Tomorrow, in a convergence that is bound to shake the very foundation of these here internets, Peter King will be having a live chat over at Deadspin with Deadspin readers. Good chat. Lofty chat.

Anyway, here’s your chance to query the man in person. I’ll probably abstain from asking Peter any questions, lest it turn out he’s very friendly and an uncommonly good sport. Then I wouldn’t be able to hate his guts, and no one wants that.

So take the time now and then to consider your queries. Prepare the most semi-LeBronesque questions you can. I doubt PK will answer many of the questions you REALLY want to ask, such as, WHEN WILL YOU DIE? I suggest you err on the side of gentle subversion. Peter, how often does your proctologist have to use the shoehorn? Things like that.

So buckle in. Prepare yourself in the comments. It’s fun with Peter King. LIVE.

In closing, gentle reader, I’d like to thank you. ‘What’s that?’ you say? Me thanking YOU? No, it’s not a misprint, for you see, I enjoyed writing this book as much as you enjoyed reading it. The End.

We had a fantasy football contest last year. We got a shitload of entries, many of them outstanding, and in the end we picked the girl who was willing to hook up with Maj. Only a fair trade, I suppose. HUGE sacrifice on her part.

So, as the season nears, we’re gonna have another tips contest. Only this time the prize is even MORE self-aggrandizing. It’s an advance copy of Men With Balls. The book comes out on October 27th, but you’ll get to read it two months before everyone else! Think of how cool you’ll feel! It would be like some ComicCon jackass getting into a free “Watchmen” screening! ZOMG!!!11!!!111!!!

I can’t really tell you how funny I think this book is, since I’m the asshole that wrote it. All I can do is show you one of the blurbs on the back of the cover jacket.

No, that isn’t a misprint. Nor is it unauthorized. I’m pretty sure that if Buzz enjoyed the book, so will you.

All you have to do to win your advance copy is submit something awesome. I don’t care what it is. Send us an awesome tip. Make a great photoshop. Send more drunk photos of Orton. My email and the KSK staff email links are on the sidebar. You’ve got until next Thursday. Show us your balls, people.

(gets sacked)

Hey, that’s all right. No problem there. Better to take the sack than throw a foolish pass, am I right? That’s how it’s gonna be here. No flash. Just smart football. I think all of you are getting an idea of the steady kind of leadership I’m here to provide! Now let’s get back out there, team!

(gets sacked again)

Again, not a problem. Just taking care of the ball and managing the game. I think, as time goes by, everyone here is going to come to appreciate my savviness!

(locks in on one receiver, gets sacked again)

Boy, you know I think you guys blocked a little harder last year.

(gets pass tipped and intercepted)

Okay! That’s okay! Not a problem. Nothing I could do about that. Not going to worry about the things I can’t control… just gonna stay strong mentally and play within myself…

(throws 8-yard completion without any sort of bravado or derring-do)

See! There it is! A good, solid completion. Keeping the ball moving, not trying to do too much out there. Isn’t that great? That should really please these fans out here tonight!

No! No, Aaron! Stay strong! Don’t let it all get to you. Keep your composure. Don’t get rattled. Poise! Must stay poised! Can’t… let it… get… to… me…

(runs to locker room)

(runs back out)

The world is a festering pile of molten spider excrement. And its people are clones, ghoulish clones of death whose only mission is to suck each other dry, and then to ejaculate their hate babies upon piles of twisted, mangled flesh and broken bones. There is no sun. There is no day. There is only night – a long, dark night of savage bloodletting. In a world of hopeless decay and indifference. Left to its own shadowy fate.

I shall not participate in its hypocrisy.

And lies.

LIES LIES LIES LIES.

I have written a poem, a poem that shall put the pus-thirsty masses in their place. And I shall read it to you aloud, so that everyone might here and suffer the truth of their own blindness.

God is an afterbirth,
A rotting placenta that sucks away rather than nourishes.
And his love is not love but pain.
He delights only in seeing the maggot-infested carcasses of lovers
Ground up by the hate machine
And shat out upon the dying lands.
Pain is God
Here is your tribute, your worship

(spits on ground)

Ha.

Live with that, people of Green Bay. The Aaron Rodgers you once knew is dead, and YOU are the murderers. MURDERERS! That cheese on your head had turned bleu and marbled. I shall not be one of your lab mice. You are all bathing in the black amniotic fluid of ignorance.

I will enjoy watching the world die.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, me and my Twihard friends are going to go egg Stephanie Meyer’s house for the way she mishandled Bella and Edward’s romance at the end of “Breaking Dawn”.