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…
This is Ted Leonsis. He is the owner of a professional hoc-key (sp?) team and a Greek, two solid giveaways that you should never pay credence to anything that slinks out of his fat tabbouleh hole. Yet here we are getting pissy about some obtuse nonsense he spouted on his blog. Such is the gaping void of suck that is the NFL offseason.
Here’s your 2009 Hall of Fame class:
Bob Hayes
Bruce Smith
Randall McDaniel (yay)
Derrick Thomas
Rod Woodson
Ralph Wilson
I have no qualms with any of the above men making the Hall, and am indeed delighted Randall McDaniel got in (Take that, Strokey Zimmerman!). But you see the gentleman in the photo above? That’s Cris Carter, who was only the second best receiver in NFL history. And yet again, the Hall sees fit to deny him induction. Hey Hall Of Fame Committee, I hope you all fucking die of kidney failure. I hope your renal systems slowly fail, turning your urine black and requiring you to endure painful daily sessions of dialysis. And I hope a matching donor is found just a hair too late, so you die slowly on a hospital gurney just as the paramedics are jumping out of the helicopter with an Igloo cooler carrying your precious, vital organs. That way, you think salvation is close at hand, only to have it cruelly wrested from your big fat grasp. YOU FUCKING IGNORANT STUPID FUCKS.
CRIS CARTER HAD THE BEST HANDS IN NFL HISTORY AND CAUGHT SIDELINE PASSES LIKE NO OTHER. We’re not talking about Art Monk here. We’re talking about someone who was fucking GOOD. If you fucks can’t see fit to induct him, THEN YOU KNOW FUCK ALL ABOUT FOOTBALL AND DESERVE TO BE HUNG ON A MEATHOOK DIPPED IN WOLF AIDS. That means you King, and Wilbon, and all you other fucks. I bet you all spend 20 hours a day drinking out of your own toilets. “Oh, my shit! It’s so good! I’m so amazing! MY POOP IS A HAVEN OF CORN AND FOOTBALL ACUMEN.”
Put that on one of your fucking charts. DIE.
Earlier today Vinny “Blinky” Cerrato made one of his twice-weekly appearances on Danny Snyder’s ESPN 980, the official station of the Washington Redskins. He some time out to chat with the fans and announced some exciting plans to rip off Pittsburgh’s beloved Terrible Towels. You know, the brightly colored hand towels that Steelers fans have utilized for thirty years.
Yeah, in a move startling both for its timeliness and its originality, 50,000 burgundy ESPN980 towels will be handed out on Sunday night, 50,000 apparently being the estimated number of Redskins fans who will be on hand.
(more…)
Mike Singletary’s debut as Niners’ head coach left him a tad exasperated today. Had Singletary delivered this speech at half-time of an eighties sports movie he definitely would have been a winner.
[ longer version of the rant here ]
When Dan Snyder announced his takeover of DC’s SportsTalk 980 I knew we were in a shitload of trouble. Just two weeks into the season Mr. Snyder, unhappy with the negative tone of the local media, inserted his own right-hand-man Vinny Cerrato into the station’s lineup. So now the Redskins Executive Vice President of Football Operations (basically a castrated GM) gets to play radio host a couple of times a week in an attempt to skew the coverage back towards the positive along with Snyder-approved guests like the loathsome George Michael.
Needless to say, nobody in their right mind thought this was anything close to a good idea. And not just because the guy running the team should probably have something better to do with his afternoons than to shill for his own franchise, instead it’s because everybody knows that Vinny Cerrato is a worthless prick.
I’d like to take a time out from the continuing horror that is life without football to issue the following FKS-style rant.
I FUCKING HATE GROUP DINNERS.
Let me tell you something. There is no way to enter into a group dinner without somehow managing to get completely fucked. Take it from someone who knows. Group dinners are usually arranged by a female, usually a friend of some girl you’re trying to nail. And that friend will pick a restaurant without any fucking regard as to where you live or what your salary is. “Oooh, there’s a hot new restaurant on Ellis Island that only serves caviar and Kobe beef! Let’s go there!”
The restaurant will be loud. You won’t be able to hear a goddamn thing. And you will be seated, invariably, next to most socially awkward people at the table. You’ll crane your neck to look down the table, seeing the people at the other end engaged in a compelling conversation. Meanwhile, you’re stuck with some asshole who’s talking about the repairs he’s making to his fucking house. I’m 31 now. People my age talk about their fucking houses ALL THE GODDAMN TIME.
“Well, when we moved in, the basement was just a wreck! So we wanted to install carpet and maybe add a sectional. But then the contractor had to rip out all this mold! And you wouldn’t believe how much the plumber wanted to charge to install a half-bathroom! There’s also been a history of flooding down there, you know…”
DIE.
The only thing worse than people talking about their kids, or their jobs, is them talking about their fucking houses. I don’t give a fuck about your house. It’s just another fucking house like every other house. It’s got a bed, a kitchen, a TV, and your stash of child porn hidden in the attic. BOTTLE IT, FUCKO.
The worst part of a group dinner is that I can’t order my own shit. No, they gotta order apps “for the whole table”. Did I want artichoke dip? No, I did not. Artichoke dip is fucking horrible. One time I went to a group dinner and the “host” ordered apps and entrees for everyone WITHOUT FUCKING ASKING ANYONE WHAT THEY WANTED. Hey cockhead, did I ask for stewed chickpeas? Take this and shove it up your gaping asshole.
Ever have to go to a group dinner at a tapas restaurant? It’s agony. You order a shrimp app, and they bring out 5 shrimp for a fucking table of 8. I’ve gone to tapas restaurants, plunked down $45, and taken a grand total of five bites. Hey Spain, if you want to starve to death, you go right ahead. The rest of us like fucking eating more than a pea for dinner. You bullfighting queers. Mata-WHORES.
The disparity in consumption also outrages me. I order a $5 beer. The jackass across the way orders a fucking $17 appletini. Or some bitch always ALWAYS orders a pitcher of sangria. If there’s white sangria on the menu for $10 more, they’ll order that. They’ll order it “for the table”. Ever pour a pitcher of anything for eight people? You get three milliliters of fluid. FUCK YOUR FRUITY WINE DRINK.
If everyone’s having just entrees, some moron will always fuck it up by ordering an app, thus driving up the tab AND making the rest of the table wait longer for the goddamn food. If I order a $15 entrée, someone else will invariably order the Chateaubriand with foie gras. No one wants to stick around for dessert, but some idiot will always pipe up, “Ooh! I just HAVE to look at the dessert menu!”
And once the tab arrives, it’s automatically assumed that the tab be SPLIT EQUALLY. Hey host lady. You see those seven daiquiris on the tab? Those are your problem. I’m not paying for that shit. Yet if I bitch about this, I’m somehow a cheap asshole. What the fuck?
Worst of all, when the tab arrives, someone ends up having to do the math to figure out how much everyone owes plus tip. Only they have to make sure Jimmy only pays for his drinks, because he showed up late and didn’t eat anything. Then that person’s gotta explain it all to the waiter, only the waiter is nowhere to be found, so they have to explain it to the busboy, who only speaks a rare Peruvian dialect.
And guess who always gets stuck with this task?
And for you people who like to order coffee at the end of a meal: EAT A PILE OF SHIT. It’s 10PM. What the fuck do you need coffee for? Order a straight bourbon like the rest of the civilized world. When I go to a group dinner, I am ALWAYS the first person to stand up, as a way of signaling to people that it’s time to end the meal. Otherwise, people just sit there for time eternal. God dammit.
No more group dinners, people. Okay? If you want to eat in large groups, throw a Bar Mitzvah. Otherwise, we’re all going to Super Chicken. Pay at the register for your own crap. Shithead.
Group dinners are worse than the Holocaust.
That’s a nice first half you put up Derek Anderson, with the benefit of a couple of short fields. How did you nurse that 12-point halftime lead? Going three of 12 until the final drive of the game, one-hopping and overthrowing your receivers when the Steelers didn’t sack you once? Did the Browns return unit outgain its offense by 50 yards? I think so.
Roethlisberger has 22 TDs and seven picks, despite having a mediocre offensive line that makes him run for his life. But, yeah, he’s totally an overrated game manager.
Give the retard his due. Or at least something shiny.
Since early this season, I’ve tried valiantly to avoid Bill Simmons, he of the puffy jowls, the nasally voice and the inept game predictions. His work this season is an unremitting stream of recycled jokes and ramped up Patriots gloating that is devoid of reason or the faintest whiff of shame. Punter summed it up nicely in a recent e-mail thread, “He’s gone from openly insightful (though somewhat dated) to a fact-bending homer.”
This weekend, I had to spend Saturday night working the cops beat for the paper. This is okay because you get the occasional gem like this one: 6500 BLK, 12TH ST. MALE ATTACKED BY FAMILY DOG WHILE STABBING HIS WIFE. ANIMAL IS ON THE LOOSE IN THE AREA.
But it also involves long stretches of inactivity, with which I must fill with football-related reading. Running through enough of it (or churning up enough masochistic urges) I eventually got to Simmons’ Friday picks column and came upon this stretch of mind-boggling retardery:
For instance, 0-6 Miami knows the ‘07 Pats could knock the ‘72 Dolphins out of the record books in three months. But what could they do to stop them? They’re not beating them in a game. If they made a fishy trade to help out one of New England’s rivals — like, giving away Chris Chambers to San Diego for a late second-round pick, for example — everyone would find it fishy and the league would crack down, because, after all, you’re not supposed to cheat in the National Football League. They’re helpless to stop it. In fantasy, fishy trades happen all the time and you can’t stop them unless you have a commissioner who’s stronger and more powerful than David Stern at his peak. Unfortunately, 98 percent of fantasy football leagues have a Gary Bettman type.
(Note: Thank God the NFL doesn’t work like fantasy and San Diego couldn’t steal Chambers away for a measly second-round pick simply because Miami wanted to take a dump on their fans, tank their season and preserve the legacy of the ‘72 Dolphins. Because that would suck.)
Put simply, this is the dumbest fucking thing I’ve read all year from any writer. Take a million supermikes writing on a million Etch-A-Sketches for a million years and you wouldn’t come up with anything half as fucking asinine.
Really? We’re supposed to believe a team like the Dolphins, a winless team obviously in need of unloading big money players for value while they still can in advance of overhauling their roster, is dumping their no. 1 receiver for no other reason than to fuck the Pats chances at an unbeaten season? Taking that logic, maybe they might have shipped him to a team that the Pats HAVEN’T ALREADY BEATEN! Why? To protect a 36-year-old record?
We’re also to ignore the fact that Chris Chambers for a second-round pick isn’t actually that lop-sided of a trade?
We may need another bounty.
