It’s up to you, dear reader, to settle this. Which one of us is the haughtiest, snootiest member of Mount Pretent-more? We’re even getting Falco in on it (dying is so elitist).

Consider:

Ufford:
Lives in Park Slope, Brooklyn. Disdainful of everywhere else on the planet. Especially wherever it is you live.
Uses words like antediluvian in Fanhouse columns
Not in the military? Not getting eye contact.
Blazers galore!
So insecure about his own pretentiousness he had to ask With Leather readers not to vote for him
Wrote shit for McSweeney’s, for shit’s sake

Drew:
“Disagree? Douchebag!”
Buries people’s posts at whim
Picture turning its nose up at definition of WASP in dictionary
Fat but not jolly
Attended Colby
Attended Exeter
Lives in Bethesda
Didn’t really vote for Obama

Unsilent:
Wine snob
Born wealthy
Lives in Georgetown
Raised in Potomac
Hates that, ugh, white people music THAT THEY STOLE ANYWAY
Pretend black person
Non-pretend half-Jew (pick a side!)

Ape:
Former film critic
Journalist (dismissive by nature)
Listens to NPR
A monkey, therefore incapable of pretension
Gives you the Marmalard posts you love

Punter:
Lives in South Carolina (the pretentious Carolina)
Owns hedgehog (uncommon pet!)
Has donkey sex only because it’s obscure
Runs political web site

flubby:
Thinks you’re an idiot for not still liking the Grateful Dead
Lawyer
The Sugar Sheet is funded by the National Endowment of the Arts (taxpayer money!)
Secretly a Guggenheim fellow
Name doesn’t make sense and is purposely not capitalized = PRETENTIOUS
Leery of fellow bumpkin Kentuckians

While it is uncertain how this may affect Favre’s post-football life – she may have to start endorsing female Viagra in lieu of the regular version, and she may begin to stupidly look for misogynistic notes in every single fucking movie even where they don’t exist – this much is certain: she won’t be doing any sports blogging.

“You know, we were really hoping to bring Favre in to do chronicle his wacky exploits in the NBA D-League. But now that I found out that he, or, uh, she is a woman, like, what’s the point? Do women use computers? Eh, it’s a market we can do without. I will also be scrapping the Arial font “Gunslinger” T-shirts on Mister Irrelevant.”
-Jamie Mottram, Yahoo!

“We suppose there is still a population segment that finds some resonance in the homespun values and devil-may-care antics of Favre. Besides, God knows we need someone to write another Closer. Given our history of rooting for teams after they change cities, it follows that we should do the same for athletes after they change gender. But no. Fandom doesn’t have to make sense.”
-Will Leitch, Deadspin

“Is she available for a photo shoot?”
-Brooks, SportsbyBrooks

“Hey commenters: Tell us how to spin this.”
-The Big Lead

“Well, Miss Gossip is already a managing editor for our site, so I’m not sure what you mean when you say there are no prominent female sports bloggers.”
-John Ness, Fanhouse

As you may know, Will Leitch, editor of Deadspin and spiritual godfather to this site, released his brand spankin’ new book the other day (Buy it here). Since our definitive Leitch parody went over so well, Will asked for the honor of contributing a post to KSK. Because we feel bad that he so rarely gets the chance to write for Deadspin any more, we granted his request.

You may remember some of our previous forays into the frightening world outside of our apartment — yes, it’s a basement apartment, ha ha — in which we provided some viral marketing for Spike’s “Pros Vs. Joes” by striking out against John Rocker, whom we later interviewed, the result of which is available (with footnotes!) in our new book. We also happened to be wearing an old Rick Ankiel jersey during said strikeout, as of course we never hide our love for Ankiel (which you can read about in our new book), even though he used HGH, to which we’re not opposed, as is detailed in our new book.

For our second extended advertisement for PVJ — which, we think, sounds like a delicious sandwich — we brought A.J. “The Balls” Daulerio along for a game of touch football with Andre Rison and Kordell Stewart. Despite our noblest intentions, we were undone by an oversized, unexplained pylon in the middle of the field, something that, to be quite honest, we were totally unprepared for.

For this iteration, we — Daulerio, us, and photographic correspondent Aileen Gallagher — recently accepted an invitation to once again try our hand against the Pros, this time against former Knicks Charles Oakley and the less-renowned Charles Smith, who we remembered for missing four straight shots in the closing minutes of Game Five of the 1993 NBA Eastern Conference Finals against the Bulls, which were the last Eastern Conference Finals of Kurt Cobain’s tragically short life.

Interestingly, PVJ has moved out of its old digs at Grand Central Station and has found a much nicer home at Madison Square Garden. We were nervous we might see Isiah Thomas, but the Knicks were away that day. We didn’t even get a customary grope from MSG personnel, perhaps because we neglected to shower that morning. We are, after all, a blogger.

We fear, however, these girls got no such reprieve.

Because it’s Spike, of course, cheerleaders were needed, and we feel it’s necessary to share this information because Gawker’s new pay system is based on page views, and pictures of cheerleaders are more likely to lead to a click-through than three sentences of italicized text.

We did not speak with the girls, of course. Even if they had noticed us as we stared at our feet in a dusty corner of MSG, such conversations seem inappropriate to us. Our Midwestern values frown on such forwardness.

As always, the in-person experience of PVJ is both eye-opening and depressing. These were once great athletes, and now they are reduced to…

Oh, fuck it all.

Do I really have to go through all this shit again? You get the point. These guys are old now, but they’re still way better at sports than regular people like me. And along the way you get to see embarrassing photos of me. Whoopdee-fucking-doo. So go ahead, spend the rest of your afternoon making fun of my shoes and noticing tiny details in the background of the photos.

Fantastic life you must have.

Fuck all of you. I quit.

The playoffs have arrived and half of the rooting interests of KSK writers have earned the right to be eliminated by the second round. Sadly flubby’s Raiders, Punter’s Bengals and Drew’s Vikings were cast by the NFL wayside. My poor injury ravaged Steelers will probably be starting a few tough looking traffic cones at safety and offensive line against a suddenly supa popula Jacksonville team (if you’re gonna beat us, at least have the courtesy to beat New England, you humps). We know at least one team will survive for the divisional round: Caveman’s Seahawks or the Maj’s Redskins. WHO YA GOT?

Being the good friend that I am, I checked up on ol’ Maj today.

Me: Hey Maj, how you holdin’ up? I masturbated AND had sex yesterday, and I’m already kinda horny again. I don’t know how you’re doing it.
Maj: die

I’d say he’s doing pretty well, all things considered. Just four more weeks to go!

The rest of us in the Gay Mafia have been wondering what might be kicking around in UM’s fantasies, and we enlisted the help of fifth Beatle Dan V. to bring some ideas to life. For example, here’s pre-preggers Halle Berry with preggers Halle Berry’s cleavage:

Alicia Keys with a crop of green to be smoked:

Maj also harbored countless schoolboy fantasies about the Baroness from G.i Joe. Just imagine if she took the Redskins’ coaching woes into her own hands:

Former Cowboys cheerleader and occasional sex scene star Sarah Shahi sports some vintage Air Jordans:

And finally…

Our collective imagination is not only exceptionally twisted, it’s also terrifyingly accurate. Good luck holding out, Maj. Stay strong.

“Fuck your pissy little blog. I’m here to talk about Burt. Go ahead, ladies. Stare. It’s all right. God gave me this gorgeous body for you to enjoy. Feast your eyes on a REAL FUCKING MAN for a change.

“Boy, they don’t make stars like they used to, do they? You think Josh Hartnett could look this good on a bearskin rug with a pack of rich Camel unfiltereds? It’s nothing but a bunch of waxed little boys out there. Lucky for you, ol’ Burt still delivers the goods. Go ahead and touch yourselves, ladies. Sally Field liked to hit ol’ rotary phone dial in front of yours truly. I’m no stranger to that game.”

Thanks, Burt! And be sure to vote today, even if you’re still throwing up at the pictures!

UPDATE: To assauge are you genuinely angry lady readers, here’s RYAN Reynolds.

Good morning, football fans. We’re happy to inform you that our resident Redskins fan and gambling addict, one Unsilent Majority, is still alive this morning — if just a teeeeeeeeensy bit touchy — despite the Redskins playing the role of Monica Bellucci in Irreversible yesterday. In fact, he’ll be along later with some good ol’ homerade if we can get him to pull his head out of the oven.

In the meantime, let’s take a look back on Maj’s gambling advice over the last several weeks.

October 2

The New England Patriots are the NFL’s version of blood diamonds, they may be evil and tainted but they’ll make you rich! Richer than astronauts! Do you want to know how you too can actually enjoy the diabolical reign of Belichick and company? Of course you do! How else are you going to pay off your student loans from that semester at DeVry? Follow my three easy steps (plus one fuckin’ complicated step) to success and soon you’ll have a boat filled with gorgeous women like you were some sort of brilliant midget with a twin brother in tow.

1. BET HEAVILY ON THE PATRIOTS POINT SPREAD

2. MASTURBATE FOR 3 HOURS

3. COLLECT YOUR WINNINGS

4. EAT CAVIAR OUT OF A HOOKER’S ASS

Yep, it’s really that easy. Now go sell all of your earthly possessions (yes, your daughter counts) and take the proceeds directly to your offshore bookie of choice.

October 4

New England -17 vs. Cleveland
I’ve now increased my bet on New England for the third consecutive week. Now we’re up to a $100 wager, by the end of the season I’ll be living here.

October 19

New England -17 at Miami
Patriots–FUCK YEAH!

October 26

Washington +17 -115 at New England
I’ve bet on the Pats every single week this season so it’s been easy to tell what’s going on here. They kept covering so Vegas kept raising the spreads… But now the Pats are playing an actual team (disclaimer: team may not have actual coach) with a defense rated in at or near the top of the league in every relevant category. I’m not saying that I’m picking my Skins to win outright, but Jesus fucking Siddhartha, they’re certainly more capable than the incompetent pussybaskets of the AFC East.

Allow me to rephrase that: HOLY. FUCKING. SHIT. To recap, this is what doctors predicted:

And this is what’s going on:

Yeah yeah yeah, the doctors get some credit too, but there is no denying that Kevin Everett is about as measty as a human being can be. Stay tuned for next week’s Everett update, in which he does one-armed push-ups and satisfies a nurse and a candy striper simultaneously.

There was plenty of meastiness around the rest of the NFL this week, to the point that we actually felt the need to recognize several of the individual efforts we witnessed.

Third runner-up is Marion Barber, whose two-yard, two-point-saving run is reminiscent of Barry Sanders — if Barry ran over people instead of around them:

Second runner-up: Devin Hester. With two 80-yard-plus scores, Hester reiterated that (a) all offensive plays should be designed to get him the ball until Cedric Benson can get more than two yards a carry, and (b) any special teams coach who elects to kick to him is interested in working elsewhere next year.

Our first runner-up is vintage 2006 LaDainian Tomlinson, who torched the Raiders for 198 yards and all four Chargers touchdowns. Fun fact: Dan Shanoff has LT2/LDT in our Yahoo! fantasy league, and he still lost.

Predictably, here’s this week’s Meast:

We needn’t go over numbers or game impact here; however, I feel compelled to respond to Michael David Smith’s missive (or should I say dismissive?) that asked Is Adrian Peterson Overrated?

Now, I craft my responses to fellow bloggers carefully. The person known as “Matt Ufford” is a surprisingly affable sort who rarely, if ever, publishes a negative response to a neighbor in the blogorhood.

Captain Caveman, however, is a real asshole.

And as Captain Caveman, on behalf of the KSK Gay Mafia, I can say, “Hey, MDS. Slate called. They were looking for a contrarian poindexter to stir up pointless debate.” And so we respond to the Tim Duncan of blogging, FanHouse’s blandly efficient MVP, thusly: No, Adrian Peterson is not overrated. He’s really fucking good. He’s called PURPLE JESUS for a reason.

You godless heathen.

It’s not even the good kind of hole, where the city is so shitty it actually derives some modicum of endearing personality. Cleveland, Baltimore, Pittsburgh, Oakland — hell, even Jacksonville – all those cities at least haz a flavr. That flavor may be terrifyingly violent, or repulsively redneck, or that of dystopian ape-people. But hell, at least it’s something. St. Louis is basically the same city as Indianapolis, but at least it has that Arch and a river.

Nor is it even the most interesting city in its own state. Gary’s got enough ugliness and hopelessness to land it a team in the AFC North. South Bend is a better town for sports. French Lick has more of a claim to sports history (and a way cooler name to boot.)

No, Indianapolis commits the worst sin of all: it’s fucking dull. “Scrubs” dull? Morrissey dull? Worse: west of Diwaniyah dull. By which I mean:

During the invasion of Iraq in 2003, after my unit bypassed Nasiriyah (lucky us), we stopped short of Diwaniyah — the next sizable city on the map — for what the generals called an “operational pause.” We parked just off the side of the road bisecting endless Iraqi fields and just sat there. Presumably, other units elsewhere were doing things. Not us. Every morning before dawn, we’d get up and prepare for “stand-to,” in which we got into fighting positions just in case the nonexistent enemy attacked at sunrise. Then we’d make coffee. After coffee, we’d smoke cigarettes and swat at swarming insects for the next twelve hours or so. Maybe eat an MRE, not that we wanted to eat. We got no mail. Nobody owned an iPod or a DVD player. Any magazines we had we’d already read. “Stand-to” again at dusk, two hours of uneventful watch sometime in the middle of the night, then do that again the next day.

We did that for ten days, and never in my life have I more wanted to get attacked by Islamic fundamentalists, just so I wouldn’t be bored.

My point? I’d rather live those ten days again than spend another hour here.

Suck it, Indianapolis.

This week, we’re holding the first annual KsK Kares Charity Drive for Fisher House, which supports disabled veterans and their families. You can donate directly to FH here.

Surely our pain is one felt by forum boards the internet round, as a filmmaker over at College Humor has captured all these maddening commenter proclivities in one amazing skit.

Let me save you the effort: FIRST!!!!