Hey, it’s a slow day, so it’s time for some off-topicality. Apparently I’m the only one who likes this Italian Spiderman series, but when I like something, I force it on people endlessly, like Peruvian chicken and butt sex. It’s only half as gay as Planet Unicorn but twice as nonsensical. We pushed the shit out of Planet Unicorn so I’ll post these until the rest of the Gay Mafia ties me to a stop sign and beats me with rainbow dildos. In other words, tomorrow.
Italian Spiderman has totally made my summer and summer hasn’t even started yet. This being the fourth episdoe, if your interest is sufficiently piqued, I encourage you to check out the first three installments here. You shan’t be disappointed, ragazza.
When is the moment you can know with complete certainty that someone will forever let you down? When can you quiet the murmur of indecision that allows you to cling remora-like to the twisting and turning minecart of heartbreak? I wish these things were spelled out. Life is too littered with indistinct notes and half-formed promises.
If this point exists, it must have been crossed with Samantha. Since she spurned me to start dating Mathias, she’s told me to “fuck off,” “buzz off,” “eat shit,” “get stuffed,” “hug C4,” “contract AIDS,” “die soon,” “kick rocks,” “rob butts,” “stab self,” “try men,” and “taunt cops.” Still, I can’t shake the lingering feeling that affection lies beyond those words. She must feel some obligation to put up a front of belligerence to appease her current fling. Once gone, I’m bound to get a better reception.
When I think of McNabb, it evokes the same reasoning. Yeah, he’s hurt again. He’s hurting us again. To a person of reason, the locus of dependability for McNasty is stretching further into rear distance. Those people don’t understand the intoxicating allure of expectation, a destiny that yearns to fulfill itself.
Someday Samantha and I shall know true happiness, united in experiencing an Eagles Super Bowl that will be a rapturous yea-saying efflorescence of perfection. And the Kevin Kolbs and the Mathiases of the world will be forced to accept their roles as temporary impediments to a love that can’t understand.
At least that’s what I wrote in red marker on her pillow case.
We’ve got one more: Tedy Bruschi, 100-years-young today, from Boston, Massachusetts. Beantown. Lovely place. Especially in the fall. Love to knock back them brewskis.
Tedy credits his longevity to a complex conglomeration of stroke medication and horse tranquilizers. And his mother’s pulled pork sandwiches. Ask him for the recipe, you gotta try them sometime.
He misses the days when all linebackers were white and you could play well into your 40s. Don’t we all, Tedy, don’t we all.
Ben Roethlisberger: IS FUNNY, MAN. EVERYTIME I’M WATCHIN’ THAT VIDEO MY MIND GOES BLANK. I MEAN IT GOES, LIKE
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BLANK.
JUST LIKE THAT
WHAT DO THE BRAIN WANT ME TO FORGET?
I EVEN ‘MEMBER THAT GAME ‘GAINST THE RAIDERS IN ‘06 WHEN I THREW ALL THEM PICKERCEPTIONS. THAT WAS A BLOWER. AND ALL THEM SACKS I TOOK LAST YEAR IS PISTOL CLEAR. WHAT’S THE DEAL? SO IT’S NOT LIKE I BLOCKING STUFF OUT.
ANYWAY, RIGHT NOW I’M TRYNA BUY THESE TIXETS TO THE MESS WITH THE ZOHAN MOVIE. HEY YOU THINK HE RELATED TO THE LINDSAY ZOHAN?
HARF HARF HARF THAT’S JOKES.
IKE TAYLOR SAID WE SHOULD PUFF UP ON SOME CHEEB BEFORE WE SEE THE ZOHAN. I DUNNO. UNLESS THERE’S SOME MARIJUANA COLOR PAINT TO HUFF, I AIN’T GETTING NEAR THE STUFF. GIVES YOU REEFER SADNESS. I’M TRYNA KEEP POSATIVE OUTLOOK.
SINCE WE TALKIN’ MOVIES, I’M HOPIN’ HEAF MILLER GONNA WANNA SEE THE LOVE GORO WIF ME WHEN THAT SHIZ DONE DROP. REMEMBER GORO FROM MORTAL KOMBAT? IN THIS MOVIE HE IN LOVE. THAT’S A TRIP. HE PROLLY NEED BITCH WITH FO’ JUBBLIES TO SATISFY HIM. I AX MARVEL SMIF IF ANY GIRL HE KNOW HAS FO’ JUBBLIES AND HE SAY NAW. THAT’S SOME BUTT.
NOW THAT I GOTS ALL THE NEW CONTRACT MONEY - I BOUGHT MY FRIENDS AIRSOFT RIFLES SO THEY COULD PLAY MAD MAX ON THE BIKES I GOT THEM. CAN’T GET NEAR THEM THINGS THOUGH. THEY TRYNA GET ME TO RIDE ONE BUT I GET ALL TWITCHY AND PASS OUT. WHAT THE BRAIN GOT ‘GAINST BIKES?
ALL WILL BE REVEALED WHEN I HUFF ON THE RED PAINT. WORD HAS IT THAT’S THE ONE THAT IMPROVES ‘MEMBERY. HAD TO BE SOMETHING BAD WHAT HAPPENED.
Vince McMahon: Now I wanted to thank you again Shawne for taking part in our pay-per-view One Night Stand. As you know, the world sports entertainment can be a great opportunity for athletes of your caliber during offseason, suspensions, even retirement. Just look at that Adam “Pacman” Jones character. Possibly even a gateway to film acting, as Dwayne Johnson has demonst-
Shawne Merriman: Yeah. Super. Pay me.
Vince: Hey, hey, hey, Shawne. Let’s hold on a minute here. We have a contract drawn up. A contract that obligates you to more than one smacking with a Singapore cane.
Merriman: Contract nothing. We settled on one appearance for an agreed-upon fee.
Vince: Maybe we entered into a verbal agreement, but your agent had you sign a form saying you’d take part in at least one match.
Merriman: I will rape him to the point of deepest human agony. Then rape him in a seriocomic manner. Hipsters will enjoy it.
Vince: Be that as it may, you have an obligation to fulfill, Shawne. I’ve already booked you in a tag team match.
Before you get all bent out of your hulking shape, you should know that I wouldn’t pair you with just anyone. In fact, I’ve already found someone you share a history with.
[Door flies open]
Philip Rivers: Ya betta ask somebodddaaaaayyyyyy!
Merriman: Fuck. I suddenly feel that my rape stick is losing its potency.
Rivers: FUCK IS RIGHT TINY EPILEPTIC DANCER! I’ve gone through an off-season of recouping a ticker tape ACL and I’m ready to get out there and flay some NEIGHBORFUCKING ball sacks! You ready to join me? ARE YOU? HUH? WHAT? HUH? FUCK YOU!
We don’t even need a contract. When it comes to killin’, Shawne and I are ready and willin’, right you sweaty monster-sized steroid negroid mongaloid? If Antonio Cromartie can beat up valets for me, you can at least give me one wrass-a-lin’ match. Don’t pay this huckster any mind. I wanna see your commitment. You should want to do this like a passed out sorority girl.
Merriman: Well, when you put it that way. Still, I don’t like the way he did me with the contract business.
[Rivers holds out the contract Merriman signed, which he crumples it into a ball that he winds up and throws furiously in the direction of McMahon. It floats in the air for the entirety of their meeting]
Vince: Fellas, fellas. lot of animosity here, I must say. If we can curtail the outbursts for a moment, I’d like to introduce you fine gentleman to the combatants you will be facing in the squared circle come next month.
Rivers: What in the name of the great big shimmery cock in the sky…
Road Dogg Jesse James: LLLLLLadies and gentleman, boys and girls, children of all ages, D-Generation X proudly presents THE TAG TEAM CHAMPIONS OF THE WWWWWWWOOOOORRRRLLLDDD, the Road Dog Jesse James, the Bad Ass Billy Gunn, The! New! Age! Outlaws!
Rivers: This cockfragment stole my intro.
James: Stole what? I started using that line back in 1997!
Rivers: But I feel like I could have invented it.
James: You stole that line from The Squid and the Whale!
Rivers: Yeah, well, you stole my DNA from the seed I shot into your mom.
James: Son of a bitch!
[Rivers shrieks and runs behind Merriman]
Rivers: Spring forth my burly protector and save me!
Merriman: You know this shit is fake, right?
Vince: We don’t even try to pretend it’s real anymore.
Rivers: Of course, of course. I knew that. I was…getting into character. I’m gonna be one of those…those heels. They’re the BIG SWINGING DICKS, right? That’s me all the way and twice on gameday.
I already went ahead picked our entrance music. Now we just gotta come up with some cool wrass-a-lin’ names. Laserface is a natural fit for me. You? Hmm. Yooooouuuu… Lessee… The Big Shit? The Hymenbreak Kid? Ah! Here we go: Billy the Rapeasaurus.
Merriman: I think we can just go with our real names.
Rivers: Sure thing, Billy, whatever you say. Next thing: finishing move. You cool with pummeling the guy while I yell at the crowd? I think we can make this work.
Merriman: I knew I shouldn’t've done this shit in the first place.
Rivers: Hey Vince, any chance at of a multi-year contract?
I know this may be difficult to stomach, but during my tenure as White House press secretary, I was privy to a number of damaging, invidious machinations that could undo our basic assumptions about this country and the morals upon which it was founded. Many have never seen the light of day. For instance, did you know the intelligence that led us into the War in Iraq was cooked? If only someone had said something over the past five years!
Furthermore, in my new hardcover book “What Happened?” (which, by the way, was not swiped from your movie title, Mr. Night Shyamalan, so tell your attorneys to quit calling me) I disclose several other mind-bending bombshells.
For instance: The NFL’s New England Patriots spied on other team’s defensive signals.
Yeah. Soak that one up. If you can.
I can feel your confidence in our country’s sense of righteous falling away with each passing sentence. Scotty Too Hotty senses these things. You may ask why I did not come forward earlier. You don’t know what the culture of the White House is like. It’s a bubble from which no credible information escapes. You work 18-hour days. That kind of fatigue will make anyone a toadying crony. I admit I was part of the propaganda machine. It’s not something I am proud of, but at least I can profit from it now.
I did capture this exchange between Patriots coach Bill Belichick and the president when the Patriots visited the White House to celebrate their victory in Super Bowl XXXIX. I was taking notes, because I knew I’d be writing a book later after all the facts had already been divulged by other sources.
Belichick: You know, Mr. President. I have a confession to make and I feel secure in making it because I am only surrounded by your inner circle of trusted associates. Here it is: My team filmed the defensive signals of other NFL teams that we played against. Also I banged several MILFs.
Whew. Load off my mind.
President Bush: That’s funny, because I fudged our reasoning for going to war with Iraq.
Belichick: Huh.
Good thing everybody within earshot is part of your propaganda machine. Otherwise this could be severely damaging to both our legacies.
Bush: Yes. Good thing.
And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. I also happen to know that the administration knowingly tipped off the identity of agent Valerie Plame to Robert Novak. Unbelievable, no? So, please, buy the book. I didn’t knowingly going along with mismanagement of governance for years for nothing, you know?
At KSK, we revel in the full breadth of antipathy, whether it be aimed at deserving targets like Peter King, the city of Indianapolis, Carl Peterson and Carson Palmer. Or really deserving targets like Patriots fans, Patriots players and Patriot Pat.
What gets lost in this festival of rancor are (What? Love? The fuck is that?) those people you hate deeply and irrationally, whereas the consensus of them is frustratingly positive. These are people (Tina Fey) that everyone seems to love and, on the surface, seem decent enough but just happen to rub you the wrong way (Tina Fey) to the extent that you’d like to cast them into the most gator-filled pond you can find. (The gators have a taste for female comedians also).
These need not be sports figures, per se. I find it’s not difficult to find easy justification to hate an athlete. Maybe they don’t exhibit outward obnoxiousness, but do they play for your favorite team? No. Welp, there you go. I justified my hatred of Marcus Allen for years with that one.
My opening pick: Mary J. Blige. (Tina Fey is too easily justified)
Good gracious, this woman is a warbling bag of annoying. “Family Affair” just won’t leave the goddamn radio, will it? Yes, Mary, I have plenty of hateration. And I don’t even have to go to a fucking dancery to have it either. What was that album called? “No More Drama”? Nice away message for 6th grader. DIE.
Mrs. York, the assembled personnel department of the San Francisco 49ers: I would like to thank you for affording me this opportunity and for indulging my transporting here from the Skywalker Ranch via pod racer. I can say unequivocally that the gesture is truly wizard.
No doubt you were impressed by the worldwide box office success of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, for which I held an executive producing credit and a browbeating my friend Steven Spielberg with insipid ideas credit. That scene with Shia and the monkeys? All Lucas, baby. The Young Turks live on!
I know that you, Mrs. York, do not have an affinity for the sport of football. Neither do I. Nor do I enjoy making movies. They get in the way of my amazing CGI monkeys. But I know what makes them sing. If there are clear lessons to be gleaned from the latest Indy, the public clamors voraciously with two things: the 1950s and space aliens.
Ah, excuse me. Yes, I’ve had industrial Light and Magic change my otherwise distasteful sounding bodily emissions into Star Wars effects. Very, very wizard.
Where was I? Oh, yes - the ’50s and space aliens. Is it possible for you to outfit your players in leather jackets and give them a large supply of combs with which to correct their cowlicks after each play? You saw how butch it made Shai look. He was a real greaser, that LaBeouf. Did you know I made American Graffiti? And that it’s a cinematic treasure beyond compare? Believe me, your fans will find it most wizard. Or, should I say, retro wizard.
About those fans, you won’t need them! All you’ll need to do is wrap the stadium in blue screen and there will be a veritable panoply of interesting alien races cheering on the game. You’ll have Ewoks, Tusken Raiders, a whole clan of cheering rhesus monkeys, the shebang. I’ll even add Chewbacca in there as a subtle nod to the hardcore fans. In the owner’s box: Watto. Get it? Because he resembles a Jew!
The only caveat with this is that you mustn’t air any games live. Makes it difficult on the animators. Post-production takes time, baby.
And stop wasting your money on new players! Crowds feed off nostalgia. You know 32 percent of the Indy movie is lingering shots of his hat, visual references to the past movies and glimpses of the Ark of the Covenant.
Keep doing what’s worked in the past. What do Niners fans like? The Catch? Well, keep running that play, dummy. Addlebrained reviewers said Kingdom of the Crystal Skull transported them back to their childhood. Well, of course it did - it had the exact same ending as Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, just with aliens. Beautiful CGI aliens.
The Cleveland Browns have been wondering exactly where the fuck their Pro Bowl tight end has been hiding out this offseason. Fortunately, our intrepid field reporters managed to capture a snapshot that shows our missing protagonist in action. Can you pick out the real Kellen from all of the impostors?
Hint: He’s one of the fucking soldiers.
Not to worry Browns, Drew Rosenhaus is on the case!
Yeah assholes, why should he have to pick up the (SPRINT MOBILE!) phone and tell his coach where he’s at? For soldiers like Winslow, leaking such information could put his entire unit in danger.
