What an absolutely shitty day from top to bottom. One of those days where you think you’re hung over, but no: you are actually bona fide sick. Nothing goes right. People are assholes. It’s hotter than two cats fucking in a wool sock and you worked through lunch.

Well, at least it’s Sexy Friday. Better late than never, I say. Looks like the ‘Skins cheerleaders are in fine form for the Hall of Fame Game:

Welcome back, NFL. You beautiful bitch.

I don’t think it’s appropriate to just throw out random links of porn sites, espeically since your typical Friday fare includes more family-friendly fetishables. But this week is different, partly because “fetishables” isn’t really a word. Unless you read TBL, and then you might as well throw the entire fucking dictionary into the fireplace. Do you even have a fireplace? We have two, but we don’t use either one. I always thought it would be neat to stick a TV in there that was actually showing an image of a burning fire, but getting that together would have been a waste of time. Kinda like this entire paragraph.

This week’s cheerleader pic comes from Hottest Girls Of Cheerleading. It’s a Texans Halloween party. Or something. I think an orgy was about to break out before there was this big bomb scare. And then Tiffany lost her keys and had to get a ride home from Melissa who drove into a ditch and now she can’t see the color orange anymore. In other words, it was a typical Texas night.

And if you’re looking to stay indoors this weekend, I have a movie recommendation for you…

Later on.

Can you believe KSK used to be one of those pussy-ass narrow blogs? Sad but true. But we’ve seen the light, and it’s coming from a web page that uses the full width of the monitor.

Let’s get one thing clear: if your blog doesn’t have widescreen pictures, your blog SUCKS. What, you think people are gonna check out what you have to say because you can form cogent arguments with high-minded prose? WRONG.

Give the people what they want: BIG PICTURES. OF BIG TITTIES.

Examine, please, Sexy Friday’s Exhibit B:

If this picture were smaller, you wouldn’t be able to see the hole from her absent navel piercing, and this additional piece of information from the greater detail enlightens further discussion: Does the Tampa Bay cheer squad forbid belly button rings while the girls are in uniform? It would certainly seem that way; most squads have similar rules that require makeup over any tattoos.

So lemme get this straight. They have to wear tight, revealing clothing that showcases their bodies and enhances their cleavage while they perform sexy dance moves… but no navel piercings! Why, that would take away from their demure image! “You know, I bet most of these girls are bankers or lawy–OH MY GOD! Is that a belly button ring?!?! GET OFF THE FIELD WHORE!!!”

BOOM!

BLAM!

POW!

BANG!

PORK!

HEY, WHO LET THAT ASSHOLE IN?!

Happy 4th. See you Monday, fuckos.

Jesus Christ, Tiffany! How many times have we gone over this? You INTERLOCK your fingers, then pull them up so that ONLY the HEEL of your PALM is on the victim’s breastbone! Unless, of course, you think it’s a good idea to crush the ribs of someone who’s dying? Huh? They’re not using their lungs anyway, may as well puncture them with a splintered rib, right?

Yeah, you just keep being casual about it, Tiff. Do it the way you want. You always do. “Ooh, look at me, I’m pretty! Nobody ever tells me I’m wrong!”

Well I’ll tell you what, missy: you keep doing it that way, and your smile won’t be enough to bring little Mrs. Potts back to life after you detach her xyphoid process and it cuts her organs up so bad that she dies from internal bleeding before the heart attack can kill her. Believe me, when that happens, there isn’t a Korean woman in the world who can manicure the DEATH off your pretty little hands.

Oh, you’re gonna cry now? Sure, go ahead. I’m the bad guy.

(photo from PCB)

Some of you assholes would score a little more ‘tang if you just opened your eyes and paid attention to the world around you. The reason all of these girls are dating assholes is because they want men that are assertive. They don’t really care if he’s frequently wrong about driving directions or occasionally punches them in the face. That’s the price of doing business to them. These broads are all about the ACTION!

Now I know what you’re thinking. “But Punte, I’m broke. I can’t afford to show women a good time. It’s a waste of money when I’m not even guaranteed sex.” You’re not paying attention, dick. Did we learn nothing from the legend of El Guapho?

“Why don’t you just take her? When you want cattle, you take the cattle. When you want food, you take the food. When you want a woman…you just take the woman. Why don’t you just take her?”

Now, I’m not advocating…you know. Well, I am, but in a subtle way. If she comes out and says, “Please stop having sex with me or I will contact the authorities!” then the jig’s up, bro. But of course you could gag her beforehand, or just wait until she falls asleep. But if you do that, you should cover her face with a towel, so the sweat from all your hard work doesn’t wake her up.

Oh, and one other thing. If you take that silent ninja route, you’re probably not going to get her off, so don’t try. I just thought I’d point that out.

I’m glad we had this chance to talk.

This is Cincinnati Ben-Gal Olivia. Olivia, along with five other smoking hot fictional cheerleaders, writes for a well-known fictional NFL humor blog. Olivia told her blog-mates that she would take care of the Friday cheerleader post– a recurring fictional feature that had become somewhat of a fictional institution on their blog.

But for some reason Olivia never wrote the cheerleader post and all of the fictional people who read her blog were sad and confused. The other five fictional cheerleaders were so angry they stuffed Olivia into a fictional burlap sack and dropped her off the Roebling suspension bridge into the Ohio River. They agreed to tell Olivia’s friends that she became a hooker and moved to Beckowanckal Heights, a fictional city that is exactly like the very real city of Las Cruces, New Mexico in every detail. They’ve already started to forget what Olivia looked like…

Speaking of the Bengals, Ocho Cinco has been described by a Cincinnati lawyer as possessing “the mental agility of a small soap dish.” What an awful thing to say. A real cheap shot. Didn’t that mean old lawyer man ever stop to think that small soap dishes might have feelings too?

Angela (note: not her real name) has studied dance since she was 4. In high school, she was captain of the cheerleading squad and served as treasurer for the senior class.

After deciding to go to Florida State, Angela pledged at Pi Phi and spent too much time at the Sigma Chi house , where over the course of her freshman year she hooked up with four members of the fraternity, two pledges (on a dare), and a prospective student in his senior year of high school.

During her junior year, she fell in love with a TKE named Hunter who starred on the club soccer team. As a test of their love, she proposed that they have a threesome with her friend Ashley. Hunter responded by saying, “No, I only want YOU.”

This was the correct answer, which displeased Angela. So she pressed him further and convinced him that she really wanted to do it. Hunter, not wanting to turn down the opportunity to sleep with two blonde coeds, bought three bottles of Asti Spumante, headed over to the Pi Phi house, and spent what otherwise would have been an unremarkable Wednesday night engaged in the kind of drunken exploration of human sexuality you can only get while enrolled at a state-funded college. It was the best sexual experience any of them ever had.

And Angela never forgave him for it. They fought for another four months before he dumped that crazy broad.

I spent the last three days in Richmond, Virginia. Richmond, The Hartford Of The South! I stayed at a hotel which was, in most respects, delightful. But it had a few tragic flaws. First of all, it had no pay-per-view porn of any kind on the options menu. Fucking Southern hypocrites. There’s an entire bottle of free body lotion in the bathroom with my penis’s name on it (That name? “The Bull.”). You’re telling me all I have to masturbate to is my imagination? That’s bullshit.

Second of all, and this is something every middle-of-the-pack hotel does: No fitted sheets on the bed. I think we’re all quite familiar with the standard hotel bed. It consists of one bottom sheet, one top sheet, one ratty blanket, and one bedspread that hasn’t been washed in over six decades. Mine likely still had traces of Charles Robb’s DNA on it. Anyway, these beds are made so tightly, it’s like sleeping under a goddamn sheet of Cling Wrap. And, since they never use fitted sheets, anytime I try pulling the sheets out from under the mattress to get some breathing room, the whole goddamn thing comes undone.

I am a restless sleeper. I toss. I turn. I breathe heavily. I scratch myself. I even practice Tae Kwon Do. I rotate sleeping positions like I’ve been skewered on a goddamn spit. Back, side, stomach, side, back, side, etc. As a result, I have never slept in a standard issue hotel bed without waking up the next day splayed out on a bare mattress with a laundry heap of sheets spilling over the side. This annoys the fuck out of me.

Are fitted sheets that expensive? Is there not enough room in a hotel budget for elastic? GET SOME FITTED SHEETS ON YOUR BEDS, HOTEL MANAGERS. Cornell University didn’t teach you JACK SHIT about proper hospitality.

Anyway, here are your cheerleaders for the week. Did you know one of the Cowboys’ cheerleaders is named Starr Spangler? I bet she’s seen a hotel bed or two.

This is Casie. Casie was your girlfriend for 18 months. Despite her flawlessly toned body and affinity for making love on top of dryers, Casie put you through absolute Hell on earth. Seriously, dude. She was certifiably insane. She told you she went to Dartmouth, when in fact she attended New England College. And when you checked the Dartmouth directory and couldn’t find her name, she got mad at you for “spying on her”. Then she kicked you in the chest.

She claimed to have been best friends with Nicole Eggert, but you couldn’t verify it. She told you she worked at Christie’s Auction House, but building security had no record of her ever being an employee. One time, you stepped on her foot by accident in the middle of a crosswalk, causing her to argue with you for ten minutes WITHOUT FINISHING CROSSING THE STREET. She had an invisible cat named “Ollie”. Sometimes she talked in a little kiddie voice. You had no clue why.

She called you fat. She broke down in tears once because you got a haircut she didn’t care for. She was also an anti-Semite. One time she met one of your buddies, then after he left the room, she asked in exasperation, “God, are ALL your friends Jewish?” She loved talking about how much richer her ex-boyfriend was compared to you. She demanded you get a job in finance. She booked restaurant reservations at four-star restaurants you couldn’t possibly afford, then made you take her anyway.

One night, she woke you up at 3AM to tell you how much she hated your family. That was the last straw. You got out of bed, put on your clothes, and started to leave the apartment. She grabbed your arm and tried to restrain you from leaving. You shook her off, running down the stairs to catch a cab. And on that cab ride home, you exhaled. You were free. You knew this was it. No amount of make-up sex would draw you back this time. You knew you would never see her again, and you didn’t. It was the best you felt in ages.

Somewhere, deep in the back of your mind, you wonder if she was ever named Casie to begin with.