Goodell to Handle Vick Reinstatement as Awkwardly as Possible

29 07 2009

NFL commissioner Roger Goodell announced this week that star quarterback Michael Vick, who was released from prison recently after pleading guilty to federal charges related to his involvement in a dog fighting ring, will be “kinda” reinstated.

Just- just- dammit, I...

Just- just- dammit, I...

“Michael Vick is an exciting player, there’s no doubt,” Goodell told reporters.  “Of course, he also promoted dog fighting, which is widely viewed as totally unacceptable, heinous and cruel.  I mean, who the fuck still fights dogs?  Was it Gangs of New York day at the Vick house?  On the other hand, though, he already served his time in prison, and Tony Dungy’s throwing his “God and forgiveness” shit at me with both barrels of the Jesus gun, so…”

Goodell’s stammering, stream-of-consciousness statements continued: “I don’t want anyone to think that Michael is being singled out, because that could lead to some ugly racism allegations.  You know what I mean?  But I really don’t want to go too easy on him, either, because then I’ll be accused of pandering to the league’s superstars.  God dammit.”

According to Goodell, in his three years as league commissioner he has been responsible for determining appropriate actions in response to several ball-twisting clusterfucks, including some that King Solomon would get an effing migraine trying to figure out.

“I actually thought the Pacman Jones thing was as bad as it would get,” he continued.  “What a joke.  I’d give my left ass cheek to trade this Vick crap for another nightclub shooting.  Don’t even get me started on the Spygate bullshit. Anyway, I think what’s gonna happen is that he can practice immediately with whoever signs him, which someone had better fucking do, because I’m not going through this shit for nothing.  So he can practice immediately, but he can’t play right off the bat.  I guess.  What do you guys think?  Five-week suspension?  Six?  Six it is.  Thanks, Paolantonio.  Nice to see someone’s willing to help a guy out.  Jesus.”

When asked about preseason games, Goodell became even more agitated: “FUCK!  I forgot about the preseason.  See, this is why I want that shit gone!  Anyway, uh… two games.  Two fucking games.  He can play in the last two.”

He then began to walk away from the podium, but quickly turned around for one final statement.

“So help me god, if either Manning so much as clogs a toilet at Chili’s, I’m gonna go full-bore, capital-‘A’, capital-‘S’ Ape Shit on them.  I’m serious.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I just got a text from my administrative assistant.  Something about Ben Roethlisberger.”





New Madden Rival Hopes to Cough Up Football Fun

22 07 2009

The Madden franchise has been the gold standard of NFL video games for almost five years, crushing the competition with acceptably realistic graphics, frustratingly complex controls, and a monopolistic exclusivity deal that guaranteed its place as the only NFL video game.

However, thanks to the bold dreams of a few clinically insane investors, the NFL is no longer the only full-field pro football league in the U.S.  The UFL (U-something Football League, probably) ostensibly kicks off sometime this year, and it promises to bring the sort of excitement that can only be found on a bunch of teams full of choke-happy has-beens whose high selection in the NFL draft still haunts the dreams of the now-unemployed general managers and coaches who selected them.Losman 2010

With that in mind, the league is collaborating with software designer Second Chance Games to create a UFL-licensed video game that accurately captures the bumbling confusion and reckless stupidity that’s sure to be present in every play.  When the time came to pick a face for the franchise, league officials wasted no time, quickly selecting former Buffalo Bills “quarterback” and current Las Vegas resident J.P. Losman for the honor.

“J.P. is the perfect choice,” said UFL commissioner Michael L. Huyghue.  “We feel that the most exciting play in football is the fumble, followed closely by the incomplete pass.  No quarterback I’ve ever seen has mastered these elements better than J.P.  I smell rotten eggs.  Do you smell rotten eggs?  Weird.”

Losman UFL 0-16 (the number represents what Losman calls “a perfect season”) is currently still in development, and is expected to be available just as soon as Huyghue finds a game publisher he can blackmail.





Sisson’s Stump: So I’m an EXTREMIST Now, Eh?

15 06 2009
Stump

By Stump Sisson

“Klan don’t show up for a few years and people say the Klan is dead.  Fact is, it just looks dead.  The Klan has always been right there under the surface just waiting for the opportunity to deliver God’s justice.”

-Me, A Time to Kill (1996)

Hello, my name is Stump Sisson, and I am the Grand Dragon of the Greater Mississippi state chapter of the Ku Klux Klan.  I’ll start this off by saying that the rumors of my death that have sprung up since I was attacked with a molotov cocktail a few years ago are completely untrue.  Well, mostly untrue.  It’s true that my heart stopped, that I was covered in burns from head to toe, and that I’m not entirely sure how I woke up completely intact in my coffin a decade later, or how I mustered the strength to claw out of my grave.  Point is, Stump don’t show up for a few years and people say Stump is dead.  Fact is, he just looks dead.  Stump has always been right there under the surface just waiting for the opportunity to deliver God’s justice.

I am a voice for the beleaguered white man in America, the most endangered minority the world has seen since the white Protestant Christian man lost his battle to the Papists in the 1950s.  It also bears mentioning that, per the agreement I signed with this site’s administrator, I can’t use any racial slurs to describe the filth that’s ruining this damn country for the whites.  It may sound at times like I’m describing the cleaning of a dirty sink, but I assure you that I’m actually talking about cleaning all the non-whites out of this country.  Unless I do talk about cleaning a sink, that is, but I’ll be sure to clarify if I think there’s any kind of confusion.

Well, I suppose I’ll get to talking about the subject at hand, and that’s the recent labelling of good, God-fearing white Americans as “extremists” by the Thief-in-Chief and his administration.  I won’t go into my beliefs about this monster’s legitimacy as President of the United States, but I could rant for hours about that one.  Instead, I’ll say this: since when does owning a gun and making plans to exact moral vengeance on a country full of foul-blooded usurpers make someone an extremist?

Take the Klan, for example.  Within a mere century, the Klan has gone from the greatest political power in the country to a genteel, race-specific social club for the politically active Southern rural caucasian-American.  Now, I’m not happy that we’ve lost that political sway, but there’s something to be said about being the power behind the throne.  Somehow, though, our loss of clout has led to a bit of nasty name-calling on the part of the liberal race traitors who disagree with some of our basic tenets.  They call us racists, Nazis (not true), rednecks (mostly untrue), backwards, meanies, and most insulting of all, extremists.

Is it extreme to think that this country, and the rest of the world, should be rebuilt and reorganized based on the racial purity of certain people via an earth-scorching global race war?  Is it extreme to think that there is nothing more important than the color of a person’s skin, barring albinism and other hexes?  Is it extreme to advocate the murder of those who disagree with us, and whoever else is in the blast radius?  Is it extreme to actively seek out the least-sane members of society to join our concerned, well-armed social club?  If dreaming of naught but rage-filled, blood-soaked orgies of racially-motivated mayhem on those few nights when the white-hot anger in my soul is dulled enough by grain spirits for me to catch a few hours of sleep makes me an extremist in this country, I can’t say that I’m entirely sure it’s the country I think it is.

The Klan: like the Shriners, only with burning crosses instead of little cars.

The Klan: like the Shriners, only with burning crosses instead of little cars.

People look at the fellow who gunned down the abortion doctor and the other guy who shot up the Holocaust Museum and say, “That’s not right; they were extremists”  But when you think about it, those were just like any other crime, motivated by any other reason.  It’s like when a member of an inferior race shoots up a gas station because his animal brain doesn’t know what’s going on, or when another member of another inferior race drives drunk and kills a family in a wreck.  These things happen.  What’s really “not right” is that there’s an entire museum dedicated to the greatest hoax the world has ever known, or that women can just go have sex willy-nilly and not expect to be punished by the Good Lord with a baby!

Finally, people always talk about Timothy McVeigh.  Yes, I think he was right to do what he did.  And yes, he blew up a building full of innocent civilians because of his moderate-to-intense feelings of discomfort with the direction the country was heading.  But what about the Muslim and 9/11?  That was way worse.  Well, I hear it was.  I was taking what I call my “dirt nap” when that happened, so I didn’t catch it.

So, my fellow Americans, this is the bottom line: don’t be afraid of ol’ Stump Sisson and the Ku Klux Klan.  We may be armed to the teeth with weapons that aren’t even legal in Turkey, where the government is about as effective as alcohol prohibition in backwoods Alabama, but we mean you no harm.  Unless you’re not white, not Protestant, not conservative, or you voted for that God damned Obama.  So I guess the chances are pretty good that we do actually mean you harm.

But it’s not because we’re extremists.





Kreese’s Korner: R.I.P. David Carradine

8 06 2009

John KreeseI never thought I was the kind of guy who sat around thinking about shit.  I always figured that sort of thing was something pussies did instead of kicking ass, or as a direct result of getting their ass kicked.  But here I am, sitting in my crib, constipating my mortality.

It all started a few days ago.  I was channel surfing for some UFC when I saw one of those yapping-head channels showing David Carradine’s picture.  Those channels usually makes my head hurt like an untreated case of syphilis, but that dude’s old show Kung Fu was a big influence on me, so I had to see what was going on.  After about five minutes of hearing the pencil necks flapping their gums, I finally figured out what happened: David Carradine was dead.

Like I said, his show made a big impact on me.  I still remember hearing about it for the first time: a white dude who does karate and shit!  I was so excited, I talked about it for weeks before the first episode.  It was like they were making a show about the young Kreesinator!

Then I saw it.  I don’t think I’ve ever been that pissed off, except at the ’84 All Valleys, but that’s a story for another day.  Instead of being about a guy who goes around kicking the shit out of random pussies because he can, it was some historical bullshit about some hippie bitch boy who wants to find his boyfriend in the Old West.  At the Cobra Kai dojo, I teach only PROactive karate.  It’s the only real karate.  Garbage like Kung Fu is all about REactive karate, which is only good for one thing: getting the piss stomped out of you by a proactive karate master.  It’s a good thing I never crossed paths with David Carradine, because I would have gone ape shit on him.  He helped sully the name of good martial arts (which was founded back in the day by some rowdy, shit-kicking Chinese dudes who smoked opium and rode dragons and shit) by turning it into fucking pussy boy figure skating.

Anyway, I was totally stoked about David Carradine dying.  FINALLY, right?  Then the bombshell dropped: he didn’t kill himself like they originally thought.  No, he died doing one of my signature sex moves, the Kreese Double Choke!

For those of you reading this who aren’t up on my sex life, I have several signature moves.  With the bitches, I’m like a pissed-off badger in leather bag full of nails and badger drugs and badger Viagra and badger Jell-O shots.  I guess those would just be smaller Jell-O shots.  Whatever.  I’m a fucking madman, both literally and fidgetably.  I devised the Kreese Double Choke one night when a bitch I was cock-slaying started choking me after I called her vag saggy or something.  See, in the few seconds before I passed out, I dumped a huge slurpy, the biggest I’d ever managed, all over my waterbed.  After experimenting a few more times, I figured out that declining your head of air before you make a #3 is like taking some kind of crazy jizz drug.  I didn’t even think about trying it without another person present, but that brings me back to what I was talking about earlier.

Ever since then, I can’t stop thinking about stuff like, was David Carradine cooler than I gave him credit for?  Was he smarter than me for figuring out that the Kreese Double Choke could be done lone wolf-style?  What would you call that variation?  The Kreese Single Double Choke?  That doesn’t make any sense.  Should I try it, or is it like opening Panera’s Box, where you regret something because you did it or whatever?  Would that be the best way EVER to go out or what?  Does thinking about making a dick slick in my boxer briefs before I croak make me suicidal?  Should I risk such a dangerous move when it could kill me?  What’s the point of living if your entire existence is spent avoiding peril, when peril is a primary component of adversity, and overcoming adversity is the only true way to achieve greatness?

Ugh, I’ve got a fucking headache.  I need to go spank the phlegm out of baby Kreese’s lungs and go get drunk.





New Music Spotlight: Sven Diagram

7 05 2009

(I’m introducing a new feature to the site!  In New Music Spotlight, I’ll focus on a new artist I’ve discovered so you can be all “Man, Swampy knows his shit!”  Because OMG I totally do.)

SvenDSometime in 2006, Sven Eriksson was working on his groundbreaking hip-hop style in his hometown of Ulricehamn, Sweden, when his phone rang.  It was his boss.

“Sven, you haven’t been coming to work lately.  You’re fired,” he said in Swedish.

“Fine!  I am going to be big rap star anyway,” Sven probably fired back.

So began what is sure to be one of the most well-known rap stories since Eminem’s rise to fame with that guy from the Dawn of the Dead remake, and also fucking that chick from Clueless in the factory.  Since getting fired, Sven has had to endure the death of his estranged father, the inheritence of his massive estate, an unexpected move to the United States, and getting all kinds of trim even though he’s tubby and kind of a douche.  He raps under the name Sven Diagram, a name he came up with when he was using an online rhyming dictionary.

“This college girls, they are like whores, because all you are doing is pay money to have sex!” he says as a semi-attractive girl writhes drunkenly in his lap.  “This is probably going to be in next rap song!”

And so it is.  The next day, he stumbles down the stairs to his basement studio, and begins to write the first of what are sure to be some truly hard-hitting lyrics:

“The bitches they like it/ when I drop the rap shit/ they like to drunk/ make the crunk.”

Okay, you know what?  Fuck this shit.  This tubby, rich douche was gonna buy some ads on the site, but I can’t sink this low.  Dude, you’re a tubby douche.  You can’t “drunk.”  You don’t “make crunk.”  Those chicks you screw aren’t even hot.  You’re 35 and you hang out with frat boys, who only hang out with you because you buy them coke.

Chimps readers, you’re saved from ads once again.  This blog may not be very good, but it’s better than Sven Diagram.





Change is Good, Unless It’s Bad

29 04 2009

Blah blah blah, I changed the look of the blog.  If you can’t see that, you don’t care, so I’m not going to waste any more time discussing it.  If you don’t like it, let me know.  I’m not exactly married to it.

The main reason for this post is to shed light on some rumors that have been swirling around.  I’m just going to post the entire e-mail exchange between John Kreese and I, because there’s no better way to explain it.  The only editing I did was the deletion of a lengthy explanation by John of his “Kreese’s Gambit,” both because he explained it better in an earlier post, and because he was really just talking about teabagging me.

From: Swampy Pendergrass [mailto:swampy@chimpsofdestiny.com]
Sent: Tuesday, April 28, 2009 3:15 PM
To: ‘Kreese’
Cc:
Subject: Yesterday’s Post

John,

I don’t think this is working anymore. I’m the only one who thinks you’re funny, and that’s only because you’re so punchy from fighting that you’re like a walking cock that can type. You don’t contribute enough, and you’re starting to gross everyone out.

Sorry, buddy. If I ever start doing ads, I’ll give your dojo a free one for sticking with this as long as you have.

Good luck.

-Swampy

Swampalicious Pendergrass

CEO

Chimps of Destiny LLC

swampy@chimpsofdestiny.com


From: John Kreese [mailto:jkreese@gmail.com]
Sent: Tuesday, April 28, 2009 3:32 PM
To: ‘Swampy’
Cc:
Subject: Re: Yesterday’s Post

Hi Swampy

I cant under stand you when youre mouth is full of my cock… (edit -Swampy)

Suck it pussy.

John Kreese

Sensei

Cobra Kai Dojo

“Mercy is for the weak!”

jkreese@gmail.com


So that went about as well as I’d figured it would.  I send him a similar e-mail after every column he writes, but he just keeps uploading them, and I can’t delete him from the list of contributors.

On that note, I might be adding another voice to this site soon.  I can’t say much, but I CAN tell you this: Stump’s not dead.





Kreese’s Korner: I Got Swine Flu in Tijuana

27 04 2009

John KreeseYo, John Kreese here.  I’m thinking about getting back to this internet page, because Puss Boy sure doesn’t seem inclinated to do anything with it.  I’d just buy the web page from him, but I don’t think he can make change for a one dollar bill!  HA!  See, the page isn’t worth much, is what I’m saying.  And Swampy doesn’t have any money because he’s a dipshit.  I digest.

Like the title says, I have something to get off my chest.  It should come as no surprise that the K-man loves pussy, parties, and parties with pussies.  Science shows that no place on Earth has more of those two things than Tijuana, Mexico, in the good ol’ U.S. of A.  I go down there at least once a month, and I rock out with my cock out.  Literally.  There’s a band down there that plays Metallica songs in Mexican, and pull my cock out right there.  Those motherfuckers eat that shit up.  Who can blame them?  Since I got my fake nut put in, Lil’ Kreese is back to “full frontal.”

Anyway, I guess I had a little too much fun a little too fast this last time.  I don’t remember shit.  I got down there two Fridays ago and hit my favorite spot, El Hombre Mierda.  Jesus, the bartender, started talking about some “pig show” they were having, and asked if I wanted to help out.  I told him that I was there to party, not work, and that I was gonna fuck anything that moved.  He thought that was funny, I guess, and gave me a drink of some shit that knocked me on my ass like a mystical bearded Jap.  That’s the last thing I remember. 

Well, it was the last thing I remembered, until Tuesday.  I woke up in a tent outside some fucked-up village in God-knows-where, Mexico, with a bunch of doctors milling around me, and a needle in my arm, feeling like I’d just been ass-raped by Dumbo.  If you follow this web blog regularly, you know this isn’t the first time this has happened to me, so I took it a little easier this time.  Not that I had much of a choice, since I could barely lift my head up.

I asked the nearest doctor what the fuck was going on, and he unleashed some information on me that I’m still not too sure how I feel about.  He said some family found me naked, passed-out, and covered in pig shit on the side of the road, 300 miles from Tijuana.  They took me in and tried to nurse me back to health, but they all got sick and died.  Then the doctor who treated them got sick and died, and all the patients he saw got sick and died, and everyone they knew… you get the point.  Kreese is once again the motherfuckin’ sole survivor.  Not surprising, really.  My immunation system has been fine-tuned over several years of martial arts training, and it kicks the piss out of any pussy disease it sees. 

So the doctor told me that, and asked me if I knew where I got sick.  I told him I didn’t remember shit, and that I probably got it from the water down here.  He said that wasn’t likely, and I told him to shut the fuck up.  He said I was “patient zero” of this new strain of Swine Flu, and that I had to have made contact with a pig at some point.  I remembered the pig show Jesus mentioned, and the doctor got this look on his face like he just bricked in his shorts.  Then I asked him who the fuck he thought he was calling a “zero,” and I told him if he kept talking, he’d be shitting his teeth in a few days.  Then I blacked out.  Again.

I woke up again on Friday in a real hospital back home.  The TV in my room had some news bullshit on, and all they were talking about was Swine Flu this, Swine Flu that.  Hey, pussies, maybe if your pussy, nerdy asses weren’t so worried about stocks and watertubing and shit, you and your body would be immune like ol’ John Kreese!  Well, not quite as immune.  I’m a special case, after all.

I’m back home now, at El Castle la Kreese.  Whatever, I don’t speak Mexican.  I’m feeling better, almost 100%.  A little weak, that’s about it.  I’m sure I’ll be fine tomorrow.  I just can’t figure out why I keep picking pig shit dingleberries out of my chode hair.  I must have really rocked out with my cock out at that pig show.

Sincerely,

John Kreese








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