The Titans are always at the leading edge of innovation in the NFL. For example, on Monday they just installed lights on one of the three fields at their training facility. Lights! The kind that run on some sorcery called el-ek-tris-soty. Sounds evil, but it grants them the ability to run drills at night without the use of a bordering phalanx of druids holding votive candles. Those druids are threatening to unionize, you know.

Here are some other additions the Titans eventually hope to add to training camp:

The forward pass.

Next year: concrete in the parking lot.

A can opener, so Albert Haynesworth doesn’t have to open groceries with his foot.

Mashed potatoes now made with potatoes

Water

Pillow cases now filled with pillows

Invites to wide receivers

Brisket with 30 percent less gym mats.

Really nice trough for LenDale

Shiny yard-marking rocks

Tabletop Pacman machine (not functioning)

Animals that perform the tasks of basic appliances, but not without giving you lip first

Wii Fit for LenDale (Jevon Kearse will use it though - old people love that shit)

Coach’s loudspeaker that operates on fist-pumping

Training camp is here! Training camp is here! Training camp is here! YEAAARRRGGHHH!!

/cream jeans

God, it’s just so nice to kinda not really have the NFL back. And if there’s anything that heralds the near-arrival of yet another NFL season, it’s that late-July/early-August time when your brain, as if on some sort of internal clock, says to you:

“Hey, you better get your fantasy league going, asshole.”

Oh, how I just adore planning for my fantasy season. Like any real NFL team (even the Lions!), this is the time of year when my record is 0-0 and the harsh survival-of-the-fittest process of the regular season has yet to cleave my spirit in two. I could win a championship year! I really could! This could be THE year, fuckos! God dammit, it’s fun to be so naïve.

This is the time of year when I run to the newsstand to pick the $8 fantasy annual that will give me terrible, terrible advice. I never pick the same one. One year I went with Street and Smith’s, which I think is published sometime around February 1st. Another year I went with Pro Football Weekly’s. That one was okay. Then I tried Lindy’s, which isn’t fit to line a snake cage. And don’t even get me started on Athlon. I swear it’s written by some sort of computer program. Worst of all, last year I picked the ESPN annual. Dunno why I did that. If you like your fantasy football delivered with Poochie-sized doses of synergized attitude, plus Mike & Mike’s gay bantering in written form, that’s the annual for you.

All of these annuals will help you compile your draft board, a draft board I assure you’ll end up deviating from during the draft (“Wait, maybe I should take Marques Colston instead of Calvin Johnson! FUCK IT, I’M DOING IT!”). But none of them will help with the most important preparation of all: naming your squad.

Well, we here at KSK are here to help. Time to bring back our now annual fantasy team naming guide. Tired of naming your team Magic Man And El Diablo, like you do every year? Well, fear not. Once again, we break it down by category.

Dirty Names
-Mangy Little Pussyflaps
-Sexy Friday Flautas
-Dana Cuntstubblefield
-Chief Executive Boners
-Fuckshovels
-Shovelfucks
-Ladyfingerers
-Fuck Town
-A Bunch Ah Fackin’ Dahkies
-Dongbones
-Nutz On Ya Chin
-Faceless Pussies
-Ass Hammers
-Giant Snatches
-Cockpunchers
-Nipple Pullers
-Chocolate Dongs
-Fuck Lions

Film/TV/Music/Internet References
-Jenkem Huffers
-Tiny Brained Wipers Of Other People’s Bottoms
-Not Your Fwiends, Guy
-Vertimaids
-Leeeeeeeeerrrroyyyyyyyyyy Jennnnnkemmmmmm!!!!
-Tell Me How My Ass Tastes
-Bologna Hammers
-Cock Swallowing Toilet Rapists
-Steaming Bags Of Pony Cunt
-Johnny Human Torches
-Friend-O’s
-We Are The Third Revelation
-Bastards From A Basket
-Hey, That’s My Asshole!
-Hayden Panettiere Hymen Busters
-Guitar Queeros
-YOU. ARE. FAGS.

Football/KSK References:
-Kellen Kolber’s 12 Dads
-Cooley’s Bag o Dicks
-Sean Taylor’s Thigh Hole
-Tedy Bruschi’s Skull Clot
-Kenny’s Suitcase Midgets
-The Fightin’ Cutlers
-Santonio’s Dong Rodeo
-Chubtards
-Shawn Merriman: Office Rapist
-Brady’s Bunch O Cock
-Biff Kings
-The Worst Team Dan Snyder Can Buy
-My Sauces
-Favraros
-Emmitt Smith’s Debaclers
-Matt Jones Toilet Rail
-Ken Stabler’s Ass Stapler
-Cedric’s Sun Chips
-$1000 Bounty on Daunte Culpepper
-Defenestrators
-Jack Nastys
-Billy Belichick’s MILF-Hunters
-Rainmakers
-Todd Sauerbrun’s Gaping Vag
-Joe Simpson’s Daughter Touching Company
-WELKAHHHHHS
-Reggie Bush’s Tush Regiment
-Brett Favre’s Intercepted Texts
-Emmitt Smith’s Guide To Renuciation and Dicked-chin
-Matty Ice Bukkake Latte
-Jerramy Stevens’ Mickey Slippers
-Smirre If You Want Team Win

News References
-McCain: Let’s Get Silly
-Tim Russert’s Humble Infarction
-God Damn Americans
-Hezbollahs Fist Bumps
-Angelina’s Adopted Children
-Michelle Obama, Whitey Receiver Coach
-Obama Been Fondlin’
-Heath Ledger’s Ambien Stash
-Holy Gay Bissingers
-Amy Winehouse Dead By Week 3
-Teddy Kennedy’s, Er Uh, Tumahs

Puns
No pun teams this year. You’re better than that!

Yours in the comments. Get ready for fantasy football, gang.

BREAKING NEWS! Brett Favre has sent the Packers a text message! It’s true! Huzzah! OMG! OMFG! :o!!!!!!!!

A message from the Gunslinger himself! What a truly historic occurrence! What an amazing milestone in NFL history! I can barely keep my pants on, I’m so blown away! I may have to go masturbate with the GOOD shower soap tonight!

No one knows what the text message said, but we do know he did indeed send it. Breathtaking. I’m also being told that Brett Favre may have also tried to contact the Packers via AIM, but that the Packers couldn’t get the fucking chat room to open.

Well, we at KSK are quite adept at navigating these kooky intertubes. As with anything Favre shoots off, this message was easily intercepted. Favre sent the Packers no less than a dozen messages. Here they are.

JK ABOUT RETIRING

U GOT QB 4 GUNSLNGN?

CN CUM BK NOW? KTHXBAI!

SUX 2B ARRON

OMG! A-RODG B SO GAY!

DEANNA IZ BORIN.

#4 NEEDS PK BJ ASAP

MOOR INTS PLS

BETTR HOPE I DONT GET ITCH 2 GET U FIRED LOLZ

WHEN DID I GET A CELL PHONE?

I’M SO RAVEN!

GOT 2 B A VIK NOW L8RS

PAIN KILLERZ 2 SPENSIV IN REEL WRLD

4′S BOYESH INTHUZIAZM FTW

DO U KNOW # 4 LIKKER STORE???

And here was Ted Thompson’s texted reply:

FU CKSKR

The Chiefs drew the ire of the part of the football world that can still pay attention this time of the year when they announced they were banning fans from standing during games, even though their fat does that for them. The motive is unknown, presumably standing enables fans to properly gauge the fucktasticality of the home team.

Hoping to counteract the ignominy heaped on the Chiefs (more so), an enterprising journo from the KC Star scanned fan conduct codes around the league and found that the Steelers remove fans for “displays of affection not appropriate in a public setting,” which seems downright humanitarian in Pittsburgh.

Naturally, we had to come up with some more.

The Bengals have prohibited criminal defense attorneys in attendance from throwing their business cards in the direction of the sidelines.

Groundskeepers barred from entering Heinz Field.

The Oakland Raiders have banned pikes and garrottes from the Black Hole. Blunt instruments are still acceptable.

Georgia Dome: No dogs.

Viking fans are now banned from making any noise, so as not to distract from the piped-in noise.

The Eagles have ban against any fan behavior deemed “overtly civil”. Also, no batteries smaller than Double-A.

Gillette Stadium:

-Patriot fans must check all hoods and robes at Gate B.
-No daaaahkies
-No YANKEES FAGGOTS
-Hate crimes punishable by three-minute time out.

The Jets have a ban prohibiting attractive women from baring their breasts. Only the homely may do as such.

Panther fans MUST bring their own spittoons.

If you don’t eat at least two servings of poutines at a Bills game, they’ll polite ask you to do it again.

Packers fans under 3 bills must double up in their seats to accommodate the fatties.

Qwest Field:

-No original cheering themes
-No cumming on Maurice Morris’ hair
-No smiling
-No walking around without an iPod
-No sunshine
-No walking around without a messenger bag or mood journal

Dolphins fans are required to quit being old and Jewish.

Chargers fans are required to commit to a Hispanic street gang before halftime.

Ford Field:

-No FIRE MIllen signs
-No FIRE Marinelli signs
-No fire drill for the PAT team
-No fires
-No fire extinguishers
-No fire exits
-No Firestone tires

The men’s bathrooms at Monster Park are for gay sex acts ONLY.

Jaguar fans are officially banned from giving a shit.

The Superdome:
-No sober people
-No shoes, please
-No raping in the upper deck before 10PM
-No waiting for the President to show up

No more Cardinal fans are allowed to write for that fucking New York Magazine.

Broncos fans must bring own barrel.

Rams fans are prohibited from leaving the game early in order to get on the road well in advance of Leonard Little.

Colts fans are banned from wearing any garment that is not considered official apparel of the NFL.

Ticket takers at Texans’ stadium required to ask “You sure you at the right place?”

Tennessee: No. Receivers. Allowed. On. Premises.

Saints fans only admitted if they have a California driver’s license.

M&T Bank Stadium:

-Heads and appendages must be sorted into proper receptacles
-Minimum two crack rocks per hot dog purchased. Three per hot dog stolen.
-Women’s hair at least two feet high

Texas Stadium:

-No Democrats
-No badmouthing oil companies
-No surgically-untouched faces or breasts
-No humility

Los Angeles pro football fans are hereby ordered to exist.

Bills fans are prohibited from crossing the border with any deux deux deuxs.

Sadia Morrison (pictured, seriously), who was convicted for her role in the infamous Pacman Jones strip club shooting, was found dead in New York last Friday. Morrison was a stylist for several NFL players, and had previously worked for Vibe magazine. Apparently, she died after being thrown from a building.

Yikes. That’s some Hitchcockian shit right there.

[ photo: JAMD ]

Brooklyn, New York, present day

Actually, no. This isn’t a guide at all. It’s too fucking hot to piece together the necessary expository skills to create something as useful as a guide.

Maybe you’re in one of the places in the country that isn’t having its fourth consecutive humid day in the high 90s. If that’s the case, fuck you. But for those of you who ARE suffering at the moment, you’re no doubt having to withstand the insipid and inevitable small-talk conversation that always, always, ALWAYS goes like this:

Guy: “Man, it’s hot.”
You: “SO hot.”
Guy: “I mean really hot.”
You: “Seriously.”

Well, fuck that. Spice it up. Show that fucker that he doesn’t know hot, YOU know hot. Mix it up with these handy phrases:

- “It’s Africa hot.”
- “It’s Do The Right Thing hot.”
- “It’s Officer Miller hot.” (”A man’s not supposed to notice or say anything, he’s just supposed to stand there with a big smile on his face. Stand there, in his thick, scratchy, blue uniform. Maybe he forgot to wear his t-shirt that day, and his nipples are on fire! Because they’ve been rubbed raw against the stiff wool…” )
- “Tarzan couldn’t take dis kinda hot!” (Biloxi Blues)
- “Hotter’n two cats fucking in a wool sock.”
- “Today on the countryside it was a-hotter than a crotch/I stood alone upon the ridge and all I did was watch” (Bob Dylan, “Tough Mama”)
- “What is this, a Faulkner novel?”
- “I can’t tell whether my ass is sweating or if this is just diarrhea.”
- “I feel like Korey Stringer.”

So… maybe not that last one.

According to the top headline on NFL.com this morning, the Kansas City Chiefs “believe in Croyle.” And why wouldn’t an eternal optimist like Herm Edwards believe in the guy whose completion percentage fell just one and a half points behind the Tarvaris Jackson? Hell, one time he threw for 216 yards…in one game!

At KSK we’ve managed to get inside the collective head of the midwest’s most consistently mediocre franchise to see just what else the Chiefs believe.

The Chiefs believe…

that Kelli Croyle’s bountiful protuberances were crafted by their Christian God.

that Dad just went out for some smokes and will be back home anytime now

in the Great Pumpkin. Largely because they see Ryan Sims every day.

in evolution, except for the whole Triassic period.

that they can fly, that they can touch the sky.

that an R Kelly impostor is fucking 13 year-olds to hurt his album sales.

that John McCain will live another four years.

in the soul, the cock, the pussy, the small of a woman’s back, the hanging curve ball, high fiber, good scotch, and that the novels of Susan Sontag are self-indulgent, overrated crap.

But most of all, they believe in a thing called love…

…just as long as it’s between a man and a woman and it has nothing to do whatever the hell was in that video. They are Missourians, after all.

Gah! The owners opted out of the labor deal! Oh, FUCK! What are we gonna do? Seriously, WHAT THE FUCK ARE WE GONNA DO?! Yeah, I know this doesn’t affect the league for the next two years. BUT WHAT ABOUT THE YEAR AFTER THAT?! What if there’s no football in 2010? Oh, God. Oh, dear God. I can’t feel my arm! I think my system is shutting down!

You can’t just go and DO something like this, you NFL owner shitbags. I’ve already gone three and a half months with NO football this year. I’m ready to eat my young. Oh, if only I could hibernate like a bear, or like Brian Wilson, and wake up refreshed for the NFL season. Instead, I have to watch the FUCKING SPURS. WOE TO US ALL!!!!

Well, I’m not taking this laying down, you robber baron shitbags. I took it upon myself to sneak into league offices last night. That’s right! Frankie the security guard melts at the sight of a fresh box of Ding Dongs. And once I told the receptionist I was Dr. Rosenpenis, she let me right into the records room. EASY AS PIE, YOU COCKPUMPERS.

As a result, I have discovered the list of owner demands for the new labor deal. And I’m making it public, just to rob you of your precious, precious leverage. THIS IS WHAT YOU GET WHEN YOU FUCK AN NFL FAN IN THE ASS, GOODELL.

Dan Snyder: Mandatory Redskins title, corpse of father exhumed for public viewing and worship

Jerry Jones: Extra fat men to poke, league subsidy to begin own space program, additional skin grafts to repair Dr. Lipschitz’s handiwork

Jeffrey Lurie: Separate stadium jail for Reid children, so that Eagle fans are forced to find alternative meth source

The Citizens Of Green Bay: More elastic pants, stoplight installed outside of driveway to new donut shop

Zygi Wilf: Fully operational stadium in Los Angeles, admission from the people of Minnesota that Jews make them somewhat uneasy.

William Clay Ford: Nothing. Everything’s super!

The McCaskey Family: Purchase of vacant lots to commission additional acts of architectural rape upon Windy City landscape

Bill Bidwill: Written statement from players that they will turn off all lights before leaving team facility. What is he, the goddamn power company?!

The Mara Family: Extra home game every year at the expense of displaced flood refugees, permanent Giants Stadium position for Super Bowl clock manager

Malcolm Glazer: A second team, plus a good ol’ fashioned barn raisin’

Tom Benson: Player-funded, $200 billion Category 5 levees for greater New Orleans, so he can finally move the team without feeling a shred of guilt

Wayne Weaver: Fans

Jerry Richardson: Competent training staff, mandatory fulfillment of any Sports Illustrated preseason prediction

Arthur Blank: Pillow for Michael Vick, cup of hot soup for Michael Vick, some toast with jam for Michael Vick, electric blanket for Michael Vick. Are you okay, Michael?

The Frontiere Family: eharmony.com profile for Georgia, so she can finally land that eighth husband she was always looking for. Some necrophiliac’s gotta be feeling frisky

Denise York: Contraction of team, monthlong stay in Corsica with Janusz, her personal trainer. God, this football stuff is so STUPID!

Paul Allen: Written promise from players that they will find Justin Long and beat the ever-loving fuck out of him. God, he’s like the second coming of Jimmy Fallon.

Robert Kraft: Nanny cams, the continued league-wide cover-up of any wrongdoing, mandatory “Negro Tax” on all African-American Gillette Stadium visitors

Ralph Wilson: His reading glasses! For God’s sake, what did you with his reading glasses?! He left them right in the medicine cabinet, and now they’re gone! How’s he supposed to read this crazy thing?

Wayne Huizenga: Separate training table for players that Parcells won’t know about

Woody Johnson: Full refund for purchase of Jets, bottle of shampoo that delivers on No More Tears promise

Dan Rooney: Kids off lawn

Mike Brown: Contract clause stating that any player on injured reserve must work the concession stand

Randy Lerner: A copy of every college player’s mailing address, credit report and social security number

Steve Bisciotti: Kevlar vest, plus those little hard cookies you dip into your coffee. You know what he means? They usually come in odd flavors like anise seed. What do you call those things?

Jim Irsay: Mandatory attendance of performances featuring the jam band he started with Charles Dolan

Bob McNair: New expansion team to cover up the glaring failure of his own, preferably named the Utah Utahns.

Bud Adams: Daily rubdown from discreet Oriental 12-year-old

Pat Bowlen: Mandatory obedience training for wife’s Chihuahua. Christ, that little fucker just shits all over the fucking place

Alex Spanos: Mandatory de-douching symposium for all active quarterbacks

Clark Hunt: The CLARK Hunt trophy, god dammit. WHAT ARE YA GONNA DO ABOUT IT, OLD MAN?!

Al Davis: One quart of fresh baby’s blood per hour

[Morton's Steakhouse. Lance Briggs sits at a table, scrolling through his BlackBerry]

Briggs: Hmm… Lessee. Google “Lance Briggs.” Nice! Check out all these results! Lance Briggs Wikipedia page… Lance Briggs personal website… Lance Briggs re-signs with Bears… WHAT? “Lance Briggs, Certifiably Insane, Is Unhappy with the Contract He Signed Last Month“? Man, that is some BULLSHIT.

Waiter: Your iced tea, sir.

Briggs: Thank you.

[takes a sip]

Whoa whoa whoa, this tea is far too cold. We need to renegotiate some sort of de-icing deal.

Waiter: I’m sorry?

Briggs: Damn right you’re sorry. I wanted ICED tea, not frozen-ass tea.

Waiter: Oh, well I can pour some of that ice out. I’ll be right back.

Briggs: NO. You will give me an entirely new glass of iced tea with 50% less ice. No more, no less. Brian Urlacher assured me that I would get the glass of iced tea that I deserved. Did you not read that in the newspaper?

Waiter: I must have missed that, sir. I’ll be right back.

Briggs: Fucking IMPOSSIBLE to get decent service in this town.

[two minutes later]

Waiter: And here we — sir, did you switch tables?

Briggs: I gotta be able to see out the window. I can’t believe you’d insult me with a booth in the back. Who am I, Rosa Parks? And where’s my food? This engine burns a lot of fuel, knowwhamsayin’?

Waiter: Your entree will be out shortly.

[five minutes pass]

Briggs: [on phone] …you would NOT believe how cold it was. Like, what were they thinking? Who serves iced tea that cold? Oh hey, gotta go. Retard McFuckup’s coming back.

Waiter: The porterhouse, sir.

Briggs: STEAK?!? Who told you to bring me steak?

Waiter: You did, sir.

Briggs: Oh. Well yeah, but that was BEFORE I saw what the special looked like. Why didn’t you tell me the special looked that fucking delicious? I just got off the phone with my lawyer. This injustice will not be taken lightly.

Waiter: Sigh… which special do you want, sir?

Briggs: I want what that man’s having.

Waiter: The chicken. Very well. I’ll have it brought out.

Briggs: No, no. I want HIS chicken.

[twenty minutes later]

Waiter: Your dessert will be right out, sir. How was the Chicken purloin f’you?

Briggs: Not nearly as good as the chicken the 49ers would have gotten me.

Waiter: Very good, sir. And here comes your dessert.

Briggs: Man, what is this shit? I ordered crème brûlée!

Waiter: Sir, this is crème brûlée [points at menu] See, “liqueur infused custard, topped with caramelized sugar.”

Briggs: Well, what’s the one that comes in different flavors with jokes on the inside of the wrapper?

Waiter: Laffy Taffy?

Briggs: Motherfucker, you should have known that’s what I meant.

Usually the Kill, Kill, Kill features are in video form. However, this picture was too freaking crazy not to post.

Every so often in Florida, a bleary meth-head, in the midst of a fleeting moment of clarity, will realize that his decision to make a pet of a Burmese python was a poor one– and the snake is unceremoniously set loose into the Everglades. When the python crosses paths with some of the indigenous wildlife what ensues can best be described as illegal immigration: reptile style.

The Burmese python tried to swallow its fearsome rival whole but then exploded. The python’s remains were found with the victim’s tail protruding from its burst midsection.

The photo shows the gruesome aftermath. The alligator, in a testament old-fashioned American determination, refused to give up merely because he had been eaten alive– spending his final moments making sure he took the Asian invader with him. The park ranger says that he is aware of four similar encounters– all either won by the gator or like this one, a mortal draw. USA! USA! USA!

This is hardly the first time that a dismembered snake has been used to represent North American nationalism. Benjamin Franklin’s well known political cartoon at the left advocated colonial solidarity. The sentiment draw upon the old myth that a chopped up snake, if left in a bag overnight, would magically reassemble. Kind of like the myth I currently subscribe to about chopped up hookers.