The New York Post got their grubby hands on a private email from Gisele to friends and family asking for them to pray for her husband Tom Brady.

My sweet friends and family,

This sunday will be a really important day in my husband’s life. He and his team worked so hard to get to this point and now they need us more than ever to send them positive energy so they can fulfill their dream of winning this super bowl . . .

So I kindly ask all of you to join me on this positive chain and pray for him, so he can feel confident, healthy and strong. Envision him happy and fulfilled experiencing with his team a victory this sunday.

Thank you for your love and support. Love, G :)

It’s funny because she believes in stuff. Not to be outdone by Rupert Murdoch, we’ve unearthed a personal email sent from Olivia Manning to her closest friends.

Dearest loved ones,

As you know, my precious baby Eli will be playing in the Super Bowl this Sunday. And as you might expect, he’s very nervous. My poor little angel was up all night suffering from anxiety induced diarrhea. I only tell you this because we consider all of you to be part of our family, and I ask that you join me in praying for him extra hard before now and Sunday.

Thank you for your discretion with regards to this sensitive matter.

Love,
Big O

In other Manning news…

Somebody got a huge tattoo of Eli giving Peyton a noogie.

And that, dear readers, is how you make your big hairy ass even more off-putting.

Looking good, Eli.

Senior KSK MS Painter Flubby was perusing this heartwarming gallery over at With Leather when inspiration struck.

The celebrity Super Bowl pick is a time-honored tradition, one we at KSK are more than happy to take part in. For the next two weeks, stars from all over the world will drop in to make their picks. Today, it’s hard-bitten crime novelist James Ellroy.

Eli.

The car idled.

He puzzled over the permutations of his name and which larger words the letters could fit into, neatly and with meaning:

E-L-I-T-E
B-E-L-I-E-V-E
C-E-L-E-B-R-I-T-Y
E-L N-I-N-O

No dice: he dismissed the exercise as foolish and detrimental. He hated his indulgence. He hated that so many others had no problem doing the same.

Eli forced his mind toward Dick Contino, Italian crooner who purveyed the fatalism that was his own. In his mind, Contino croons the wah-wah ballad “Angel Act” achingly, full of baritone tremolos – quintessentially the pussy-whipped loser in lust with the noir goddess who’s out to trash his life.

E-L-I-M-I-N-A-T-E-D

No time: there’s the door.

Tom and Bill crashed out of Rainbow Gardens, three ladies in tow. Two slinky gamine types trailing Tom with high-pitched giggling. A sloppy mother figure barely able to prop herself on Bill. Her exposed breast cupped in his hand with the insouciance of a child being guided across a street. Eli eyed the party closely. It was a scene he had seen played out on a near nightly basis with as many permutations as there were with his name.

L-E-I-S-U-R-E

Tom and Bill, nut-cutting bigwigs with a penchant for pad prowling and and big boy narco scores. Kings of ’50s Los Angeles and livers of the dream. Ladies provided the filler around their tandem. In gestalt, there formed meaning.

Tom Brady: leading man looks with leading man talent. It worked for him and he worked it with playboy ease and bon vivant bravado. Tom possessed dark traits that the zeitgeist was happy to conceal. Eli half-expected flash bulbs popping around him even at this hour.

Bill Belichick: power broker who had little need to conceal anything. He did anyway. Bill was a Svengali to starlets but a compatriot to Tom. Bill fed Tom innocent woman and beaucoup drugs. Tom didn’t need Bill’s help to score either of those. He took them just the same. More important was that being with Bill meant he didn’t have to hide anything.

Eli wanted to brace them. He always did. It gave him no satisfaction that he finally made pissant charges stick on Tom and Bill years back. Those in the department predisposed to leeriness of Eli’s abilities laughed it off as dumb luck at best and a waste of time at worst. They were probably right. It was only a minor setback to the duo anyway. Here they are in this shit-ass place yukking it up and fucking around like nothing ever happened.

Tom spotted him. It didn’t matter. This wasn’t a mission to surveil. Tom shot him the mega-watt grin. Eli reciprocated for the fuck of it. Here’s lookin’ at ya. Years of being resented and mocked for his glory boy family pedigree by coworkers and quarry alike made Eli keenly aware of his lack of intimidation. He rolled with it.

Eli wanted to know if he was getting to them. He wasn’t.

Good. They suspected nothing. They rode off.

Something else tweaked him: AMBUSH. Eli yanked from the car. They slammed him. He flailed. He got clotheslined, he got rabbit-punched, he got tape slapped on his mouth. He was full-fledged fucked.

His last thoughts were of mom. She would have counseled against being so bold.

Three shots. Eli’s stare lingered on the pavement. Still here. He made himself roll over. It registered immediately: His swinging dick spic informer Cruz had tailed him. Bailed him out. He must have expected he would have had to. Cruz looked pissed.

“Get up.”

The tape stifled Eli’s annoyed sigh.

“Get up.”

He did. Olivia would be waiting later with soup.

Some of y’all flipped out about the comments I made to some magazine that tells cocksuckers how to get glamor muscles. I know what you’re thinking – that I came here to go back on what I said and dismiss it as off-the-cuff. Give you retractions. Like, maybe Roger Goodell isn’t a dick-dripping superfag, Rashard Mendenhall isn’t a fumbleholic Al Qaeda slut and that Ben Roethlisberger doesn’t wish deep down that he were born with even more Down Syndrome just so he can look like Peyton Manning.

Nope. I meant all that. My only regret is that I pulled a few of my punches.

For instance, I forgot to mention how the Rooney family eats children. Yup. Gobbles ‘em up by the hundreds. Makes big feasts and shit. You know how some fancy buffets serve those crab legs? That’s how they do it with toddler arms. They tried to invite me one time, but I told ‘em, “No thanks. I’ll take your money, but I am not eating children with you.” And it’s not just gayface junior Rooney that’s in charge of things now that’s doing it. No, it’s been going on for generations. How you think they got their money? Because they serve the tastiest tot.

Whatever, though. Kids die. That’s part of football. Part of life. I don’t even care none about that. You tell me a kid died of getting eaten, I say GOOD, at least he was keeping an somebody fed. I get sick of how our society is trying to make it like human life is precious. What’s precious about it? Got way too many dumb motherfuckers sucking up resources. Thinning out the herd won’t see me shed no crocodile tears. People been dying since the dawn of time. My pit bull tried to eat my son once. I told my son he better make something out of his life because he sure sucks at being puppy chow.

God’s a little bitch. That’s right. Talkin’ ’bout you, Big Guy. You used to bring ruckus back in the day, but you done turn into a soft-ass nigga. Time was, you could just wreck people for the fuck of it. All of a sudden, we got shit like concussions so I can’t launch at Tom Brady’s face? Fuckin’ weak. Plus, your son was a lil’ beardy cunt. Got all these special powers and shit and what happens? Gets strung up like a modern-day faggot. You give me half the shit that God Jr. could do and I swear I’d be running shit inside of a week.

And, because this all needs to be said, I’ll go ahead and say it:

Fuck the troops. Y’all ain’t fighting for me.

Black people were better off as slaves. Hell, I’m a slave now.

The chemicals in our food cause gay people.

Ed Reed is better than Polamalu. Fuck you, Troy. Get at me.

I hope Netflix starts charging $50 a month. You fat assholes need to get off your couches.

When Goodell dies, I’m gonna show up at the funeral and take a big-ass shit on his grave then make his wife eat it. Then I’mma fuck his wife. After that, I spear her in the back of her head. Just try and flag me. Ah ha! You can’t, ’cause the king of referees is dead!

If I get fined for this, the NFL done turned pussy.

Five days after their much discussed dinner meeting, NFL commish Roger Goodell and Player’s Union head honcho DeMaurice Smith were spotted dining out on the town. If last week’s rendezvous was all-business, last night’s get-together was a far more intimate affair. Our spies at Katsuya report that the two were canoodling over plates of crispy rice with spicy tuna and enough cool sake to keep the conversation flowing well into the evening.

After discussing labor negotiations over drinks, the NFL’s hottest new couple moved on to other topics, like their favorite movies (Goodell adores Love, Actually, and Smith gushes over everything John Hughes). While we’re not sure any progress was made on the lockout front, we’re told they did agree to meet for a private weekend summit in Vermont while the pair shared in the Hollywood eatery’s famed chocolate “lover” cake.

Following dessert Goodell and Smith departed in separate cars, only to be seen reconnecting later that night poolside at The Standard. The ruddy Goodell sipped a beer, while his new friend splurged on a champagne cocktail. Not too shabby considering their combined income of $2.

“It’s all in the game, though, right?”

The Washington Post‘s resident Dithering Dairy Nebbish Dan Steinberg has been subpoenaed as part of Dan Snyder’s campaign against the media’s heinous tendency toward afflicting the comforted and vice versa. This all because Steinz had the gall to link to Dave McKenna’s now-infamous list of reasons why Snyder is, if I may paraphrase, a gigatwat. Not that Snyder himself has done more to publicize the piece more than a million D.C. Sports Bog links ever could. Anyway, according to my interpretation of court papers (POSSIBLY MADE FROM TREES CUT TO CLEAR A VIEW OF THE POTOMAC RIVER – WE’LL NEVER KNOW!) sent from Snyder to WaPo, I believe the Redskins owner wishes to ascertain the truth as to whether Snyder and McKenna are, in fact, a Leopold and Loeb-like tandem of killers who wish to target only NFL owners possessing a height of 4′ 8″ or shorter.

Let us be the first to clear the air. Steinberg and McKenna are not “in league” with one another. They fell prey, as many in the media often do, to our habit of trapping them in a bedroom and flipping the light switch on and off while shouting “DAN SNYDER FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT”

Artist rendering

So, you see, all this Snyder-bashing is completely the fault of the folks here at KSK. Unless you wish to pursue legal action, in which case, this is just a stupid post written by a raving insensate derelict and completely devoid of merit, which isn’t really that far from the truth. Plus, it’s all cool because we’re a satire site. If Snyder’s journo pappy caught him up sufficiently on libel law, Danny should know that as a public figure that he’s fair game to unbelievably cruel ridicule as long as we don’t present it as the truth. Ipso fucko.

[Re-reads handy satire libel checklist before posting]
[Changes all references to Sam Blyder]

It’s a Monday morning in early June. Other than Drew’s impending mockery of Peter King’s prattlings, there’s not a whole lot even worthy of our warmed-over ridicule. LaToeInjury adding a macho calf tattoo to honor his newest employer? Yawnyawnyawnyawnyawnyawnyawn. Some scrub on the Packers keeping the NFL offseason o’ sexual assault allegations humming? Those are all well and good, but they aren’t exactly prime KSK material.

Not like a picture of Tom Brady showing off the tardface in a charity bike event benefiting Boston-area tards. I’m sorry, that’s wrong. The preferred term is TAAAAAHHHHHHDDDDSSS.

British-driving Toonces might not be mentally disabled, but he really should be wearing a helmet while operating the Power Wheels Hummer.

An uncomfortable pat on the ass to reader Barry for the Brady picture.

In 2005, the Louisiana Superdome was severely damaged by a natural disaster. The next season when they returned to play there, the Saints appeared in the NFC Championship Game. Three years later, they are the reigning Super Bowl champions. And your question to me is “why beseech God to flood LP Field?” Anyone with a lick of sense can see what we’re trying to do here.

What you should be asking me is: why not sooner?

This is a copycat league we belong to, my friend. The losers have to adapt to meet the strengths of the winners, or else you’re going to get lost in the tide of innovation.

You in the front.

Yes, that pun was intended.

This is not an organization blessed with great fortune or acclaim. We lost a Super Bowl by a single yard. If it weren’t for our batshit crazy owner, I might not have been allowed to stick around to be the head coach for this franchise for 40 years. But even I know there’s limits to everything. You have to make hay while the sun is shining. Or, to use a more topical phrasing, make a Super Bowl run while there’s water damage to your stadium.

I’m not a genius; I just know what works. And generating league-wide sympathy by being the victim of a disastrous work of a vengeful God is 100 percent guaranteed to net you a Super Bowl title. The track record proves it. You gotta problem, you can take it up with the man upstairs.

You, second row.

No, that was a reference to God. Mr. Adams’ office is down the hall.

To you pointing fingers and making leading questions, will you be the same to congratulate us when we’re hoisting the Vince Lombardi trophy next February in Dallas? I imagine your networks and publications will be among to first to indulge in the soft focus story of redemption. I hope my comments made here today will be included among the images of a ravaged community. Because I ravaged it FOR YOU, fans.

Thanks. That will be all for today. Please turn in your galoshes before exiting the facility.

Ben Roethlisberger will not be charged for the alleged rape that occurred in a Georgia bar last month. You’ll just have to wait until the next time Big Ben rapes for justice to be served. We’ve already heard enough canned analysis from pundits and indignation from everyone else. But what would the reaction be like if we lived in a country that revered its rapists? I think it might go a little something like this:

“Ha! I knew Ben Roethlisberger couldn’t rape. He’s not a real rapist. He’s just a rape manager. Just because he got accused of rape doesn’t make him a rapist. I hate that argument. I mean, even Trent Dilfer got accused of rape once.”

“Ben Roethlisberger only rapes because of his defense. You give me that defense, I could rape anyone. ANYONE. Ben is definitely not an elite rapist. He couldn’t even rape a college girl. OVERRATED RAPIST!”

“Have you seen that guy? Eat another ribwich, fatty. And cut your stupid mullet. A rapist shouldn’t be so chunky. It’s an embarrassment to rape. I could never root for a guy who raped like that.”

“ESPN totally overplays this story because it’s a white quarterback. When a black guy rapes, he has to practically kill for any attention. When the golden boy white quarterback is the one doing the raping, you never hear the end of it. Typical. Jason Campbell could rape five chicks tomorrow and you’d see a paragraph on it. Maybe not even that much. Or they’d try to subtly undermine him by saying he’s a ‘running rapist’. Just because he’s a better athlete doesn’t make him any lesser of a rapist. I’m so tired of this. The media has ruined rape for me.”

In the past, we’ve been privileged enough to share commentary from author Stefan Fatsis. Drew and I have written shitty books, so I guess that counts too. Well, the proud tradition of published scribes visiting KSK continues today, with noted economists Steven D. Levitt and Stephen J. Dubner, the gentlemen behind Freakonomics and SuperFreakonomics.

To be perfectly frank, we aren’t very good at macroeconomics. We couldn’t tell you how to lift the country from its economic tribulations. That requires analyzing many moving parts and solving extremely involved calculations. Basically, the math is difficult and we don’t feel like doing it. But by using the best analytical tools of economics, we are able to ask provocative questions, ones that might reveal an answer that bucks the conventional wisdom. Often, such accepted notions achieve their status simply because they are comforting, if not entirely true. And that is the overarching theme of Freakonomics: asking the right question to reveal a hidden truth. Most of the time, these new truths won’t benefit you in your everyday life in any significant or even perceivable way, but c’mon – don’t you want a few arcane factoids to impress that leggy brunette at the bar?

Are NFL Players Saving Us By Driving Drunk?

It’s a question that arises all too often. We hear about an athlete getting a DUI or some other drunk driving related trouble, and incredulously we wonder how they could be so foolish. Often, we shrug our shoulders and chalk it up to the sheer hubris of athletes thinking they are above the law or even indestructible.

But could they actually be saving lives?

In general, professional athletes are laconic individuals and that’s even when they don’t have reason to be skeptical of the motives of two economists turned book writers. Also, a lot of them are black. And black people terrify us. These elements combine to complicate the data-collecting process, which in turns makes study of their habits next to impossible.

That’s why anytime we deal with something relating to black people we deploy that Indian guy with the PhD in sociology. He really seems to “get” them.

As he did with the Chicago gang of drug dealers, Sudhir embedded himself within a tight-knit group of NFL players. To assure that his findings would not be altered by them changing their behavior because they knew they were the subjects of scholastic study, he promised to keep their identities secret.

One thing he found that probably comes as little surprise is that NFL players like to drink. And a lot at that. But he also discovered that when NFL players go out, they make a concerted effort to make sure as many people know about it as possible. They have agents and press people put the word out on Twitter and to radio stations. The result is obvious: a large crowd shows up to gawk at the famous athlete boozing it up in their midst.

So what? So there’s a big crowd to view the dumb oaf make a fool of himself? How does that change matters? Well, when comparing statistics on traffic fatalities in the towns where the athletes went out, it turns out it matters quite a bit. By pitting nights that an athlete announced their presence at a specific nightspot versus the condition on the same evening with no athlete out, the stats show the chance of a traffic and pedestrian related fatality fell nearly 15 percent on a night in which an athlete was out on the town. The reasoning was simple: the athlete drew enough people to that specific establishment so there were fewer people on the road than normal. That also means fewer targets for the drunk athlete when he leaves the club.

While any loss of life is always unfortunate, it can’t be denied that NFL players are actually saving lives when they go out on drunken benders. For every Donte Stallworth and Leonard Little situation, there are countless other lives that have been spared by these carousing athletes. But DUI cases and traffic related accidents are phenomena that are easily sensationalized by mass media, which are always eager to employ scare tactics with the public. Knowing what you know now, will you decry them in the future?