Our excitement over the fallout from the Super Bowl has plateaued, with the only items of note today being Brandon Jacobs telling Gisele to shut up, Kurt Warner stoking tedious “Is Eli a Hall of Famer yet?” discussions and Greg Jones’ mom appearing less than thrilled about her son’s on-field proposal to this white woman. While we wait a few days before the Bucs decide to already fire Greg Schiano, we’re left to make more fun of our own, preferably at the expense of our favorite anti-football poetry enthusiast, Peter King. Watching Super Bowl postgame interviews, I noticed PK shoehorning himself in the camera shot like an everyday me-first GLORY BOY. At first, I wasn’t sure why I found the image funny, but then we realized that his bewildered expression lent itself well to Photoshops, and that was all the inspiration we needed. Laughable face, PK has it.
‘Shops after the jump. As always, you’re encouraged to add your own in the comments, whether you be an Elite 15er or not.
According to Philip Rivers, yesterday was the “worst day ever.” But aside from blowing a potential win for the second straight week, what had Marmalard feeling so down? Continue after the jump for an exclusive breakdown of his terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
Every Halloween, the KSK staff joins together to eat candy and brainstorm creative costume ideas for notable NFL figures. Mostly though, we eat candy. God, I live a snack-size Butterfinger. The way it flattens out at the end, giving you a perfect entry bite into the crunchy peanut buttery goodness? So, so good. NO ONE DENIES THIS. Anyway, here is our list of costumes. By all means, add your in the comments. Here we go:
Andy Reid – Oogie Boogie from “The Nightmare Before Christmas”
KSK’s favorite nutmeg evangelist, Peter King, spent yesterday tooling around Texans camp in search of the type of Munchakian nuggets that made this week’s MMQB column so devastatingly depressing to Titans fans. And what was PK able to deliver to his adoring public? That Wade Phillips awards raisin roundies (his special no-raisin recipe!) for each pass deflection? Not even! Instead, we got a bratty quote from Cole Cameron Leinart, son of quarterbacking virtuoso Matt, that fully illustrates that the apple doesn’t fall far from the apple-scented Axe body spray tree.
Ignoring the sad fact that it might be PK’s best piece of original reportage all year, we were left to wonder what other kinds of things Lil’ Leinart is saying. Follow us on a thought experiment in which we use a small child as a vehicle to make cruel jokes about his father. You won’t feel scummy at all!
Come, gather ’round, ye scalawags. The seas be quiet, the air is still, and it’s past time that Old Bill filled your head wi’ t’ truth of this fine ship, t’ privateer Grantland.
Yarrr, Old Bill were not always t’ captain o’ t’ swiftest ship on t’ seven seas. True, they call me t’ Dread Pirate Simmons now, but in me younger years, I were no more ‘n Barnacle Bill, a lowly barhand in t’ Bay Colony, scribblin’ out me thoughts and tossin’ them into t’ briny morass. But aye, those bottled messages traveled far and wide, they did. The voice of Barnacle Bill, the stories of me voyages, me misadventures wi’ Blackjacko and First Mate Sal, gained me entry into t’ fearsome Espanish arrrrrmada.
I were little more’n a deckhand back then, but me work ethic and tireless production gained me followers, aye. Sailors and surfers alike appreciate that I’m lowborn, like them. Me father were a simple gold prospector:
Aye, look at me. A tadpole I were back then, smooth-faced and two-eyed. ‘Twas afore I took a broken bottle t’ me porthole whilst celebratin’ t’ victory of t’ Red Stockings, back in aught-four. Worth it, says I.
Where were I? Aye, me rise troo t’ ranks.
I spake t’ the common hand, I did. For I knew e’ery young landlubber enjoys T’ Karrrrrate Kid, and even t’ lowest bilge rat knows t’ career of Ryan Reynolds, t’is not SEAWORTHY! His pictures be sinkin’ ships all. Yarrr, denied by none!
Wi’ wisdom an’ insights like that, I soon helmed t’ most fearsome corsair in the Espanish arrrrmada, stocked full from bow t’ stern wi’ t’ most bloodthirsty an’ loyal pyrates ye’d never survive meetin’. Arrr, me fame and notoriety struck fear in t’ empire, it did. Tired o’ fightin’ an’ pillagin’ alongside slow-witted landlubbers like DJ Gallows, I brokered a separation o’ sorts from Espain. Oh, sure, t’ queen gets her cut o’ t’ Grantland‘s gold, but this here be Simmons’s ship.
Me ship, me hand-picked crew o’ swaggerin’ pyrates o’ prose. Klosterman, t’ Viking Pussy. He’ll kill yer brain wi’ his trickery, fashionin’ stupid arguments about meanin’less shite. T’ mountainous Wright Thompson. He’ll drink ya under t’ table an’ stick ya wi’ t’ bill. An’ we got a diverse crew o’ young’uns we stole out t’ scuppers o’ jollyboats: t’ wench Baker, a well-spake Negro, an’ a jolly giant from t’ Northlands named Jonah. Out from t’ belly o’ t’ whale he came, says I.
Wi’ this fine seasoned crew, Old Bill barely needs t’ touch t’ rudder o’ Grantland, seein’ t’ way she steers herself. Most hours, I rest easy in me stateroom, workin’ — if ye call it that — on what I pray’ll be a 10,000 word retellin’ o’ t’ finest tale e’er put to screen:
Old salts tell the tale of an accursed lad. When the moon grows full, the wretch assumed the form and manner of the dreaded fenris–surfing the streets atop his father’s hardware store van, as dolphins play in the wake of a ship.
Every year we do this fantasy naming guide, but I’m especially happy to present it to you this year because, of course, there almost wasn’t fantasy football at all. And how terrible would that have been? No choosing an offensive team name. No hoping to organize a live draft with all your KRAYZEE BUDDIES IN VEGAS, only to have your plans fall through and organize a Yahoo! draft that features a disappointingly low amount of chat in the chat box, with people bailing after the sixth round. No looking at your draft haul and realizing you hate your team. No dropping players in Week 2 who magically turn into perma-studs in Week 3. No sitting there impotently while Chad, that dickhead from sales, cruises to the title for the fourth straight year and pretends he knows a lot about football WHEN IT’S ALL LUCK, I TELL YOU! ALL DUMB LUCK!
None of that. Which would be horrible.
So it’s with great relief that I bring you this year’s fantasy naming guide. These name suggestions have been painstakingly hand-crafted over the course of the year (or past two hours), and they are yours to do with as you see fit. There are NO Charlie Sheen jokes on this list. If you use a Charlie Sheen joke, you deserve to be kicked out of your league for being a tit. The best fantasy name is one that amuses you and/or disgusts others throughout the course of the entire season. And so these names were conceived with an EVERGREEN feel in mind. Let us begin:
Well well well, if it isn’t Tom Brady in a gingham suit (or seersucker, you can fight about it in the comments) and a wide-brimmed hat at the Kentucky Derby this weekend. PLUS stubble and Wayfarers and uncut hair? Why, he’s equal parts southern gentleman and urban hipster. He’s practically inviting us to judge his appearance — but don’t YOU fall into that trap. He’s just being Tom Brady: Troll Genius. When Brady wasn’t making fashion statements you hated this weekend, he was busy doing the following:
Asking attractive southern belles if they’d gained weight.
Bad-mouthing Robert E. Lee.
“This is almost as exciting as a Big Ten football game!”
Going up to Animal Kingdom after the race and saying, “Nice shoes, asshole.”
Placing a thousand-dollar bet on every horse, because parading a winning ticket around is more gratifying than the money.
“Louisville Slugger museum? Dude, you know they make aluminum bats now, right?”
Telling football fans that he “totally gets” where NFL owners are coming from.
“This is nothing. Last year Gisele and I attended the Dubai World Cup as personal guests of Sheikh Mansour bin Zayed bin Sultan Al Nahyan.”
Punching horses.
Swerving on 31W to bait cops into pulling him over for DUI, then passing the Breathalyzer.
Parking his car on the grass in front of the hotel. “What? I thought that’s what you do here.”
Declining mint juleps by saying, “No thanks, I’m a scotch man.”
By now you’ve probably seen the ESPN segment in which Tom Brady cries while recounting the story of being drafted in the sixth round in 2000 (video below, also at Deadspin). It’s anyone’s guess whether this is a genuinely emotional moment or part of super-troll master plan, but it’s certainly not an isolated case of tears. In a KSK EKSKLUSIVE, we’ve learned through sources that Tom Brady cries in countless scenarios:
The latest Japanese earthquake
Rory McIlroy’s back nine
All of the attention being paid to Peyton Manning’s twins
The Sarah MacLachlan ASPCA commercial
Watching his favorite Borders closing up shop for the last time
Favorite
Retweet
Reply
![[avatar]](http://p.uproxxcdn.com/global/images/default-avatar.jpg){kind=avatar}
