexander really needs to get fucked. Listen you dumbfuck, you really need to stop praying to me 20 times a day. Sometimes I have shit to do up here. You know Al Davis isn’t just going to give himself an inoperable brain tumor. That shit takes time. My time. And I can’t concentrate on that kind of thing when you interrupt me every half hour to pray for a new contract or to heal your foot pain. I mean shit, did you really think wrapping your feet in back-issues of the Christian Science Monitor was going to help matters? Those assholes are dumber than Calvinists.

Okay, now that I got that shit off my chest (come on OU, I was sleeping!) I can start explaining away all of the mysteries of Week 4.

- I broke Rashard Mendenhall’s shoulder in an effort to get Christmas Ape to stop bitching at his poor cat about the kid fumbling a couple of balls. Seriously Ape, Jean Grey doesn’t want to hear that shit. Just scratch her under the chin and keep her fed. Now go clean out that fucking litter box before I smite one of the Primanti brothers.

- I forced the Raiders of Oakland to fall to the Chargers of “San” Diego because Lane Kiffin needed a way out. That decision to go for the 70 yard field goal was all me, so you can put the blame on me if you must. But don’t act like that shit wasn’t funny. Hell, you should have seen the other shit I was going to pull. If Kiffin hadn’t been of so strong mind you would have seen my other influences, like the second down punt, the triple flea-flicker, and even the triple option run by JaMarcus Russell and his two invisible friends.

- I carried the Bears of Chicago to victory over the Eagles of Philadelphia because Brian Westbrook IS TOTALLY FUCKING WITH MY FANTASY TEAM! It’s also fun watching Chicago fans get all excited about their team before I replace Kyle Orton’s ginger ale with gin make Mike Brown’s achilles look like a piece of John Madden’s frayed dental floss after his third steak dinner.

- I forced the Rams of “St.” Louis to lose their game against the Bills of Buffalo because…wait, no…actually that was all them. My mistake. But If it had been me I totally would have started Trent Green. Unless of course there was a triple amputee at my disposal.

Thanks, God!