DIRECTOR: Alright, everyone are we ready? Great shoot so far, everyone! People are really going to love this new Value Meal commercial. Alright ready lights… ready camera…and–

[cell phone rings]

Ahh, dammit! I have to get this. Everybody take five, alright? [crew disperses]

FRENCH FRIES: [To Hamburger] So what are you doing this weekend?

HAMBURGER: Oh, I don’t know, man. Maybe just relax, spend some time with my kids. You know, no big thing. What about you?

FRENCH FRIES: Actually,one of the guys on the crew gave me tickets to the Chargers game this Sunday. It’s a bit of a drive to get down there, but it should be a great game. They’re playing the Raiders. It’s gonna be awesome.

HAMBURGER: Nah, man I can’t do that.

FRENCH FRIES: What do you mean? Sure you can! You can do it.

HAMBURGER: Oh, great. Yeah. That’s it. Just walk right up to the front gate of the stadium like some ordinary asshole du jour, eh? Just mosey on up with my ticket in tow, huh? Those sons of bitches wouldn’t let me in on their best day. You know why?

FRENCH FRIES: Why?

HAMBURGER: Because I’m a fucking hamburger, asshole! You don’t know what it’s like for our kind! You’re just a goddamn fry! Fries are always made fresh! Fries are always piping hot! Not us, you skinny French fuck. My brothers will wait in that warmer for DAYS before somebody deems them worthy. DAYS, you frivolous peasant! DAYS!

FRENCH FRIES: Frivolous peasant?

HAMBURGER: Oh, you think you know what’s best for everyone? You think you know what’s best for the Coca-Cola? What do you know about Coca-Cola, you baguette-bangin’ bitch!

COKE: Hey, leave me out of this.

HAMBURGER: You think you know what’s best for sweet tea? Sweet tea is sold by the GALLON, Pierre! WHO THE FUCK EVER SOLD YOU BY THE GALLON?

FRENCH FRIES: Look, I’m sorry, man. I…I didn’t–

HAMBURGER: Didn’t what? Didn’t get your bicycle-riding ass out of the Louvre long enough to realize THE PLIGHT OF THE ALL-BEEF PATTY? You’ll never understand what it’s like! You know why?

FRENCH FRIES: Because you’re a–

HAMBURGER: BECAUSE I’M A FUCKING HAMBURGER! STUFF THAT IN YOUR CREPE, GARCON!

FRENCH FRIES: get it, alright. You’re making French cracks because I’m a–

HAMBURGER: YOU DON’T GET A GOT-DAMN THING! YOUR TIGHT GOLDEN BROWN ASS SITS IN THAT FRYER ALL DAY! YOU DON’T GET SHIT! AIN’T NOBODY SQUIRTIN’ KETCHUP ON YO’ ASS. ANY NOBODY HITTIN’ YOUR CHAMPS-ELYSSES ASS WITH THAT SPECIAL SAUCE, ! You get a little of that bitch-ass salt and that’s it! You don’t know what it’s like on the GRILL, nigga! You know why?

FRENCH FRIES: …

HAMBURGER: I said YOU KNOW WHY, CHARLES DE GUALLE?

FRENCH FRIES: …I give up.

HAMBURGER: BECAUSE I’M A FUCKING hamburger! And yo’ crunchy ass better recognize!

FRENCH FRIES: Sure, bro. Whatever.

DIRECTOR: [comes back in] Alright, everyone! Let’s knock this last shot out and we can all go home!

FRENCH FRIES: Uh…I’m gonna need a minute [walks off]

GAFFER ON CREW: Hey, where are the fries going?

DIRECTOR: [to Hamburger] Jeez, he’s a bit of a prima donna, isn’t he?

HAMBURGER: TELL ME THE FUCK ABOUT IT!

We’re in the slowest stretch of the offseason now: the dreaded post-draft period. There’s no football on, and there won’t be football on for quite some time. You’re angry. You’re hateful. We understand. At KSK, we’re hateful too. Of all things, at all times. Hating is what we do best. So, in that spirit, we present you with the weekly off-topic/offseason feature…

THIS WEEK IN FUCK YOU.

Every week or so, we’ll be taking our lack-of-football-related depression out on any number of deserving targets: people, things, abstract ideas, group dinners, etc. It’s just the kind of cathartic invective we excel at. This week, PEOPLE WHO OWN LABRADOODLES.

I’m a dog lover.  You know those people who will break their stride while walking through the city or suddenly disappear from a conversation to bend down and pet a dog?  And immediately start a one-way conversation with the dog, even if they don’t know the owner?  That’s me.  “Hey pups!  Hey buddy!  What’s going on?  What’s your name?  Oh, you’re a sweetheart!  YES YOU ARE.  We’re best friends now!  Yeah we are.  Yeah, give me some kisses!”  That shit makes my week.  I have never in my life been as excited to meet another human being as I was with that hypothetical dog just now.

That’s one of the things I love about living in the Park Slope neighborhood of Brooklyn: there are dogs freakin’ everywhere.  Hell, in the mornings you’re even allowed to let dogs run off-leash around Prospect Park.  No fences or anything, just a whole bunch of dogs running free.  It fuckin’ OWNS.

Alas, the first rule of city life is this: if there’s something cool or convenient about living in an urban neighborhood, yuppie cocknozzles will try to ruin it.  Specifically, in this case, labradoodle owners.  What’s a labradoodle, you ask?  It’s the en vogue dog breed at the moment, much like puggles were two or three years ago.  You get a labradoodle when you cross a Labrador retriever and poodle, then take the stupidest possible combination of those breeds’ names.  Yuppies like them because they’re hypoallergenic, they don’t shed, and they cost  a thousand dollars when you can easily rescue a dog for free at any shelter.

Now, labradoodles aren’t bad dogs; it’s the owners who are fuckfaces.  There’s a car in my neighborhood with a bumper sticker that reads — I swear to Christ this is real — “My labradoodle is smarter than your honor student.”  Contemplate for a moment the layers of fucktardery it takes for someone to be such a dipshit.  They feel the need to make  a point with a bumper sticker, check.  They want to brag publicly about what kind of dog they own, check.  They think a dog-related riff on the “My kid can beat up your honor student” bumper sticker is funny, check.  They are unaware of how badly I want to crush their face with a crowbar, check.

There is no car wreck fiery enough for the person who drives that vehicle.

This gut full of hatred I have didn’t overflow, however, until I realized the extent of “doodle” owners’ highfalutin shitfuckery.  For a couple weeks I’d noticed that all the labradoodles — about seven or eight of them — would play together while their owners hung out in a circle and talked about whatever labradoodle owners talk about.  Molesting children and underpaying immigrant workers, I assume.  They fostered an air of elitism — AT A FUCKING DOG PARK — that discouraged others from joining their precious hybrid dogs.  But who cares, because fuck them, right?  I was cool with them doing what they do, right up until the point where they got all the labradoodles together FOR A GROUP PICTURE.

I don’t know if you’ve ever owned a dog, but a typical thing that EVERYONE ON THE PLANET KNOWS is that dogs don’t understand the concept of standing still for photography.  And they sure as shit don’t understand group photos.  And so you’ve got the yuppie dipshit wives trying to line up their dogs, handing out treats to try to get the dogs to stay, but then they have to get in the picture to hand the dogs the treats, and the handing out of treats has led the racially inferior dogs like my own to come and sit near their precious fucking designer dogs and ruin their Aryan canine master race group picture.  Some bitch pushes my dog (this sweet-natured rebel) out of the way.  “Sorry, we’re trying to get a group picture.”

“Yeah, that seems like a terrific idea” is what I say, leashing my dog.  But what I mean is  FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING DOG-RACIST CUNT.

You fucking labradoodle owners have ZERO idea of what matters in the world.  They’re just DOGS.  You take them outside, you play with them, and they give you unconditional love that makes your short time on this planet a little richer.  Your dog is not a fucking status symbol, it’s not a ticket into some gay little club, and it sure as fuck doesn’t excuse a low-level brand of Jim Crow laws in a public park.  GET FUCKED AND DIE FUCKED.

KOBE BRYANT: Oh my Lord, this is the greatest feeling ever! Come here kids, give daddy a championship hug! I’ve won another world championship! By only beating teams in North America! This is the best! AND I FINALLY DID IT WITHOUT SHAQ! Woohoo! MVP!

PAU GASOL: Hey, Kobe. Congrats on the MVP, man.

KOBE BRYANT: Oh, Hey, big man! I finally did it without Shaq! This finally cements my legacy as A GUY THAT CAN PUT A TEAM ON HIS BACK! And carry them to the promised land!

PAU GASOL: [in Italian] Sure thing, guy, whatever!

ANDREW BYNUM: Great series, Kobe. Good job.

KOBE BRYANT: Hey, Andrew Bynum! I finally won it without Shaq! WHO SAYS I NEED A 7-FOOTER ON MY TEAM TO WIN A CHAMPIONSHIP?!

ANDREW BYNUM: Yeah, Pau and I were just talking about that. You had a great series. For a guy that was fifth on the team in field goal percentage and led all of us in turnovers. Nice work.

KOBE BRYANT: Thanks…man! Hey Derek Fisher! Why you dressed already?

DEREK FISHER: Hey, Kobe. There just aren’t many pictures of me online.

KOBE BRYANT: Derek, I did it, man! How ’bout a totally fake high five while the cameras are still on!

DEREK FISHER: I guess. [they high-five]

KOBE BRYANT: Derek, look at this. I DID IT! I AM THE GREATEST PLAYER IN THE WORLD, WEST OF THE MISSISSIPPI! Remember those two clutch shots I hit to win Game 4 for us?

DEREK FISHER: That was me!

KOBE BRYANT: …Oh. Hey, Coach! Coach! Whose the man now?

PHIL JACKSON: [distracted] Yeah, great work, Scottie. I’m proud of you.

KOBE BRYANT: Aw, come on, man! Can’t y’all see that IT WAS MY LEADERSHIP THAT GOT US HERE?! MY TEAMSMANSHIP?! DON’T HATE! EVERYONE ELSE KNOWS THAT I’M THE REASON WE WON! WE DIDN’T NEED SHAQ TO DO IT ONCE WE STOLE GASOL FROM THE GRIZZLIES IN THE ILLEGAL TRADE IN THE HISTORY OF SPORTS! DON’T HATE! DON’T HATE!

…why don’t you turn that damn camera off so I can get rid of these kids already?

We’re in the slowest stretch of the offseason now: the dreaded post-draft period. There’s no football on, and there won’t be football on for quite some time. You’re angry. You’re hateful. We understand. At KSK, we’re hateful too. Of all things, at all times. Hating is what we do best. So, in that spirit, I’d like to present you with our new off-topic offseason feature…

Every week or so, we’ll be taking our lack-of-football-related depression out on any number of deserving targets: people, things, abstract ideas, group dinners, etc. It’s just the kind of cathartic invective we excel at. This week, PEOPLE WHO WANT TIPS ON WHAT TO WATCH OR READ.

With most TV shows wrapping up their seasons and trips to the beach not far in the offing, before long you’re going to be inundated with people asking for recommendations for their “next show to get into” or “what books I should take to the beach.” Tell these people to get fucked with a fire poker.

I hate recommending entertainment media. Any of it. Books, movies, TV shows, video games, porn, what have you. Not so much that I don’t like imposing my tastes on others, but I hate people who are standing aimless at entertainment crossroads, beseeching you to be to shepherd them to their next obsession. I don’t like having to answer for my tastes, because I’m usually passionate about whatever it is I’m into. Also because almost certainly the asshole who is too lazy to find things to pursue on their own is going to come back to you and tell you how lousy/overrated whatever it was you told them to check out was. And then ensues a vociferous argument about the merits of said work, which will strike you as them calling you dumb or obtuse or susceptible to hype for liking said work. And then you want to chop them with a a blood-encrusted halberd.

CONTEXT: At the end of high school I worked for the worst named video store in world.

Every day, inevitably, some fuckwit would come up and ask me “what’s good,” which I suppose on its face is not an unreasonable thing for a customer at a video store to do. HOWEVAH it’s such a deceptively complex question so as to be pointless. What’s good to me, the pretentious young video store clerk, almost certainly isn’t good to you, person dense enough to ask complete strangers for suggestions.

Now, I assume the worst of people. Always. But I betrayed this instinct at first, initially making plugs for things that I actually liked. And for this transgression, I was met with bitching. “A’yo, son, that LE SAMOURAI shit was WACK!” There were even those who went as far as to demand free rentals from the manager because they didn’t like what I had suggested they watch. And thus did I align my sympathies with the misanthropes of the world.

But then it felt even worse when I went the other way, and suggested shit that I loathed and they would return with kind words, which only validated deep-seated hatred for all creatures.

LISTEN: I don’t know what you like. I don’t know what you’re in the mood to see. I DON’T KNOW SHIT ABOUT YOU AND JUST WANT MY SHIFT TO GET OVER SO I CAN GO HOME GET HIGH AND FINISH PLAYING SHENMUE BECAUSE I’M ALMOST DONE WITH IT!

I venture to say that it’s just as bad with friends, because it opens fissures of disagreement, exposes fundamental weaknesses in the tenuous bond you share. “How could I associate with anyone who thought up in the Old Hotel was pedestrian? I can’t.”

These grounds are too precarious to tread. It’s better you send them to Uncrate and wish them luck. AND IF THEY TELL YOU THAT SITE IS OVERRATED SHOOT THEM WHERE THEY STAND.

Batman, in town for a boat show, confronts Jerry “The King” Lawler dressed as Superman at a TV station in Memphis. Hilarity doth ensuit.

[From Nerve's list of the 20 oddest TV interviews ever]

To stave off the specter of boredom or maybe just to sublimate our own latent rapey urges, the Gay Mafia occasionally engages in hour-long sessions of e-mail-based rape joke bandying. Really works out the dark urges. Yesterday, in what began innocently enough as a discussion of which reader has creeped us out the most at various blogger meet-ups then quickly morphed into a whirlwind brainstorm of how rapists would alter popular board games. Because we’re sick deviants like that. And, being so, we enjoy passing our pathology onto you, the reader. Preferably against your will.

**No rapist’s game shelf would be complete without handcuffs, And, of course, the game of Battlerape!

“You sunk my Rapesub!”

And now there’s Electronic Battlerape! With sound effects!

“D-Rectum? It’s a hit!”

“Beware the submarine — long, hard, etc.”

**A rapist sets up a spy cam in the dressing rooms in Mall Madness.

**They always like a good game of Connect Four Toddlers.

**Rapists naturally love Rape-opoly. Sample Chance card:

“You win first prize in a beauty contest. And then are raped.”

**Every time he captures a country in Risk, he rapes you using methods specific to that nation.

**Rapists love Twister. RIGHT FOOT LEFT LABIA

**Rapists claim Parcheesi is Hindi for “forced entry.”

**When playing Trivial Pursuit, a rapist goes right for the pink triangle.

**Only a rapist will call his scrotum the “Popomatic bubble”

**I’ve found that many rapists love a good game of Chutes and More Chutes.

**Candyland is the #1 game played in their windowless vans.

**Rapists are hard at work developing a new version of Mouse Trap, complete with a cage capable of subduing even the lithest tween.

**rapists adore a good game of TABOO. Guess the word without saying these five clue words!

crime
penetration
violation
bruising
rope

**A rapist will always choose rapist as their profession when playing The Game of Life. Then they rape all the pink and blue stick figures. Then the spin wheel.

**A rapist was the first and last champion of “Win Ben Stein’s Skin and Internal Organs.”

**A classic among rapists: Guess Who…Is Sneaking In Your Bedroom At Night

**Kerplunk is the noise it makes when he takes his dick out of your ass.

**They play Sorry! with kids only AFTER raping them

**Yahtzee is what a rapist screams when he rapes an ESPN anchor

**Rapists win every game of Scene It?: Rape Edition

**Rapists write letters to the makers of Operation demanding they supply them with the missing Penis Bone.

**The rapist version of Jeopardy! The Home Game! has nothing to do with the TV show.

**A rapist loves playing Clue, but it’s the same result every time. Col. Mustard, in the ass, with the candlestick.

**The rapist version of Chinese Checkers involves a confused 12-year-old and some anal beads

**Don’t challenge a rapist in Horny Horny Rapists. He always get more balls.

My mother used to say always keep your legs open

It’s the only way to give and receive love

But sometimes you have to jam those legs shut to get the chintzy jewelry you want for Valentine’s Day.

That’s the inspiration behind my Open Legs collection at Kay Jewelers

I worked with Kay because it’s a chain of mall jewelers and only they would carry something so tacky that will appeal to high school juniors buying trinkets for their fuck buddies

My hope is that my Open Legs design becomes a universal symbol of relationship prostitution and lowered expectations. Because I’m a narcissistic cunt who thinks a doodle I made in five minutes can capture the imaginations of billions.

Because when your legs are open, love will always find its way in.

[Annoying sound signature]

Ringo Starr, one of the three two surviving members of the Beatles, along with that guy who got divorced by that greedy amputee bitch and Apu Nahasapeemapetilon, has issued the diktat to his fans that he will no longer be receiving their fan mail as of next Monday. So be sure to dash off that last billet deux to this douche in short order. Apparently he has too much to do, which for his sake does not include helping Paul put out another another album. Of course, this development pains no one more than portraiture artist Marge Simpson. What will inspire her to paint Burns in the buff now? Hey, at least he’s warning fans “with peace and love”.

As Maj said, “How do you warn with peace and love? You’re supposed to warn with anthrax and daggers.” Anthrax, huh? In the mail? It’s just crazy enough to work!

All of our U.S. readers– enjoy your Fourth. The rest of you, enjoy your soup or whatever the hell you do while we grill out, get drunk and shoot off illegal fireworks. USA! USA! USA!.