We had assumed, as you yourself almost certainly had, that the whole Spygate fiasco was officially dead and buried. Not so, sayeth noted statesman and eater of fresh dog shit Arlen Specter, who is feverishly trying to resuscitate this motherfucker so bad that one would think it was casting the deciding vote in a defense-of-marriage amendment.

The Republican senator from Someplace is calling for an independent investigation, citing baseball’s Mitchell report as some sort of precedent. Specter seems to pay no regard to the facts that (a) George Mitchell was not serving in the United States Senate at any time during the production of that report, (b) Mitchell came forward at Baseball’s request, and (c) Arlen Specter is an Eagles fan, and therefore unfit for public service, or any other sort of gainful employment. We also had a (d) fact, but it included a punch line with a very obscure reference to NASA, and we weren’t sure anyone was going to get that.

Those of us here at KSK were fortunate enough to acquire a complete transcript of the Specter press conference, along with am added bonus — transcripts of private remarks Specter made after the conference was concluded. Unfortunately, these items were delivered to us by a visually-impaired, moped-riding chimpanzee named Mindy, who we rely on for most of our political news, since she has unique access to the underbelly of the political scene.

And she has her own moped.

But Mindy’s latest delivery to us was jumbled and confusing; the two transcripts were mixed together, along with four pages of a Peter Pan coloring book and pages 16-25 of the screenplay of the 1982 box office hit Tootsie, starring Dustin Hoffman.

At this point we were ready to say, “Fuck it, let’s not do a transcript post,” until the phone rang. It was one of those automated customer-service surveys, and I promptly hung up. Sure, it had nothing to do with the issue of the transcript, but the disruption to our thought process was significant enough that when pressed with the choice of resuming the diligence of our chore or, say, making one of those frozen skillet dinners out of a bag, that we headed directly to the kitchen. That was a very long sentence.

We don’t remember which frozen skillet dinner we enjoyed — I want to say Teryaki Chicken and Fried Rice, but don’t hold me to that — but after finishing and leaving the dishes out on the counter for someone else to clean up after us, our strategem evolved from “Fuck the transcript” to “Fake the transcript.”

That is, we decided to falsify a given amount of substance to justify the presence of our post that sought to oppose a Midwestern conservative dickbag that was wasting everyone’s time for his own benefit.

And, to that end, we present this artifically-conceived-yet-somehow-very-authentic-looking-document detailing the senator’s remarks in an easy-to-follow, bullet-point format that may or may not feature a gratuitous amount of hyphens.

(You can click this fucker to view it now. That was my bad before.)

Thank you and good night.

Golly, this is great weather for a walk. It’s such a beautiful day. Sometimes you just have to make time and take a stroll through the neighborhood. Some folks have said this community’s lost a bit of its luster. How can they say that when everything looks so beautiful? Did I make that change to my 401(k) last week? I’ll have to call my accountant in the morning to make sure.

Wait a second. Wait just a…who the fuck is that? That’s not…nooooo….is that…a black guy? Oh fuck. He IS black! OH FUCK OH FUCK OH FUCK! A black person in my neighborhood! Okay, okay, just relax, Bob. Maybe it’s Wayne Brady. You like him from that one show, remember?

Oh no, that’s not Wayne Brady. Holy shit, holy shit, I can’t relax now! What about my kids?!?! They’re all gonna do drugs now! I can almost hear the value of my house plummeting. And the real estate market’s in such a bear cycle as it is!

Oh my Christ, he’s coming closer! Oh shit, I’m trapped! If I cross the street, that makes me a racist! My wife’s friends will never let me live it down! Oh, God, I wish I was a cop so I could just shoot him and get it over with. Ack! He’s almost upon me! Please don’t kill me, sir! I’ll give you my wallet and you can buy all the Colt 45 you want! Oh God, he’s gonna ask for my wallet! Will some other white person over 40 please help me! HELP ME!

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Oh, fuck, that was close. I better cut over a block and jog home, before he gets to my house and tries to steal my car.

Well well well. Look who just got scraped off the track.

Listen here, bitch. You may think you’re somebody. You might think that your tragic end got some of us weepy up here. You might even think that just because you came in second that you might have a little more clout up here than Big B. Well guess what, you dirty little slut. I own this fucking town. Which means I own you. Let that percolate in your little horse brain for a minute.

Actually, It’s a good thing you showed up, because I’ve done nothing but jerk off into that long skinny tube for over a year. Oh, sure, I could bang some of the broads up here, but they don’t do it for me. I like athletes. And I’ve got a feeling that you’re gonna like me, too. Like me in your ass, that is.

First thing I’m gonna do is walk you over here and fuck the cocktease right out of you. You’ve never had a gluestick like mine. You think that jockey rode you into the ground? You have no idea. Now hold still. Lemme just get…ah, there we go. Oooh, damn. Baby, you’re so wet. I knew you wanted me. I could hear it in your neigh. You want my cock, bitch? Here we go. Oh, shit, you feel–Ohhh. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. OH SWEET MOTHER FUCKER!! AND DOWN THE STRETCH I COME!!!! AAAHHHHHH!!!!! OH GOD!!!!! AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!

Oooohh, uuugghh. Whoa. Baby, I swear, I usually go a lot longer than that.

Matt Ryan breaks two tackles at once against Notre Dame. That’s how shitty Notre Dame was this year.

What you’re seeing is a camera phone pic of the Carolina Thunder softball team soliciting outside of the Wal-Mart in Travelers Rest, South Carolina. From what I can tell, the team is made up of 12- and 13-year-old girls, which you would only find interesting if you happened to be a Japanese businessman or a lonely junior high school teacher.

I hope this team is good at softball, because their soliciting outside of a Wal-Mart on a rainy day DURING AN ECONOMIC DOWNTURN WHILE THESE SPOILED LITTLE BITCHES ARE WEARING CUSTOMIZED PULLOVERS WITH NUMBERS ON THE BACKS doesn’t strike me as a positive PR move.

If I could openly give these young ladies some advice, it would be this:

At least make some remotely uncalloused effort for my donation. I don’t care what you do. FUCKING BAKE SOMETHING, maybe. Don’t stand in front of a discount store and hold an empty bucket in front of me and expect me to fill it. My Diet Sam’s Choice Cola gets higher priority over your dipshit redneck fuckface parents trying to make you feel important. It’s best you realize your place in the world now, so that when you get married at 19 and have three kids before you turn 25, you don’t have delusions that you could have amounted to something with your sorry little Dixie dick-gobbling life.

You can fill that bucket with a handful of kiss my ass. Fuck your softball team and fuck you.

Even though some of the commentary about Mike coming out of the blogger closet is reaching some pretty incredible levels of interest, coverage, and commenter rage, this asshole would argue that the attention is well-deserved. Not everyone will understand this.

Excuse me for pointing out one more time that we’ve been hearing the same shit from everyone for some time. Bloggers are just incompetent fools in our parents’ basements. Bloggers face no accountability. Bloggers aren’t really journalists. And granted, one or more of those purported axioms may be true in a given instance. Here, they were certainly not.

Which is why Mike’s firing strikes me as so…I don’t even have a word for it. I mean, he owns a condo! He had a career working for one of the largest newspapers in the world. He was a fucking journalist! For the Washington Post! Motherfucker was behind enemy lines the whole time, knowing that, as all bloggers (and commenters) know, that discovery would almost certainly lead to termination.

It’s already been pointed out that Mike probably knew the futility of attempting to converge his two writing lives, though no one can seem to give a good reason why. The Post is now telling people that he resigned, which is interesting, given that he was escorted out by security. This event and the subsequent fallout are nothing short of amazing, really. And inspiring.

So inspiring, in fact, that we’re commemorating the event with a special set of KSK garmentry in Mr. Tunison’s honor.

The Christmas Ape tee comes in men’s and women’s cuts. We’ve also included a special cami, just for fun. And if you’re not down with the whole Steeler-inspired motif, you can change the color of the shirt before ordering (our advice: stick to the dark colors).

We don’t always salute our own. Today, we do. As The Maj would say, Mazal Tov, Mr. Ape.

You probably saw Drew’s eloquent remarks on Deadspin yesterday regarding Rick Reilly’s uninspired commentary about the sports blogosphere, followed by Drew’s subsequent deconstruction of the viewpoint of that “privileged journalist.” Despite being a bit light on homoerotica, Drew’s piece was, as usual, very good.

Too good, really.

Too often we bloggers look at the criticisms of the mainstream press as opportunities, as chances to prove that we are somehow deserving of our audiences, of being in the conversation. Often, this results in an overextension of prose and an overuse of reason. I SHALL SMITE YOU WITH COHERENT, THOUGHTFUL ARGUMENTS! And so we’re left with a well-bundled acknowledgment of their bitching and moaning that those types don’t really deserve.

Drew may as well have been reading poetry to a pig yesterday. Reilly is a third-tier fuckhead that’s not worthy of a rational counter-argument. You know what he’s worthy of? Getting handcuffed to a bike rack and shit on. Literally speaking, he deserves a response in kind. And so, I present a little something I’d like to call Rick Reilly Gargles Cocksnot.

Enjoy:

Rick Reilly thinks the Concorde is ruining the legacy of trans-Atlantic travel.

Rick Reilly thought Monty Python and the Holy Grail was “just okay.”

Rick Reilly speaks fluent Spanish, but finds it beneath him.

Despite having great access for the Masters, the excutive council at Augusta National insist on denying him entrance to any of the washrooms on the grounds, leaving him only a shallow latrine near the second fairway.

The council has also forbidden women from using this latrine. Mr. Reilly thinks this is bogus, but enjoys the amenities of the club too much to raise any sort of fuss.

Rick Reilly fucked Christine Penner. And loved it.

Rick Reilly is still unsure how those nets are keeping the moles out of Africa.

Rick Reilly thinks that, despite Tiger Woods’ Thai heritage, Phil Mickelson is tangier.

Rick Reilly’s nose is 0.017 inches (0.04318 cm) longer than his penis, so we’ve heard.

Rick Reilly wasn’t going to test Sammy Sosa’s pee for steroids. He was just parched.

Rick Reilly owns two three-year-old chocolate Labrador Retrievers named “Blackie” and “Is Killing College Athletics.”

Rick Reilly once caddied for Michelle Wie without uttering “Me love you long time,” but later commented privately to friends about how well she added up her scorecard.

Rick Reilly credits his “humerous” style to former president Ulysses S. Grant.

Rick Reilly keeps 2 ounces of cocaine in his ass at all times, just in case Lawrence Taylor drops by.

And it’s not even in a bag. Gross!

Most of you already realize that Earth Hour took place last Saturday at 8 pm. The newly-created event designed to raise awareness for energy conservation was not a big hit with KSK’s Monday Morning Punter, and that contributor commemorates the event with a running diary of how he answered the World Wildlife Fund’s call to help the environment.

7:59 - Turned on every light in house, including both TVs, which are both in the living room. The 32-inch and 19-inch sets are tuned to CBS and FOX, respectively. The PlayStation 2, despite not being used, is also turned on, but with no game in the system.

8:02 - Answered the door from disgruntled next-door neighbor complaining about “light pollution” and how I’m not “doing [my] part.” Gives a confused look when I scold him for lack of butane conservation after he lights up a cigarette.

8:06 - Order two large pizzas from Papa John’s, Pizza Hut, and Domino’s. Tell each person taking my order that I will tip generously if the pizza arrives before 9, but insist that if the pies arrive right at 9 or later, I will not pay.

8:09 - Wife calls and tells me she’s running late from work. I remember that I have a wife. I leave the cell phone on the table.

8:12 - Throw one sock in washing machine. Set wash cycle for a full load with hot water. Without soap.

8:17 - Pull out electric guitar and amp from closet and set up on front porch. Attempt to spraypaint PUNTER-PALOOZA in the front yard grass, but realize too late that I’ve made my letters too big.

8:19 - Ignore unattractive woman walking by that asks, “What’s PUNTE?”

8:24 - Papa John’s guy shows up during uninspiring solo performance of “Wild Thing.” I tip half the bill. Before tax, of course. Neighbor shows up (holding a candle) to complain about something after dropping his newspapers in the green bin by his garage, and then storms back into his house when I don’t offer him any pizza. He leaves in such a huff that he forgets his lighter.

8:31 - Go inside to take a shit. Realize I have no toilet paper, either on the roll or under the sink, but I do have a whole can of hairspray. I fumble through the wastebasket hoping to find a partially used tissue that I might have either bled on or blown my nose on, something that still has enough life that it could withstand one good wipe of the ass. I immediately abandon this plan when I realize that I would be, in fact, recycling.

8:36 - Cell phone rings, but I’m stuck on the shitter, so I can’t answer it.

8:40 - Finally suck it up and wipe ass with a picture of Kate Bosworth ripped out of Marie Claire. I mutter something sexual and unclever during the act. Flush toilet several times to make sure paper doesn’t clog the toilet.

8:42 - Fuck, the toilet did clog. Plunger time!

8:46 - Head back out to the front porch to start my second set when I hear a loud crash. I get outside and see that the Pizza Hut delivery driver has rear-ended the Domino’s delivery driver. I realize they’re both okay when I hear the Domino’s driver ask, “What’s PUNTE?”

8:51 - Shitbag neighbor comes back out during performance of “Louie Louie” and threatens to call the police, but gets shouted down by the Domino’s and Pizza Hut drivers, who are enjoying the show while they’re waiting for, ironically enough, the police to show up and take an accident report. But now the neighbor’s not backing down, and the three of them are shouting toe-to-toe.

8:53 - I run back inside to the bathroom and grab the can of hairspray under the sink . I run back outside and pick up the lighter my neighbor left on my porch and run over to his recycling bin, which is full of newspapers. The lighter lights on the first try, and I hold the can of hairspray just behind the flame.

8:55 - BIG. FUCKING. NEWSPAPER FIRE! My little bitch neighbor is squealing with fear, and running for the garden hose. The Pizza Hut driver actually tries to approach the blaze. Until a piece of newspaper flies off and nearly hits him in the face. I hear the neighbor’s squealing turn into homicidal screams of horror. I look over and see him tugging on the valve. Is he really too big a pussy to turn on the hose? Domino’s guy shoves him out of the way and cranks the valve open. By now the plastic bin holding the papers is melting, and the stink of burning plastic is filling the air as the Domino’s guy manages to put out the flame.

9:02 - Wife pulls up, with local police right behind. Neighbor is laying face-down in his own driveway, panting. The pizza guys storm the police cruiser as my wife stares at the lawn, and asks…

“Why’d you make the letters so big, dumbass?”

Since Boston College never won a national championship during the quarterback’s tenure, Matt Ryan jubilantly parades around the terricloth football trophy awarded to the winner of the Champs Sports Bowl. And that’s something…

Some fucking date night this turned out to be. If I knew you weren’t gonna show up today, if I KNEW YOU WEREN’T GONNA COMPETE TODAY, THEN WE COULD HAVE JUST STAYED HOME. Now I didn’t come all the way out here to Frankie’s Fun Park to get embarrassed like this. You’re lucky we’re playing two rounds today, because that course OWNED YOUR ASS in the first half, and YOU BETTER FIND A WAY TO GET IT TOGETHER before we go back out there.

Did you even READ THE SCOUTING REPORT this week? You tried to hit it under the hippo on 13 when I’VE TOLD YOU ALL FUCKING WEEK THAT HIS TUMMY REACHES THE TURF! Get your HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS. And three times you went in the water because you didn’t take care of the ball. You need to take what the course gives you this second half, because this time you’re pulling YOUR OWN FUCKING BALL out of the water. I don’t care if your hand does get wet.

[Juts out chin. Chin pokes 9-year-old kid in the eye]

What the hell was that kid doing within 3 feet of my chin? Yeah, why don’t you cry about it, you little shit. What kind of mental approach to life is that? Chins are going to come at you from all angles later in life, kid. It’s best you learn to overcome adversity while you’re young and develop a pattern for success. Show some composure. ACT LIKE YOU’VE BEEN POKED WITH A CHIN BEFORE!

Enough of this shit. If I don’t get some goddamn nachos my fucking head is gonna blow off. I always get some goddamn nachos when I play mini golf. And I better get more jalapeños than they have on that sorry poster.

And after I store some of these delicious nachos in my chin, we’re going back out there and you’re going to redeem yourself for that sorry first half. TAKE CARE OF THE GOLF BALL! This is our game! And we call our game mini-golf, not Putt-Putt. That’s a proprietary trademark, and we don’t let proprietary trademarks into our house…or, vocabulary!

NOW GET YOUR ASS OUT THERE AND HAVE A GOOD SECOND HALF! I believe you have honors.