I’m not even going to try to pass this off as something obliquely NFL-related by connecting Cadillac the Unicorn to Cadillac Williams, or by saying that the gay 8-year-old boy has a passing resemblance to Eli Manning, or that this looks like something Brady Quinn dreamed up. Some things (like lolcats) are just amazing to behold, and as soon as noted commenter Brooklyn Becky sent this to me, I felt an immediate need to share this with everyone I knew. I sent it to my boss, who posted it on GorillaMask. I showed it to the Gay Mafia, who to a man declared its brilliance. I held my dog’s head to the computer screen and made her watch it.

And now, I share it with you, beloved KSK readers, the finest assemblage of drunks and college dropouts and pothead NFL fans whose lives are quickly going nowhere. God bless all of you, and enjoy.

Christmas Ape, as you may or may not know, is our resident journalist / NPR-listener, and as such his off-season duties include staying abreast of new Noam Chomsky writings and reading Women’s Wear Daily, which he claims is a great source for journo-industry news. (Sure, buddy. At least I’m transparent about my embrace of women’s fashion.)

However, to Ape’s credit, he uncovered a cabal of New York Times writers trying to infringe on KSK’s turf: they got dubbed the Gay Mafia:

Does a scattershot list of gay Timesmen a mafia make? According to Out magazine’s media-heavy Power 50 list, which ranked several New York Times reporters a collective seventh on the list, it does, even if many of its made men don’t actually know each other. “Yes, there really is a queer cabal in the Eastern elite media, and it works on West 43rd Street in New York City,” reads the accompanying text, citing T magazine editor Stefano Tonchi, assistant managing editor Richard Berke, national correspondent Adam Nagourney, advertising columnist Stuart Elliot, style reporter Eric Wilson, theater critic Ben Brantley and restaurant critic Frank Bruni.

As for the use of the ‘M’ word related to the assorted journalists, Aaron Hicklin, editor of Out, told WWD: “The Times still has an old-fashioned power that I think the Web has tried to replace but been less successful at. It’s still a cultural arbiter….Should we have used the word mafia? Only inasmuch as mafia is shorthand for people whose combined weight is fearsome.” And according to Out, these Timesmen are “one group you don’t want to run into in a dark alley.”

Oh, is that right?

Well, guess what, New York Times Gay Mafia. You ain’t shit. Men preferring you to that shrike Maureen Dowd might make you a big deal in Manhattan, but that’s a tiny little island, and Kissing Suzy Kolber has a monstrous gayness that covers four states and a crappy district. What have you done as a collective gay mafia besides have sex with men? You’ve done dick. You homos haven’t lived anything as gay as Peter King’s lust for Tony Romo. Where’s YOUR exposé of the top 30 gay quarterbacks in the NFL?

So, suck on that, Out Magazine. Suck on my big, throbbing, aching member. That’s right: the KSK Gay Mafia will happily meet the New York Times Gay Mafia in a back alley, and we will collectively fuck them in the ass. Fuck them hard and slow until we’re satisfied and exhausted.

You know, metaphorically.

It’s tournament time, and thoughts of football are distant at best. But, if there’s one figure in basketball who perfectly embodies the football fan ethos, it is former Utah coach and ESPN analyst Rick Majerus. In a special KSK exclusive, Majerus offers you the fan some pointers about his favorite extracurricular activity.

I love basketball. Everyone knows that. But few people know that my true love is masturbating. There’s something so pure about masturbation, so self-contained. All you need is a hand, your cock, a couple free minutes, and an iron will. And, given a modicum of seclusion, you can do it anywhere! In fact, masturbating in public is easier than you think, and I’ll show you how! It’s so gratifying, and not just in a self-gratifying way. Having an orgasm in public makes you feel like you’re getting away with something, and you are! Plus, there’s always the possibility that someone is watching you, and man is that a turn-on. Here are some of my favorite public places to help myself to myself:

Public Bathroom: Okay, so this isn’t very creative. Everyone masturbates in the shitter at work. But there is some proper etiquette YOU need to be aware of. First, always jerk in the crippled stall. You get more room that way, and the crippled stall is usually farthest from the bathroom door, which gives you time should anyone walk in. If someone does walk in, you must STOP masturbating. It’s guy code. You can’t masturbate with another man present. That would make you queer. Unless you’re right at the end of your jerk, in which case feel free to have a disappointing, way-too-contained orgasm.

The Ocean: If you swim out far enough, you just look like another guy enjoying a leisurely dip in the water. But under the surface? Oh, it’s a whole different story! The trick is to find a sandbar. This way, you can masturbate without having to tread water. There’s no way I can do both! One bonus of masturbating in the ocean? No cleanup! Your seed disperses in a matter of minutes! I like watching it. I sort of feel like I’m giving back to the sea.

Car: Nothing breaks up a long road trip like busting a nut at Mile 200. But you can only masturbate on an open freeway. No traffic jam masturbating. That would be weird. And doing it in city traffic? Even weirder. No, you need a wide-open interstate if you’re gonna get the full roadie on. I like to play “Hot for Teacher” and think of the sexy video! Make sure you have tissues in the glove compartment. And please: automatic transmission drivers only!

Airplane Bathroom: “Occupado”? I’ll say! If I see a stewardess with a hemline that goes past mid-calf, I’m masturbating the second the Fasten Seat Belt sign blinks off. One problem: airplane bathrooms are small, and for big guys like me, that means maneuverability problems. Luckily, thanks to my basketball acumen, I know to keep a wide base. Beware turbulence! You may accidentally end up sticking your cock in the sanitary napkin disposal unit. And that’s a turn-off.

Broadcast Booth: Tirico hates it when I do this. But sometimes you see Ashley Judd in the crowd and you do what you have to do. I managed to get Tirico to join in with me once, but that was about it. What a prude that guy is!

Department Store Fitting Room: The men’s fitting room at Bloomingdale’s is almost always barren. Plus you get the bonus of a full length mirror! I like to strip down naked, just me and “The Rick”. Again, bring tissues, or else you’ll have to use those Dockers you brought in to “try on”.

Public Park: There aren’t as many secluded woodland areas in a public park as you might think! My advice to avoid public parks and head straight for the woods. Leaning against a big tree gives you leverage, plus there are any number of leaves handy. Beware chipmunks. I learned the hard way!

Study Hall: You kids have it so easy. “Quiet time”? That’s prime jerking time! This stunt requires you to manipulate yourself through your trousers, which means you don’t ever get to touch your penis. Kinky! You really have to concentrate to make this work. Think real hard about Jenny Davenport two rows up, scoot real close to your desk, and stare at your textbook as hard you possibly can. You’ll have to fight through cramping, but it’s worth it. Also, you get no opportunity for cleanup here. So I hope you pre-masturbated before class. Otherwise, you risk the dreaded “wet spot”, plus potential “gluing” to the old Fruit of the Looms.

Health Club Steam Room: The steam gives you cover, plus the heat gets you worked up fast. If someone walks in, you can usually stop and hide your steam-on with little effort. But do be careful. I’ve passed out 5 times doing this. And there is no greater tragedy than an unfinished jerk.

On Stage At A Pep Rally: I don’t suggest this. Ralph Friedgen also tried it with poor results.

I’m sure Rick missed a few. (And I missed the Berea Public Library! Idiot!) Why not let him know in the comments after you’ve finished throwing up?

Back in February, several astute readers noted that I never chronicled my tales of debauchery at the Penthouse party. I did this on purpose, even though I was photographed with a scantily clad Penthouse Pet. You know why?

Because fuck you, that’s why.

I’m cool with being lampooned, and I have the ability to laugh at myself, but the scrutiny of anonymous strangers was reaching preposterous levels. What’s with his hair? I don’t like his shirt. I can’t believe he’s wearing jeans with a blazer. I can’t believe he’s wearing a tee shirt with a blazer. And the overwhelming favorite for ridiculously obvious statement: some variation of He’s so pale!

Fuck you twice. My blood is German, Scandinavian, and English. I apologize that my ancestry has no Mediterranean, eastern European, Jewish, African, or native American influences. I come from a long line of Aryan racists, you see.

I actually used to be tan. When was that? My memory’s not so good. Oh yeah: when I was defending your freedom. I spent four months living outside in a desert, sleeping on top of a tank, occasionally getting shot at, and spending most of my down time waving flies away and trying to get sand out of my teeth. I was really tan then.

By the way: you’re welcome, you lazy fucks.

And now I live in New York City. It was both a business and a lifestyle decision. After living on a Marine base in the middle of nowhere in the Mojave Desert for three years and three months (note: tan that entire time), I wanted the exact opposite of that experience. Also, as an aspiring writer, it made sense to live in the city that houses every major publishing house in the country.

But hey, guess what? Yesterday it was 13 degrees. You’ll forgive me if I didn’t make it to the tanning salon.

Anyway, this has all just been a long introduction to show you this sure-to-be-classic photo from yesterday’s Varsity Letters reading. I’d like to offer my sincerest thanks to all the great people who packed the joint to listen to a couple sports bloggers read. This is me offering a serious discussion of bukkake while Will Leitch looks on in terror.

Don’t like my shirt? Fuck off. You know, in case I didn’t make that clear.

Clear, like my skin. Har fucking har.

Putatively in honor of the release of Borat on DVD on Tuesday, though more so because I don’t feel like discussing the Steelers releasing J Peezy or having the league investigate one of their physicians, I feel like regaling our readers with my immaterial, rambling tale of briefly living with a perverted Kazak. It’s a Friday during the off-season. Leave me be.

It was the spring of 2003. While Caveman was otherwise occupied risking his ass fighting in a war, I was engaged in that time-honored rite of passage for spoiled college students: the semester abroad. Mine was spent in Siena, a small town in Tuscany. Spare me the Under the Tuscan Sun jokes. The movie came out two months after I got back to the states and no, I didn’t live in a villa and yes, I’d hit Diane Lane. Ever see Unfaithful?

I chose UMass-Amherst’s program there mainly because it was taught in Italian and it was in a small town. I figured I’d get a more authentic experience than if I picked Florence or Rome, where I’d inevitably fall into the trap of hanging out with dozens of other spoiled, insular American college kids. Somehow I discounted that UMass’ program would be filled with Massholes, who also never deviated from each other and always spoke English, even to the natives.

So I opted to live in an apartment with non-Americans who were still enrolled in the University of Siena for Foreigners – it was actually called that. There were three other guys: a friendly fat 40-ish Canadian guy who was trying to start a bike tour business in Tuscany, a Japanese guy who spoke no English but banged every Asian girl in town and Serik, the Kazak.

For people who assume that Sasha Baron Cohen has created a grossly inaccurate caricature of these people can have their fears allayed. It’s uncanny, the likeness. Serik even sounded like Borat. I’d say the only true difference was the dearth of Anti-Semitism, but that’s probably only because I didn’t broach the subject of the Jews.

10 seconds into our introduction, he presses his forearm to his mouth and blows a fine approximation of flatus. I stand there stunned and he says to me “What is word for this sound?”

Me: “Uh, a fart?”

Serik: “Fort?”

Me: “Close, but with an A. Fuh. Art. Fort means something different.”

Satisfied with the acquisition of this nugget of knowledge, he races into his bedroom and returns to present me with a ripped segment of notebook paper. It’s a little cheat sheet of Kazak cuss words, which I’ve held onto because it’s ineffably bizarre. It reads:

Almost four years later and I’m still not sure how to define a pussy basket. During the course of our living together, Serik spends a healthy chunk of time explaining his contempt of Russians, who, he says, during Soviet rule did everything they could to denigrate and suppress Kazak traditions and culture. I feign interest poorly, but eventually show him respect because he drinks me under the table at every opportunity. My Irish blood is no match for his seemingly limitless ability to inhale vodka.

Despite his constant declarations of hatred for the Russkies, he ends up hitting on or getting with a Russian devotchka every time we go out. He explains this away by noting that they, like him, speak Russian and he’d be handicapped otherwise. A principled stand, indeed.

Eventually, we have a falling out. We get into a fistfight because keeps moving the communal TV into his room. However, one of the last memories I have of the guy took place when he was sitting in the town square with a Japanese guy he had begun hanging out with (not the one we lived with. This one looked at least in his mid-40s).

They’re sitting there admiring the various Italian women sunning themselves and discussing best modes of engagement with the opposite sex. I join them and listen to them for a few minutes. There’s a pregnant pause, then Serik’s friend turns to me. “You must strike,” he says, dramatically cutting the air with a flattened hand. “…like ninja.” I issue a long, uproarious laugh, which they meet with cold stares. Apparently there was no sarcasm intended in this statement. I hang around uneasily for a few minutes then make my leave.

That summer, I discover Da Ali G Show and though I find Borat funny, there’s an awkward connection. Now, I just want to meet Cohen to know if he used the same guy to research the character. There’s no other way.

Captain Caveman update: Prompted by a reader to do a Google Image Search of “pussy basket,” I can assure you all that the result is a wide-ranging cornucopia of photos. For the record, here’s the first image in the search:

Via the evil geniuses at the Postmen, we learned of Sports Business Journal’s list of the twenty most influential people in online sports. Personally, I haven’t eyeballed a Street & Smith publication since Walter Berry graced their college basketball preview sometime during the Pleistocene Era, so I can’t vouch for accuracy of this list. But to the extent there are a few remaining people in sports media KSK hasn’t libeled yet, allow us to break down the rankings.

Bob Bowman (President, CEO, MLB Advanced Media)

This dude gets rewarded with number one for fucking over baseball fans with impunity. “What’s that, you say you can’t get DirecTV? Have fun squinting at the Zapruder-quality games on MLB.com. ” Thanks, prick.

John Kosner (Senior VP, GM, New Media, ESPN)

If the Sports Guy walks away, Kosner will find himself handing out paper towels in the men’s room of an upscale Bristol chophouse.

Steve Snyder (COO, CBS Interactive)

Favorite movie: the Crying Game.
Favorite salad: egg.

Jeff Price (President, SI Digital)

This is total horseflop. Jeff Price’s RPI is 79 and he has lost three of the last four at home. Yet he is still ranked fourth and will probably land a number one seed. Damned east-coast bias.

Brian Rolapp (VP, media strategy, NFL)

Spends most nights alone watching the DoodleBops in his underwear with the shades up and light on. Makes underlings call him “Billy Ocean.”

Brian Grey (Senior VP, GM, FoxSports.com)

Nothing against this guy personally, but FoxSports.com is the turd in the punchbowl of internet sports resources.

Steve Grimes (Senior director, interactive services, NBA)

I promised myself when I started writing this post that I wouldn’t clown on anyone’s picture. That’s cheap humor, plus I’m not exactly Troy Donahue myself. But Fred Flintstone here doesn’t just have a five o’clock shadow, he has a five o’clock eclipse.

Dick Glover (VP, broadcasting, new media, NASCAR)

“Dick Glover.” “Dick Glover” “Dick Glover.” For the life of me I can’t think of a joke for Dick Glover.

Brian Bedol (President, CEO, CSTV)

CSTV gave us college softball, wrestling and lacrosse. It could have been worse, they could have given us crabs too.

Neal Scarbrough (GM, Editor, AOL Sports)

Look out, Neal, another round of AOL Time-Warner layoffs are sneaking up behind you! Naw, we’re just yanking your chain. But seriously, the Bobs want to meet with you in fifteen minutes.

Shannon Terry (CEO, Rivals.com)

We actually like this guy. Those Rivals message boards keep the dumb kids down in the shallow end of the pool. (“KETNUCKY WILDCATS R TEH SHIZZNIT!!!! FIRE TUBBY!!! JOANN KIM NOAH IS A PU$$Y”) . Actually, they’re right about Noah.

Bill Simmons (Columnist, ESPN.com)

My calendar says March has arrived. Which means it is now time for a venerable rite of spring: for the next month Simmons will pretend he follows college basketball.

Mark Cuban (Owner, Chicago Cubs, Dallas Mavericks)

We love Cubes, but BlogMaverick has long since turned into BitchAboutYouTubeIncessantly.com. His site has about as much to do with sports or the NBA as StuffOnMyCat.com.

Scott Bailey (VP, GM, business operations, Turner Sports New Media)

Has heard countless stories about a coked-up Ted Turner calling and demanding they bring back “Saturday night wrasslin’ on the Superstation.”

Paul Johnson (VP, new media, PGA Tour)

Asked for a raise, but they gave him a fancy title instead. Once saw Phil Mickelson changing in the gentlemen’s locker room at Crooked Stick. Has been confused (and a little curious) ever since.

Dave Morgan (Executive editor, Yahoo! Sports)

Yahoo! Sports thinks someone, somewhere gives a rat’s dick about who gave Reggie Bush what while he at USC. They don’t.

Keith Ritter (President, NHL Interactive CyberEnterprises)

Nobody in the NHL is the one of the twenty most influential people in anything. The whole league is circling around the bowl. An Amish rake-fighting league would get better ratings.

Claude Ruibal (Chairman, CEO, WCSN)

Cries after sex. Bad tipper.

Peter King (Columnist, SI.com)

Never heard of him.

Will Leitch (Editor, Deadspin.com)

Apparently, Sports Business Journal couldn’t find a picture of Will, so they just went with one of the guys from Panic! at the Disco. Lazy journalism at its most egregious.

[Note: some of these suits look a little litigious, so the KSK legal team advises us to make sure to tell everyone that this is a joke, dumbass. Except the part about the NHL, those assholes are on the way out.]

Now that it’s the NFL off-season, we’ve been dabbling in a little bit of this and that while cooling our heels and enjoying a more relaxed posting schedule. However, in the wake of several reader emails saying, “You guys should write about X!” — where variable X is anything from Phil Mickelson’s pectoral flab to a link to some NBA story or blog post, I thought I’d lay down some ground rules and reminders for how we go about keeping our NFL rudder straight in this sea of stories about other sports.

Remember: this blog is committed to two things: the NFL and dick jokes. Generally speaking, we’re not looking to expand our coverage.

I can already hear the naysaying. “But you go off-topic all the time! Unsilent Majority even did a college basketball post!” Yeah, and if we had any kind of connection besides email, he would have gotten his ass kicked for it. That’s why you can now catch UM talking college hoops at The Big Lead.

“What about the mock drafts? Black people you want as your friends? Cities you want destroyed?” Uh, yeah: mock drafts. Just like Mel Kiper Jr does relentlessly for six months a year. It’s totally NFL-related.

I guess what I’m trying to say is this: We make the rules. We make the agenda. We appreciate legitimate tips like photos of Chris Simms rolling blunts and Kyle Orton pretending to give fellatio, but we don’t want your suggestions. We’re the Gay Mafia for a reason, and if we want to post the nine and a half minute director’s cut of Justin Timberlake’s “What Goes Around… Comes Around,” then we’ll post the nine and a half minute director’s cut of Justin Timberlake’s “What Goes Around… Comes Around.”

And we don’t need to justify it.

Goddam. If you told me in the year 2000 that I could someday masturbate to a Justin Timberlake video, I would have punched you in the throat.

Just shut up about students storming the court already, Old, White (and occasionally Jewish) People.

We get it, you don’t like it when fans storm the court or field after what you would not consider a “big win.” I heard one of you on the radio today refer to it as “disgusting,” which is a shameful overstatement, but I’ll get back to that. You guys pull shit like this all the time whenever you see fans doing something you don’t like, just like when people are booing your favorite athletes, like your favorite White Person, Derek Jeter:

Derek Jeter’s getting booed! Nobody should be booing my Derek! He’s earned the right to play at a mediocre level without reprisal from the populace! Whaaaaaaah!

You don’t fucking get it, Old, White (and occasionally Jewish) People. We’ll boo whomever the fuck we want. And we don’t require a blessing from the national media to do so. It’s not like you assholes are paying to get into these games.

Same rules apply with storming the field or court. It’s not like students are storming the court after they lose. When your team wins an important conference game at home, you might as well get out there, because who knows when you’ll win another one. If the practice allows a few on-campus couches to live another hour or so, how is that a bad thing?

Storming the court is special, sure, but its scope isn’t limited to the world of sports. It’s part of the college experience. Remember when you went to college, Old, White (and occasionally Jewish) People?

So, Old, White (and occasionally Jewish) People, maybe your time would be better spent by going back to traditional “sports talk,” that is, your cryptic whining about how much you hate it that there are 25-year-old black kids out there making more money than you. That’s where you Old, White People seem to excel. Dipshits.

The Gay Super Bowl was Sunday night. And since we’re obligated to cover anything obliquely related to the Super Bowl, here are our thoughts from the four hours of Oscar coverage.

- Check out the tits on Jessica Biel.

- Is it wrong that I think Helen Mirren is hot?

- Man, I love a good movie montage during the Oscars. Thank God all those people died.

- Reese Witherspoon looks good enough to eat.

- Scorsese finally won, as did The Departed. Totally deserved awards, if you ask me. But then, I’m white. As any sensible commenter can tell you: white people are pussies and that movie is bullshit.

Want more coverage? Go to E!, ya freakin’ homo.