Do you think the Pope masturbates? I really don’t have any leaning one way or the other on the matter, but this is where I’m torn. First of all, dude is probably so powerful that he can get his knob slobbered on by just about anyone he wants (bad news for all the youngsters entering junior high in the Vatican). But then, wouldn’t he just be all, “Screw this, I’m the Pope, and I feel like giving the Kid Pope a coupla tugs.” I really don’t know how this would turn out, so if you happen to be a former Pope and could bring some insight to this debate, your correspondence would be appreciated. Read the rest of this entry »

It’s time to discuss football and sex. And once summer ends, you really shouldn’t be investing your time in anything else. There’s nothing better for the soul, and when either is performed well, one is inclined to scream wonderful things from the top of one’s lungs. It only seems appropriate that we pool our resources to be the best football watchers and significant others that we can be. As the flamboyantly profound MC Hammer once said, “Ring the bell, sucka. School’s back in.” Read the rest of this entry »

I dunno whut Coach Childruss wus luggin forr in mah throwin moshin. I throw guud! I bin throwin to dem hahh skewl boyz en they guud at kitchen bawls frum ol’ Brittfarr. Wun day cupple weeks ugo ol’ Brittfarr was throwin’ dem bawls wit da boys reel guud. An den ol’ Peedur Keng gon’ cummon down hear ulda tamm en be awl, [in falsetto voice] “Hey there, sexy Bretty. Wanna come punch that ticket to Canton, big boy?”

An den I gitoll embarsed an say, Nossir, Misser Keng, yew is uh perfesshunal jern-o-list, en yew just playin’ widdoll Brittfarr, aincha? But den he jus keepsonnit an he gon be all, “Now now, Bretty baby. Come back to the Mariott and you can stir my sugar.” But he ain’ talkin bout no shuggur. Unless yew talkin bout da shuggur dat an ol’ feller likesa keep in’is butt.

But ol’ Peeder gon make shur Brittfarr git inda Holla Fayma, so I hadta walkit on back too da Mariott. En yeah, ol’ Brittfarr took a big stir on da buttshuggur. Ol’ throwin’ motion dint feel so guud after dat.

An den I wint back to da feeled whure da boys wure, en onuddum ask whut ol’ Brittfarr wuz doin’. Now I din’t tellum bout stirrin dat buttshuggur. Das pri-vit. So ol’ Britt made uppa lil fib en said, Ol’ Brittfarr wuz pumping HGH. En dey ask wuz HGH? I sad I dunno. But den ol’ Britt found out dat da nixt day, da whole teem winnout en got dem sum HGH. Good thang I didn’t tellum bout the buttshuggur or ol’ Peeter woodna bin able to walk for three dadgum weeks.

We’re always impressed when we get letters from people around the NFL. It still kinda blows our collective minds that this blog gets all the attention that it does in the sports universe. But we were doubly surprised when we received an email from Rex Ryan, who of course is the new coach for the New York Jets, who asked us to share a message with you on his behalf. We were flattered by the gesture, and only too happy to oblige, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was just another form letter that he sends out regularly to random groups of people. Read it after the jump and tell us if we’re just crazy. Read the rest of this entry »

Ashlee: Hey? Hey you guys? I can’t find my contact! Read the rest of this entry »

“We’re gonna need a bigger boat.” [NSFW]

♫Yeah we movin’ on up! Mooooovin’ on up! To da east siiiiide! Moooooovin’ on up! To a deeeeeluxe muthafuckin’ White House, in da ska-ha-haaaaaaa! ♪ Yeah we kickin’ out dat crackah Bush and that lunchlady wife of his and we gonna do dis up Chi-town style, niggas! We gonna party like it’s ya birthday, but if y’all think I’m sharin’ my celebration weed, Y’ALL CRAZY!

Y’all know how HARD it is to get my hands on some shit these days? Muthafuckas stoppin’ me in da park n’ shit all, “Ain’t you married to that one nigga?” And I be all, “Shut up, fool! Just gimme somma dat damn–

[cell phone rings]

Muthafucka, hang da fuck on fuh second…Good morning, this is Michelle Obama…Oh, hello Ms. Couric how are you today?…Alright, Katie then…We’re doing fine. We’re truly inspired on this day. The American people have spoken, and now it’s up to Barack to deliver to America, and the world…Well, thank you, Katie, we certainly appreciate your support…Bye bye now.

Fuck dat bitch. Once my nigga Barry and I git moved in ‘n shit, we lockin’ up all the crackas in America. We startin’ a cracka Auschwitz n’ shit. Don’t y’all be givin’ me that look, muthafuckas. Y’all had y’all’s chance, now we gonna do this up PROPER! We gon hang a giant wooden fork and spoon up in dat big’ol dining hall. We gettin’ a log cabin bong for da Lincoln bedroom n’ shit, and then? WE GON SMOKE SOME WEEEEEEED! WE GON SMOKE SOME WEEEEEED! WE GON –

[cell phone rings]

Damn, fools! Don’t ch’all know I’m plottin’ out my LOGISTICS? Hang on…Good morning, this is Michelle…OPRAH! Hey, girl! Y’all comin’ up tonight?…Well, shit, girl, I just have to suck his dick by MY DAMN SELF then. Yeah, aight girl…Holla.

Com’on now! Let’s get this shit rollin’! Y’all know they spent a hunnud seventy million on this shit today? Think of all the weed we coulda bought with that shit! Hope ‘n change! Change ‘n hope! Smoke some weed! ♫ Ain’t no mountain high enough! And no cracker rich enough! Ain’t no bong dat’s big enough! To git me to give a shit about you, mothafucka! ♪ Aw, shit! Time to go, my niggas! Peace out!

And after all this shit, WE GON DRANK!

INT Giants’ Practice Facility. Friday. 4:38 AM.

[Giants defensive coordinator Steve Spagnuolo unlocks the front door, and walks in]

Two more days of prep and then we face the Eagles. Yeah, sure, it’s only McNabb and Andy Reid that we’re up against, but you never know when those meatheads are gonna wake up and actually play like they’re supposed to. Nobody wants to be McNabb’s bitch, and it’s not happening on us this weekend. It’s our last day of prep today, then a walkthrough tomorrow. Game on Sunday. Time to get your gameface on, Steve. Get fired up.

Sigh. I’m exhausted. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy about still being in the hunt, but I’m ready for a break. I’m so worn out. I haven’t seen my wife in a month. And I’m sick of looking at these same assholes day after day. I wish I…I really wish I wasn’t so lonely right now.

[stops at receptionist's desk]

Hey, there’s a donut left over from yesterday. Chocolate covered, too. My favorite. Wait, it’s not cream-filled. Still a nice surprise, though. Amazing that Coach Gilbride didn’t eat that donut and the box with it. Thank you, donut. You’re a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day.

[pulls donut out of box]

Oh, my, donut. You’re so firm and [licks fingers] sugary. I bet your other 11 friends weren’t so sweet, were they? Hey relax, donut, it’s just me. Don’t act like you do around those other guys. Spags wants the real deal, you dirty bitch.

Tell me how you like it, you little chocolate whore. Don’t act you can’t feel what’s going on between us. As soon as I get these pants off, you’re gonna see a stunt package you’ll never for—mmm, there it is.

Damn, donut, you feel so good. I like the way your glaze flakes off onto my scrote. It tickles so damn good. Maybe someday you can meet my mother, and you two can talk about yeast and all that shit. Let’s go a little faster now…

Oh, God, donut, you’re gonna make me come. Oh, that’s it. Don’t — Aw, don’t stop.

Oooh, goddammit that’s it, you’re gonna…OOOOH GOD!

OOOOOH SHIT!

OOOOOOHHH!

OOOOOOOOHHHHHHHAAAAAAAWWWWWWAWAWAWAWAWAWAW!

UUUUNNNGGGHHH!

OOOOOOOoooooooohhhhh…

Aaaahhhhhhhhh, donut.

Mmmmmmmmm.

You’re cream-filled now, you little slut. Tell Gilbride I said hello.

[puts donut back in the box]

Huppy Nuh Yuh, uveywunn!

Titans quarterback Kerry Collins, in addition to being an alleged racist, is quite active in his personal correspondance. His frequent letter-writing to corporations and other organizations have become the stuff of legend in the inner circles of the NFL. Such was the case with this particular letter, written in 2005 to a popular fast-food restaurant.

Read the rest of this entry »