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.

Midseason Grumbling

Pottstown, PA.  The remarkable story of the suddenly gold-encrusted turd of a franchise has rocked the IceBall world. At the advent of the team's runaway season success, rumblings of discontent and admiration (mostly sneering resentment and discontent) have emerged from the usually slumbering masses. While the end of success is only one or two [more] devastating injuries away, the following comments have been collected over the last few days.

"The success of the Stool Compressors is an atrocity unparalleled in human history! An abomination!"
  -- Moammar Gadhafi's final words

"Dearest Lord, please forgive me for what I've wrought upon mankind!"
  -- Mom Cahoillio

"Attila the Hun showed more kindness and mercy than this creep. I mean, really, the Stool Compressors are a steam-roller able to drive at 100 MPH, crushing everyone in sight and from which no one can escape."
  -- Ted Koppel

"My butthole has just now finally narrowed down to a gaping 16-inch diameter tunnel - and I played that homo in week one!"
 -- Bert

"Shut the fuck up, Ted Koppel!"
 -- Anonymous

"I played him in week two, but with delivering this eruption of, what, 5 or 6 damn kids, I don't exactly know who to blame for my widened plumbing. By the way, has anyone seen any of my kids - they were around here an hour ago... dammit...."
 -- K

"This was a machine built with brilliant draft day maneuvers and a determined, unmatched intellect. Skill wrapped in genius, on top of a bed of killer instinct, and slathered with a delicious tomato sauce."
 -- Chris "Why am I Always a Fucking Idiot about Everything" Berman

"I wanted to crawl back into that dingy basement cage in Andy's house after being on the business end of that maniac's team. What have I become?!"
 -- Brent

"What? I'd have never drafted those players. Really?"
 -- Mel Kiper

"The only thing that I have that motivates me to get out of my miserable, piss-soaked bed in the morning is the realization that the number 1 team never wins the championship in this league. Never!"
 -- Kelp, channeling Bert

"I'm not playing him this year. Forget it. Screw it. Fuck all of you. He's on those MEGA manhood-enhancing remedies and I'm just not in the mood."
 -- Jater... week 7 opponents for the Stool Compressors

"Who cares - where are my goddamn donut holes?! No, not those! The powder-sugary-coated ones!"
 -- Gully

"When does the league start playing games?"
 -- Davey B

"He asked me to carry his baby. Like 200 times."
 -- A-Train

Clearly, the effect of this team on the rest of the world has been profound, if not nauseating. Keep tuned to follow the inevitable, disastrous fall from grace sure to unfold over the next few weeks. The team's latest grimly intimidating logo shows a defiant spirit that will ultimately have to be shattered.

Shocking Reid Press Conference

Wow. This is pretty racy stuff. I just pulled this down from the AP wire.
_____________________________________________________


Andy Reid official press conference on 8-26-2011 faithfully transcribed by AP correspondent Ashley Tisdale.

Reid: Uh, ok. So we had practice today. And the coaches did a great job. Uh, there were players with us. timeisyours.

Unidentified Reporter: Andy, Andy, Andy!

Reid: You. What the hell do you want to waste my precious time with?

UR1: We heard that you have adopted a new son. Is that true?

Reid: Not that anything I do anywhere at any time in any context is anyone's business, but yes, we adopted a boy.

UR1: And the government approved the paperwork for such a thing even as we know that both of your filthy drug-dealing, gangsta-wannabe, piece of crap adult offspring are honing their criminal minds in prison right now?

Reid: They were driven to crime due the depression from listening to you creeps asking me questions and the [sneering air quotes, coughs] "fans" who call for my firing because they are tired of me beating up on the weak teams and getting stomped in the playoffs. It's all your fault.

UR1: But -

Reid: In fact, nothing's my fault - ever. When the team wins, it's because of me. When the team loses, it's someone else's doing. I've done nothing wrong.

UR2: Andy, haven't you said before in press conferences that a loss was your fault?

Reid: I said that, but it's a lie. When the team loses, it's because the players didn't run my plays good enough.

UR3: But if the players aren't good enough, isn't Personnel Director Andy Reid at fault?

Reid: Quit asking stupid questions, it's never my fault if anything goes wrong. Shut the hell up.

Howard Eskin: Mmm hmmph hmph mmmmmhmmmmph!!!!

Reid: [hops up in his chair and then lands back on his huge ass] Quit wiggling around down there, Eskin, you're ruining it for me.

UR1: What?! Is Howard Eskin physically inside your colon?!?!

Reid [clears throat]: Yes. [clears throat again] He earned it.

Beasley Reece: Andy! Andy!

Reid: Beasley.

BR: What do I have to do to get my entire body shoved into your colon?

Reid: Can't tell ya. Then the acts wouldn't be genuine.

UR2: Andy, what's the little boy's name that you adopted?

Reid: His name is Brent. He works at an engineering company in Delaware.

[Reporters all exchange bewildered looks.]

UR4: Uh, he has a job?!?!

Reid: Yup. Cute as a button.

Reece: Andy, at what time intervals do you rotate people in your rectum?

Eskin: Mm m mmm hmm-hmmm mmmmHmmmmmm!!!

Reid: Eskin, this is your last warning!!

UR5: Coach, why have you adopted an adult man?

Reid: Not that it's any of your business, but I needed to get someone who could legally have an Oedipus Complex.

[More stunned looks across all the reporters, except for one.]

UR3: Andy, why would you hire a live-in gigolo and call him an adopted son?

Reid: Look, you assholes continuously question the way I do things. I do things in ways so brilliant that your pea brains can't even comprehend. So you attack them. I'm tired of it.

Reece: Andy, I recall your johnson to be quite an impressive length. I mean, you're hung!

Reid: THAT is a good question. You're on your way, Beasley!

UR2: So if you've got a mammoth wang, why do you need to hire this Brent fella to service your wife?

Reid: Unfortunately, my 15 inch pile-driver [coughs] has to protrude past 18 inches of mammoth stomach to be of value to my dear wife. So in effect, [clears throat] I have an "innie" and the wife wants better than scratches on her vaginal lips from my Motorhead belly button ring.

UR3: Was Brent your top draft choice for the position?

Reid: Well, he has good value. Good value at the position. He'll do great.

UR4: When can we talk to Brent?

Reid: Brent is not allowed to hold press conferences. No one has press conferences without my permission. [clears throat] No one, no time, anywhere!

UR4: How do you expect to keep Brent quiet? Isn't that -

Reid: Well, by now, he should be coming out of the drug-induced haze inside his cage in the basement. If the little tike is able to see this, then I have something to tell him [coughs]. Hey Brent? I know you've loved me with a passion from the first day I arrived in town. So you [coughs] probably remember how I looked after the Slim Fast thing. [clears throat] That was the time we didn't need the last adopted boy around to service the wife anymore and he told me he was going to talk to the media. [clears throat] The authorities have never found out where he went, [rubbing belly] but I can tell you it may not be a coincidence that I gained 200 pounds around the time of his disappearance. I'm just sayin... [coughs, looks around room]

[Reporter jaws all agape - except for one.]

Reece: That was the right decision, Andy!

Reid: Another great question, Beasley. [coughs]

UR1: [to UR2] Do you think we should call the police?

UR5: Most of your ardent admirers use the same arguments that they used to support then-coach Buddy Ryan's perpetual coronation as head coach. To them, he was the only person in recent history who had gotten the team to the playoffs, and in their logic, it was true that he was the only person who could have brought the Eagles to the Super Bowl.

Reid: That's flawless logic. Replacing coaches only leads to total failure. What's your point?

UR5: Didn't you replace a coach?

Reid: That sort of talk will prevent you from ever touring Andy's Anal Caverns.

UR1: I really think we should call the police.