Here at KSK, we’re alcoholics first, bloggers second. Actually, we’re masturbators first, then alcoholics, then football-needy douchebags, and somewhere around 15th or 16th on the list of priorities is blogging.

The point is, most of us are hammered most the time. Hell, I cracked open a bottle of DH Krahn at three o’clock yesterday. You can do these things when you work at home.

Which brings us to today’s commenter draft. Having already “drafted” beer last year — the quotes let you know the pun is cheap and intentional — we turn our attention now to mixed drinks. The premise: for the rest of your life, you can ONLY order the drinks you draft here. It’s a terrifying prospect, the possibility of a summer without mojitos and margaritas, or early NFL games without Bloody Marys, or a Tuesday morning without Mad Dog 20/20 and Sprite.

My first pick: a Manhattan.

And I want it with bourbon, not Canadian whiskey. Easy on the vermouth, served up in a rocks glass. (The only drinks that should be served in a martini glass are martinis, goddammit.)

Your turn. You know the rules: make your selection, then wait ten picks before choosing again. If you’re drafting something archaic or little-known, by all means, share a recipe. We’re always looking for new and fabulous ways to get tight.

NOTE: We do mean MIXED drinks. Hey, you like Johnnie Walker Blue Label “mixed” with ice cubes? You’re very clever, fuck off.

As you may have guessed, I am not what you would call a voracious reader. Don’t get me wrong. I like reading the labels on whisky bottles. But books? Whoa, slow down there, mister. That’s a lot of words, many of them big and fancy.

Books are very thick, and therefore intimidating. I like lots of books I’ve read, but I’ve also been so traumatized by the books that I was forced to read in school that I approach them now with a good deal of trepidation. Will this book transport me to a whole new, enrapturing world that holds me in its thrall? Or will it be “Great Expectations”?

/shudder

We had a book draft earlier in the year, in which we all pretended to be crazy literate, and Ufford referred to his writing as “his prose”, which is rather high-minded nomenclature for dead stripper jokes. One reader, PBNW11, who might be some sort of robot beta model, even compiled our choices (and many commenter choices) into this Amazon list, which was damn near the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for us.

But now it’s time to explore the other side of the coin. Oh, I like me some books. But I also hate a great deal of them of them as well. Now, I don’t normally admire Nazis or crazy Midwestern preachers, but I do like me the occasional book burning. Books are plentiful, and highly flammable. I see no reason no to use the shittier ones as an alternative fuel source. The time to switch from oil to Coulter is upon us. These are books you’d pick to throw into a bigass A&M-style bonfire.

THE RULES: Pick one book at a time. All editions of the book you pick will be incinerated, and can never be republished. Once a book is selected, wait 10 choices before selecting another. Once an author is selected, all their books are off the board. Sorry, Otto Man. Only one Bill O’Reilly book for you. I get first dibs, so I’m picking the single worst piece of shit foisted upon me by the English staff at Exeter.

“Herland,” by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

I’ll let Wikipedia describe “Herland” for you:

Herland is a utopian novel from 1915, written by feminist Charlotte Perkins Gilman. The book describes an isolated society composed entirely of Aryan women who reproduce via parthenogenesis (asexual reproduction). The result is an ideal social order, free of war, conflict and domination.

Racist? Yep. Reverse sexist? Yep. Demonstrative of pushy, annoying, extreme liberal ideals? Oh, yes. Worst of all, there were no Cliffs Notes for it. Guhhhhhhhh.

Your turn. Will Leitch, Bill Simmons, and Buzz Bissinger await your picks with horror.

As you know, MTV doesn’t play videos anymore. They air shows like “The Hills,” which is half an hour long and has three lines of dialogue. Bill Simmons thinks it’s comic genius. That fact that Music Television is now 100% music-free, combined with the slow death of the music industry due to file-sharing, has all but ended the existence of music videos as an art form. You may still get the occasional big-name artist dumb enough to produce a $500,000 music video that comes out of his own future royalties (read the contract, Kanye), but those are few and far in between.

The Golden Age Of The Video has all but passed us by. And that makes me said, because music videos have long been an excellent source of hearty spank bank material for yours truly. That Big Boi sure knows his way around a big phat azz. A true humanitarian, for sure.

Videos used to be safe haven for chicks who were too untalented to be real actresses but hot enough to deserve camera time of some sort. We have put legions of smoking hot, semi-skanky women out of work. They only work they get now is the occasional Coors Light poster. What’s a Hawaiian Tropic girl to do? It’s not right.

I have two criteria for any music video to be successful. I think you know what they are. That’s right, baby: HOT CHICKS AND HOT LICKS. Which is why it’s odd that my favorite video of all time features neither, and comes from a group that, under usual circumstances, I can’t fucking stand.

Now that’s high art. You can’t go wrong with Nathan Wind as Cochese.

Anyway, your turn. We’re making MTV an all-video channel again and you’re picking the videos that deserve to be in the rotation. THE RULES: Pick one video at a time. Once you pick, YOU MUST WAIT UNTIL TEN MORE VIDEOS HAVE BEEN CHOSEN TO SELECT AGAIN. And try and provide a link to your favorites if you can, so we can all share in the goodness.

Also, once one video from any artist has been selected, that artist is off the board. That makes your choices a little dicier. Which video from Video Vanguard award winner Tom Petty will you choose? Will it be “Mary Jane’s Last Dance,” or will it be nothing? I bet I can guess.

With the NFL Draft in our rearview and a four-month stretch of barren, football-free shitscape in front of us, it is time once again for us to turn our mock drafting responsibilities over to you, the fiendishly clever KSK readership.

Today’s draft is a Sexual Frankenstein Draft. You have the power to stitch together a dream lover from the parts of any famous person you please, male or female. You’ve no doubt seen this done with quarterbacks roughly 700 times in ESPN magazine (“Our dream QB has Dan Marino’s quick release and Brett Favre’s derring-do!!!”). So gay. So very gay. This is a far sexier way of doing business.

You can also pick personality traits, wealth, or any other characteristic of your celebrity that you hold close to your heart. Once reanimated, you and your sexy, sexy monster will have one big, orgasmatastic life together.

THE RULES: Pick one body part or characteristic at a time. Once a part from a celebrity is taken, that celebrity goes off the board entirely. Once you pick something, YOU MUST LET 10 OTHER PEOPLE PICK BEFORE CHOOSING AGAIN. If you violate the protocol, and just throw down some stupid fucking list, you will be summarily destroyed by the other commenters and personally berated by members of the KSK staff. Fall in line, you undisciplined little shit.

And, as the conductor of this draft, I get first pick. That first pick? Stacy Kiebler’s stems.

Oh Lily, Lily, Lily, Lily, legs, Lily, Lily. I cannot find the words to truly express my joy at the rekindling of our association.

Now, DRAFT! Draft, I tell you! Go go go!

It’s the last commenter draft of the year. Next week, this slot will be occupied by the return of the Maj’s gambling column. I’ve enjoyed these drafts a great deal, largely because you, the readers, do all the effort. Well, it’s only fair to reward you. Many of you have been asking for a porn star draft for a while (shocking), so here it is.

The rules? This is a star of the pornographic film industry you would like to perform a scene with. It can be any porn star from any time in history. No soft core actors or actresses please. They have to have, like, done it with someone on camera. For reals. Once you pick a porn star, wait 10 picks until you pick another. If you provide a link to said performer, do be sure to leave a NSFW warning if necessary.

While I usually take the first pick in all our drafts, I’m going to abstain from picking this time around. Because as a husband and father, I of course have never seen a pornographic film in my entire life. Couldn’t even begin to tell you the name of any actress involved in the industry. Nikki Tyler? Who’s that? No clue. A famous judge once said he knew pornography when he saw it. Well, I would not know pornography when I saw it, because I’ve never seen it. Sorry, judge. Wish I was hip to it all.

So enjoy this, the last draft of the year. Around the 100th comment, this should start to get pretty creepy.

While we know quite a bit about Tom Brady and Bridget Moynahan, details about the kid are still sparse. We know it’s a boy and…well, that’s about it. Tom Brady, we must imagine, is surely overwhelmed with the realization that his life is now over. Yeah, being a dad is great and whatever (that’s what I read, anyway), but as he watches a promising career of pure bachelorhood evaporate before his eyes, his latest acquisition now toils in this mortal neo-natal world of ours, nameless.

Sadly, our newly-papoosed prodigal passer might be mere hours from being slapped with some ridiculous Hollywood-inspired child’s name like “Coco” or “Apple.” Or worse, he could spend his life shouldering even something more uninspired, like “4real” or “@.” Hey, @, how are you today? What’s that, @? Could you repeat that, @? What’s your email address, again?

We cannot let this happen. This is, after all, A Baby Of Destiny. We must rise to this occasion as voices of reason, and hope that, for all our collective efforts, one name stands above all. For this draft, you are naming this baby. You know the rules. I will go first.

Anakin Bootylicious Brady.

Pick a name. Wait ten picks. Pick another name. If you have time, mock and ridicule the ones that fuck this up. Time is a factor here. The fate of the future lies in your hands.

Go.

I’m buying a car this weekend. WOO HOO! Oh yeah, bitch. I’m buying me the sexiest car on the market. I’m buying a car that’ll make panties drop the second it comes within eyeshot. It’s the kind of car that makes catcalls actually effective. This is the kind of car that elevates me to a greater status of human being, richer and sexier than the rest of you commoners. And that car, of course, is…

The Honda CRV. Oooh, baby. Don’t act like you aren’t jealous. This 4-cylinder honey can accommodate not one, but TWO baby seats. And it’s got a cassette deck. Is that Glacier Blue blinding your eyes? Why, yes it is. Advantage: Drew.

Anyway, in celebration of the biggest check I will ever write until my kid chooses an expensive college over a better state school, it’s time for vehicle draft. You’re in a high speed chase! The 5.0 be hot on yo tail! You need a vehicle that’s fast, with a dexterity of at least 17 or higher. The rules: Pick one vehicle. It can be any vehicle, real or imaginary. Let us also assume you have the money necessary to maintain it, or even trick it out. Once you pick a vehicle, wait 10 picks until you select another.

My pick. You know it…

In case you forgot, the Millenium Falcon did the Kessel Run in less than 12 parsecs. Don’t know what a parsec is? Well then, fuck you. It’s fast. It can outrun Imperial starships. Not local bulk-cruisers, mind you. I’m talking about the big Corellian ships now. Bitchin. Although I never understood why Han Solo’s ride was the only ship in the galaxy that could jump into hyperspace. Whatever. It’s mine. You ain’t catchin’ me, baby!

Believe it or not, suicide isn’t always a lot of fun. It can tear apart families and scar loved ones for years to come, fortunately you’ll be too dead to care! These days there are so many ways to off oneself that it’s not always easy to keep abreast of the hot new trends in felo-de-se.

Even those of us who aren’t (currently) suicidal harbor thoughts of self-destruction, it’s as natural as jerkin’ it with a plastic bag over your head while you sit on a cattle prod. But what would be the most befitting way for you to shuffle loose the mortal coil? Everyone has had their own opinions dating back to 1942 when suicide was invented by young wordsmith William Shakespeare. His early visions of Ophelia’s relaxing soak in the creek and Romeo’s power-nap set the tone for the future of the game. Since then quitters the world over have expanded on these simple methods and thrown in their own special flair. So if you had a good run and were ready to call it a life how would you want to do the deed?

I’ll go ahead and kick off the draft with my first selection: Making friends with the ground!

As usual, we’ve got some rules. Follow them or your death may not be so optional.

1. You may not draft jump off of the bridge at Cornell, because that’s totally played out
2. Draft one method of death at a time
3. Wait a full ten picks in between draft picks
4. UPDATE: Must be PLAUSIBLE methods. Fucked to death by Angelina Jolie ain’t happenin’, pal.

If you are honestly suicidal you probably shouldn’t partake in this exercise or watch pre-season football.

I’ll be on vacation next week. And frankly, it’s well deserved. You might think it’s easy to come up with all these 8th-Grade level dick jokes. Well, it is. But still, I gotta punch all these keys to write them, and that can be tiring. So it’s off to the beach with me. I’ll be packed into a house with my parents, my wife, my daughter, my sister, my sister’s husband and child, my brother, and my brother’s wife and child. We may try and squeeze in a Japanese exchange student just for the hell of it. All with no air conditioning. Should be fucking AWESOME.

Anyway, to celebrate my week off, I‘m gonna try and pull off this rather tricky draft. These are movie locales or settings where you would like to have a few days to explore on your own. A good movie, of course, takes you to a whole new gay world, one you’d like to hang around in for a week or two. So let’s give this a shot. The rules. Pick ONE film and ONE specific setting. NO PORN. This can be any movie, and any time in history. It can also be fictional. Let’s assume you have money to spend in the location. But otherwise, your access to medical care and what not is the same as any other character in the film. Now, of course, some movies have multiple settings, and some do not. But once a film has been taken, no other setting can be taken from that movie. Once you pick a place, you must wait until 10 other places have been chosen.

Boy, that’s simple! Anyway, my choice is the Castle Anthrax from “Monty Python and the Holy Grail”

Eightscore young blondes, all between sixteen and nineteen and a half? All of whom are in need of a good spanking? Giggity. I’ll take Zoot first, then Dingo. Should be fun.

Yours in the comments.

There’s nothing worse than heading to a good restaurant and then ordering the wrong thing. This happened to me last week. You know the drill. You order something, and it’s pretty good. Then you take a bite of something the person next to your ordered, and a giant OH FUCK sign flashes in your head. Then you spend the rest of the meal in a deep state of regret, hoping the person next to you doesn’t finish their dish so you can pounce on it like a homeless person on half a drumstick.

Well, that isn’t happening in this draft. That’s right: it’s the restaurant where you’re eating your last meal. You’re going to die. How? Doesn’t matter. Death penalty. Cancer. Really bad hangnail. Whatever it is, you ain’t living much longer, so here’s your last chance to enjoy some food and libations. And the tab is on God, so you can order as much as you please, and stay as long as you please.

The rules? Pick a restaurant. It must still currently exist. After you pay the tab, you drop dead on the spot. So no, “I’ll pick any restaurant in Vegas and then go bang a hooker afterwards!” And no picking restaurants located in strip clubs and shit. Shut the fuck up and concentrate on the food. If you pick a chain restaurant, and they can range from McDonald’s to Nobu, all of its locations are off the board. Once you pick a joint, you must wait 10 picks until you choose another.

My pick is Murray’s Steakhouse in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

Murray’s may not be the world’s greatest restaurant. In fact, I’m quite sure it is not. Some in town even prefer Manny’s for steaks. I’m picking this one straight for sentimental reasons. I ate here when I was 14. Ordered the silver butter knife porterhouse. And you know what? You really could cut it with a butter knife. Fucking. Nice. Joey Browner sat three tables over from us. Joey Browner was a black belt in karate and my favorite Viking of all time. I bet he too has a wallet that says Bad Motherfucker. Did I have a good meal? I did.

Your turn.