Corruption Scandal Rocks Iceball!!!

[This article is reprinted with the permission of Reuters.]

Stunning allegations have arisen that are sending shockwaves through the Iceball lig.

Video recordings of Commissioner (or shall we say, 'commissar'???) Dimples Kelpsky have been reportedly turned over to the Iceball League's Investigations & Conduct Enforcement (ICE) department to determine next steps. Although the tapes detail breathtaking corruption and moral turpitude, Kelp's henchmen are not taking the accusations idly.

"This entire so-called 'incident' is a sham. It's an outrageous hoax. A witch hunt! An elaborately staged bit of video trickery intended to dethrone the future's only permanent Iceball champion," howled Kelpsky's attorney in a press conference.

"But sir, the FBI released a transcript of video footage that featured your client's deplorable behavior. Are you suggesting that all of the hours of footage are fake?" begged a reporter.

"Yes. That is correct. We will pursue justice and exact vengeance on the Jews that perpetrated this outrageous outrage!"

"Sir, you have proof that it was a cabal of Jewish people that perpetrated the outrage?"

"I might. I might not. But this seems to be a great way to spin up enough violence that people will forget this stuff ever happened. Let's just leave it at that and make sure that this response to your question is not made public."

Despite the request for secrecy, we are publishing a key portion of the video's transcript:

Transcript

[Knock on door, head pops into office...]

Worker 1: Hi, Mr. Kelpsky? You called for me?

Kelp: Who the f**k are you?!

Worker 1: Schwartz, sir. I just got back from paternity leave and -

Kelp: Oh, that's right. You're the f**king pussy who can't be an actual man. Now I remember all the reasons I regretted hiring you!

Worker 1: Sir, you said I had the best analytical mind you'd seen in a long time when you hired me!

Kelp: If you're not here to help me when I need it, what good is your f**king mind?!

Worker 1: I-I-I'm sorry, sir. I'll never take a day off again, I swear!

Kelp: That's a small step in the right direction. Now sit down on the floor over there.

Worker 1: Sir, there's no room. You have 15 people in your office.

Kelp: Schwartz, let me put this to you in the simplest possible terms that even an asshole like you can under-f**king-stand.

Worker 1: Thank you, sir.

Kelp: If you don't sit down over there and run millions of simulations and test scenarios that will give me the answer to the question, 'should I start Brandin Cooks or Larry Fitzgerald,' I will slit your baby's throat with box cutter. You feel me?

Worker 1: Oh my god!

Kelp: Oops! I'm so sorry. Let me restate that: 'if you don't get me the answer to the question of Cooks vs. Fitz within the next 3 hours, I'll slit your baby's throat AND your wife's throat.

Worker 1:  [stares in disbelief and shock]

Kelp: My advice is to get busy. You want to do the DST analysis, too, f**k-face?

Worker 7: Mr. Kelpsky... I've been working on the projections for Phillip Lindsay -

Kelp: Two "L's" in Phillip.

Worker 7: Yes, sir. Sir, I've been working on this with no breaks for 31 straight hours with no breaks.

Kelp: Bullshit. I escorted you to the bathroom 3 times. In fact, I vividly remember stopping you from eating toilet paper when you were whining about starving to death.

[Kelp walks around and sits at his desk.]

Worker 7: But I'm about to pass out, sir. I don't mind doing this work, but I haven't talked to my family in days and they're probably worried about me -

Kelp: Is the work done and to the confidence level I've given you?

Worker 7: Well, no, but -

Kelp: Then I suggest you get your slacker ass back onto the floor and crunching numbers before I throw you out the window. Savvy?

Worker 7: [turns, crying]

[Kelp pulls his chair up to his desk]

Kelp: [grumbling] F**cking millenials have no idea how the world works!

[Kelp shows surprised expression and suddenly looks under his desk]

Kelp: Is someone sucking my c*ck?!?

Worker 14: Yes, sir. It's me, Hanrahan. I wanted to pitch in somehow, but I'm not as good at crunching numbers as the others. So I decided to crunch on your bone.

Kelp: Well, thanks, Hanrahan. You're definitely a team player and I'll remember this at bonus time!

Worker 14: Thank you, sir. Should I keep on going? I can show you some neat tricks I've learned from the tranny in shipping!

Kelp: That's very nice, but my boner is all about winning the championship this year. Plus I need to focus on my Frank Gore projections. So get the f**k out from under there, pronto.

[A ruckus arises outside the door. A man lurches into the room with Kelp's administrative assistant trying to hold the man back.]

AA: You can't go in there! Very important work is being done!

Man: I am the got-damned CEO of this firm! I will go into whatever office I want!

AA: I'm so sorry, Mr. Kelp.

Kelp: It's okay, toots. How about you sashay on out of here so I can see those sexy ass cheeks swinging from side to side?

AA: [smiles and turns]

CEO: What in the world is going on in here?!? Half the IT staff is crammed into your office!

Kelp: [finishes leering at AA] What was that? Sorry, I wasn't paying any attention.

CEO: What are all these people doing in your office?? All I see is fantasy football related material on their screens and the printers across the entire office building are busy shooting out pages of NFL statistics!

Kelp: Yeah, we're very busy.

CEO: This is NOT the work you're paid to do, Mr. Kelp! None of these people are getting any work done for the firm!

Kelp: [leans back in his chair] Look, skipper. On any given day, you're lucky to get 1 f**king password reset done with this talentless, redneck jambalaya of IT posers. So I outsourced all that to India and now no one calls for help anymore. The only reasonable thing for me to do is to use them to generate data that I can use to win the f**king Iceball championship.

Worker 5: "Talentless rednecks?" Sir!

Kelp: Oh my f**king god! This is f**king Nashville! This is the first time you inbred, coal-sucking, nipple-chewers have ever been called "rednecks"?!

CEO: [in shock, stares a few moments] I can't believe what I'm hearing! This is worst case of insubordination I've ever witnessed!

Kelp: Oh. Then you're gonna want to be here next week for the 'hooker hoot-nanny!' We're really raising the bar!

CEO: [angry for a moment, suddenly moving into shocked, and then his face gradually turns into a smile]

Kelp: Good move, Hanrahan!


[Hanrahan aggressively blows the CEO, who quickly finishes]

[Kelp goes back to typing on the keyboard] 

Kelp: Alrighty! I suppose we can get back to work, huh skipper?

CEO: Are you sure no one is calling the help desk or having any tech problems in the store?

Kelp: The Indians have it all covered. They never complain, no matter how much sh*t you give 'em, either.

CEO: Okay, then. Carry on.

Kelp: Not so fast!

CEO: Huh? What?

[Kelp tosses a laptop to CEO]

Kelp: Find me a waiver wire Tight End. No eating or drinking until I get someone better than that f**king ass-clown Watson!

[CEO awkwardly finds place to sit on the floor]

CEO: I didn't expect to get blackmailed into doing fantasy football work today.

Kelp: I want 4 options and statistical outlook for each for the rest of the year. I just finished Frank Gore's analysis. Now it's time to tweak the scoring system so I can beat my brothers....

What's That Smell?

Watermelon Center - on the 18th of August, another steaming pile of Iceball Fantasy Football drafting has once again filled the air with its characteristically noxious mixture of methane, sulfur, wet dog, and decaying dwarf flesh - accented by the aroma of stale groundhog entrails decomposing.

As defending champion Johnny Aimer made his grand entrance, held aloft by six scantily clad, seductively beautiful hookers, the mood shifted from frivolity to rage. But after the intimidating gesture completed, the champ angrily shooed the willing ladies away, demanding, "Stop touching me, ya hags!" As they ran out the door, the contingent from the Dime Bags openly wept and others wondered why the hookers were allowed to drive away in the champ's car.

Pagnac's General Manager rushed to the board and made his selection before the Commissioner officially opened the draft, leading to a short brawl where vicious threats such as, "I'll scratch your eyes out!" and "I'll pinch you so hard!" were hurled between the combatants, terrifying the indifferent crowd.

Above: Even after strapping on a second "thinking cap," PFL GM fails to figure out how to turn on his phone.

From this glittering intellectual peak, things could only - and did - get worse. As pundits and international humanitarian observers have often said as a play on General Schwartzkopf's famous line, "Going to war without the French is like going to an Iceball fantasy football draft without a ceramic boobie cup."

It's unclear what that quote actually intends to convey, but the indignant Dime Bags' Executive Director for International Ceramic Nipple Cup Proliferation was overheard saying, "Can someone please tell me what 'proliferation' means?"

Token Chicks' Assistant GM ended up "getting lost" while transporting hoagies, leading Criminals' Chief Counsel, Rudy Gooliani, to accuse the Chicks for attempting to postpone the draft in order to perform additional scouting and "scheming" as part of a "deep league" conspiracy, offering scathing and inflammatory-sounding opinions as proof. A brief scuffle ensued, and America's mayor woke up later in the manure pile. "This is illegal," he murmured to one of the nearby microphone-outfitted deer. "I bet the Clintons run this league."

After the kerfuffle, bad picks, as usual, flowed like beer from gleaming taps.

One shocking set of sensible selections occurred when the normally - and severely - stupid owner of the Melons accidentally picked a pair of high end tight ends in early rounds.

"What did I do?!" howled Grimmisk in confusion.

"You just did something intelligent," Kegs Director of Player Personnel and Bung Plug Operations, Gully Rupertessimo grudgingly admitted. "It's not quite at ceramic nipple cup levels, but close."

"Things like that don't happen in this venue," groused Token Chicks' head of Eastern European scouting, Kareem Vulva. "And when I left, the watermelon on the counter was still unscathed."

Separation Insanity

Separation anxiety is a well-known state in psychology. However, some people, when separated from their loved ones for too long have been known to, as delicately stated by world-renowned Professor of Psychology at the University of Indiana, Mildred Vadgepatch, "completely lose their shit."

Apparently, the strain of being away from a house jammed to the gunnels with females (that means girls, LePeepee) has gotten to the brain of the lig's commissioner, Kelpy McTeenypeeny.

"You can call me 'Danielle' from now on, or don't talk to me at all!" screamed the formerly sane owner of the Balloon Knots. Seen below during a recent business trip, the now plus-sized gal was proudly letting it all hang - or bulge - out.

Danielle catches a few Zs.

In a poignant and touching story of utterly pointless do-gooding, best friend, Rupert, set out across the globe to attempt a solo intervention. Seen below working feverishly on his huge laptop computer in an airport while en route to intercept 'Danielle' before a pivotal visit to a European clinic (and you know it's him because you can plainly see the foo mustache and beard), Rupie did everything he could to help his unwell friend avoid a costly mistake.

Rupert valiantly typing sternly worded appeal to Customs officials to deny Danielle exit from the country while waiting to intercept Danielle at the airport.

Rupe was delighted that he was able to prevent the wiener-shredding, vagina-making surgery in Belgium. "This is a small victory, I know," he said, adding, "But GEEEZ-is, look at that clown! He's bat-shit crazy and no one cares but me! I can't let him down - I can't."

In a statement written in small pieces of macaroni glued to a cardboard box, older brothers Grimisk and Bertrand appeared to have confirmed as much by saying, "It's true - we don't care."

Troubled and estranged children and family members have been unable to convince Danielle that he should stop his vag-quest. Even the normally supportive Karplunk was quoted as saying, "if he goes through with this, I'm going to kick his bitch ass!"

Controversy, you are no stranger to Iceball.

Draft Day - 2013

As social scientists attempt to analyze the apparent regression of American civilization into a hate-filled cesspool of ignorant imbeciles, one piece of data remains as a towering spire of proof that it's all going to hell in a handbasket: the IceBall fantasy football league draft. Racists, rednecks, drunks, perverts, homophobes, morons, and their despicable enablers were on hand for the latest humiliating installment. It proved every bit the crap-show as previous years.

When asked about the lig's contribution to the disintegration of modern society by a Harvard University researcher, self-appointed spokesman, Grimisk Von Tippytoe said, "Listen toots, we're just going with the flow here. We're victims in all this madness. If we hadn't been forced into spending our time on fantasy drafts, we'd just be wasting time on our hideous families. Now will you please put your pinky into my rectum like you promised?"

Beer quality at the event was improved dramatically by Cousin Paddy's home-brewed pilsner. Of course, the requests for some Belgian-styled or maltier beers were unfulfilled, as the destroyer of PAGNAC preferred to go with a German-styled classic. The expectations for superior styles were dashed in much the same way as Paddy's hopes for a lig title were dashed by his hideous drafting.

And Rupert bemoaned the fact that no one sells an affordable conveyor-belt system that can process and pull french fries from the frier (light on the salt, heavy on the ketchup!) and shovel them straight into his gaping maw in a continuous, never-ending, assembly-line fashion. Although it was discovered that such a machine exists, there is no suitable 'pause' button to allow for activities like dropping a deuce, drinking a beer, giving a neighbor a handie, or making a bad draft pick. Documents are currently under review, but speculation is that the odiferous owner may have broken the record for most weight gain during a team draft in the history of fantasy football. Neighborhood witnesses have attested to hearing a sound similar to fingers rubbing an inflated balloon, indicating massive skin expansion took place - or Rupie was licking balloons... but either one is disturbing enough.

Money Shots owner, who recently flirted with a name change to Jeeter-Jater because it sounded more "cuddly," was in high spirits even though his Google Hangouts concept ended up being a chaotic clusterf*ck - every bit as chaotic a clusterf*ck as the perpetually doomed Money Shots franchise. Clearly, JJ's elation was due to receipt of signed molestation waiver release forms from all the parents of little boys in his coaching care. When asked about how his draft turned out for this season, the laser-focused owner remarked, "Sandusky was a small-time dabbler. I'm going into this at full speed!"

The lig hobo, Chris LePeePee, finally materialized for a draft. Apparently and fortuitously, the last train he jumped got him close to Bally. Last season, incredible luck led to his challenging for the title. It remains to be seen if all the luck was used up by the train's convenient stop near the draft site. All those attending in person were delighted and/or titillated by the photos he brought of toothless, transient, homeless people taking turns at Chris's thoughtfully improvised, rail-car Glory Hole. The phrase, "pulling a train" has now been rendered ironic.

Bert and BrentBert came together (hee hee hee hee hee!) to the draft. I said they "came together"... that implies some sort of 69 action... and that's just plain funny by any measure. Both Berts are very prepared, which continues to infuriate totally unprepared members (hee hee hee - I said "members"!) of the lig. Look for these two to compete well for the playoffs and find any excuse to get together to celebrate their, uh, celebrations.

This year's gracious host, Karplunk, was fast and decisive with both her food preparations and draft choices. Sadly, the maids, Winston, Thurston, and Geevs (all Mexican women) protested the cruel and inhumane assignment of supporting the draft event. So, in a uniquely motherly way, Karplunk had them shot and buried in the woods. At the persistent demands of Dr. Racy, a crew of teenage Filipino girls is en route, locked inside a freight container to replace the Mexicans. 

In the meantime, potties were overflowing and weiners were frenetically rubbed around the bathroom doorknobs to ensure that it's clearly known what event had just taken place. All attendees were well-fed, and the blow-up Jeeter-Jater doll was vigorously and frequently put to the test of its fullest endurance. Attendees were assured that the DNA-bearing materials left behind would not be found on any murdered Mexicans.

Speaking of decorum, the reliably stoic and composed A-Team owner, Jumpin Johnny Jibjab arrive early and under the influence of model glue. No one understands what happened to the one-time model of decency, but he wasted no time raiding the fridge in search of huffable cans of whipped cream. Things only went downhill from there as the future, johnson-texting Mayor of Schwenksville began making picks. The good news is that it's unlikely he'll get sober enough to realize how bad he did.... and we can all learn a little something from that, can't we?

Which naturally brings us to Dawnuld, who, as predicted, provided the most unique draft strategy with an open scorn for traditional methods such as choosing players who can generate points for your team. Calling the new system, "cracker barrel," he explained that it meant he would pick crackers and if he didn't win with white boys, he'd point the barrel of a gun into a pl@yground of choldren and demand other teams trade him good players before he becomes famous. That was troubling to the few owners who decided to draft good players this season, but others, like Dawnold's beloved sister, Karplunk, said, "That idiot wouldn't know a bullet from a bed bug. That pinhead is as bad at bluffing as he is at everything else."

The brains behind the Chick's resurgence last season, Barrett, resisted the plentiful offers of disabling quantities of alcohol to calmly and dutifully attempt to bring some much needed dignity to the long-suffering freak show which the Cruzinburg franchise has become. But the big story for Barret was the pre-draft initiation. The youngster's father proudly snapped and posted photos as Barrett worked over the Jeeter-Jater doll - the traditional rite of passage into official lig ownership position. Tears of unbridled joy welled conspicuously in Cousin Paddy's eyes at the conclusion of the ceremony, managing only to note in the emotional moment that, "he tore that doll up, man!"

This report would be remiss if we didn't note the enigmatic rise of toddler MackMack during the draft. Barking out unintelligible nonsense orders, frequent farting, binge drinking (chocolate milk - the well-known 'first stop' on the way to alcoholism), and random urination locations during the event were noted by all in attendance. If you were thinking, 'future commissioner'.... then we're all on the same page.

Playoff Prayer

For those of you wanting to enjoy the same luck skillful navigation through a challenging playoff and season race as I have - consider this advice.

Prior to the last game in which my team of accidental giants brilliantly managed athletes, I wrote a comprehensive prayer. Drunken Painstaking effort led to this emotional tome which clearly caught the ear of all those managing affairs upstairs (I understand that the Virgin Mary finds homosexual jokes gut-busting hilarious, often spitting out mouthfuls of cheese doodles at terms like "knob-noodlers").

Dearest Lord Jesus, Jehovah, and to all it may concern in and around the heavenlinesses:

It's with a heavy heart, soured by the demon alcohol and poisoned by fatty foods, that I come to you, grovelling like a bitch. It has been a very long time since I've been good at anything - except making fun of your precious children, especially the gay ones and the ugly ones (both of which are omnipresent in this Iceball League). And I think if you check your Inbox for the last few decades, you won't find any messages from me asking for anything.


And so in that spirit of, 'you owe me, pal', I do solemnly and humbly beseech thee to smite the f*** out of my dearest brother, Kelp this weekend.


Despite the fact that I deserve a break here, Kelp needs you to teach him a lesson. I have it on good authority that he was fired from his last job because he spent so much time doing fantasy football research, that all his duties were ignored. And masturbating. He pumped his wand a lot and did fantasy football research. That was pretty much it.


I suppose you already know that, but I'm trying to make a point here, so cut me some freaking slack.... uh... oh Lord of Hosts... and various other... uh... good things.


So anyway, he needs to repent. He can't be rewarded for this sort of behavior. My beloved brother needs to get smited so friggin bad that he can no longer get a chub over a Wednesday morning waiver wire pickup like he does now. Kelp's bewildered wife has learned that asking for a nooner on a Wednesday is like asking Snookie to not look disgusting.


I'm sure what that means, but I think it must be current and relevant because I mentioned Snookie.


Anyway, Kelp needs to get his life back on track. He needs a good team-f*** - Praise the Lord!


So if it pleases you, oh Christ Almighty (ha! I usually use that term in a different way, Dearest Jesus...), give me the strength to pummel my unworthy brother, Kelp this weekend. I think a margin of 40 or so points should properly jam the exclamation point of his awfulness right into his consciousness. I've heard that the mountain of callas built up on his hands from constant pickle fiddling has made it difficult for him to even hold a pen.


He really needs this, Lord. Having me be your vessel to unleash devastating humiliation is what we nowadays call a "win-win." It's good - trust me.


And so, dearest Lord, I conclude my prayer and hope you will serve up that skeez-bag wench - alleged "cousin" - for my bloodthirsty hoard to crush into a pulpy oblivion in the final game of the season!


Oh - and, uh, happy f***ing birthday, home boy.

The God of Football Spends More Time on The Cross

The Reidles lose yet again to a huge underdog, garbage opponent... at home!

Below, Andy "Fat Ass" Reid clears his golden throat for the 18,000th time during Sunday's press conference as he endures another undeserved round of disrespectful questions vomited up by a hoard of unwashed miscreants unfit to even think about scraping a fleck of brown off the fat man's 5-pound skid marks. Long live the Lord of the Linc!!

A-Train Celebrates

A jubilant John Amesh bounded to the podium of the A-Train training facility Monday morning to greet reporters. The normally diminutive Amesh was more animated than usual.

"Yeah! I crushed that loser! Yeah!" he bellowed at no one in particular.

The following exchange with the press corp ensued.

R1: Mr. Amesh! How does it feel to unseat the undefeated Stool Compressors?

JA: It actually feels pretty average. He's just another conquest on my way to the championship. They had a good record, so what? My team is better.

R2: John! John!

JA: Yes, you.

R2: You've done a great job this season in a very unpredictable NFL season -

JA: Thank you!

R2: Sure. So are the rumors true that the "A" in "A-Train" stands for "Ass"?

JA: [stunned] What?

R3: I heard it stood for Anus. The Anus Train.

R4: No, it's Avocado. John, you're really into mushy fruits, right?

JA: [more stunned]. No, you're thinking of the other guy -

R5: [to the other reporters] Wait, it's "Adolescent" Train, isn't it? Lots of newly post-pubescent pulling his train - didn't you know that?

R3: No, I'm pretty sure it's Anus. Standing for lots of anus and such.

R5: Could it be both?

R2: [to R5] How could it be both, there's only one A!?!

R4: [to R2] You make a good point.

JA: [despondent now] Hey, what about me?

R1: Oh yeah. John, have you ever probed an adolescent's anus on a train named "Ass"?

JA: [angry and frustrated] No! What the hell is wrong with you people?! Why doesn't anyone ask me questions about my lineup strategy?!?

[Awkward silence for a few moments.]

R2: Do you like avocados?

Before Amesh could explode, the door to the conference room bursts open with Token Chicks owner Karen Jones using a fully-populated, three-child stroller as a battering ram through the crowd.

KJ: Out of the way!! Out of the damn way!!

One of the children says faintly, "Mommy!"

KJ: [while ascending two steps to the podium] Oh, put a sock in it. You're all so damn needy.

JA: [annoyed by everything going on] Hey, this is MY press conference.

KJ: [walks straight over to JA] Wrong, it's mine now. [shoving JA firmly to the ground, tumbling off the stage] Sit down bitch.

Reporters: [eyes wide in amazement]

KJ: Listen dickwads, I have a statement to make. I am the best team in the league. One more game and I will be points and record leader. I've been gaining on this fart-snorting loser who is no longer undefeated every week. It's time for these pee-pee dangling shlubs to get schooled on fantasy football!

R1: Karen, do you have the most offspring of all the league's owners?

KJ: How the hell should I know?

R1: Well, are those unkempt urchins in the steel-reinforced stroller yours?

KJ: Yes. I'm pretty sure that's most of them. What's it to ya? You buying? If not, shut the hell up and talk football. If you are, see me later in the parking lot. I can always make more - I know how it's done.

R4: It would seem that you spend more time making fantasy football moves than with your children. Care to comment on that?

KJ: It would seem that you want me to ram your head into a public toilet for an hour.

R4: Never mind.

JA: [gets back up to his feet and moves in front of the podium] Everyone out! Press conference is over! Out!

KJ: Good idea, jackoff. I need a snack, though.

JA: [turns around and glares at KJ]

R2: [to KJ] I understand Johnny has some avocados.

The scene was less festive at the Stool Compressor facility, where a dismayed Grimisk reportedly entered a darkened room devoid of reporters or any interested parties whatsoever. A janitor blogged later that he ambled into the conference room, flicked on the lights in order to perform the daily emptying of the trash can packed with used condoms, and noticed the pathetic figure of the team's owner draped over a podium. Sobbing softly and without looking up, the figure reportedly mumbled, "Now no one cares about me anymore."

With that, the custodian emptied the trash, switched off the light, and went on about his business.