Kato’s Korner

Once again… I am out for the evening. In my place, enjoy this guest blogger. Former heavyweight champion, Clubber Lang.

My Prediction

by Clubber Lang.

Pain.

C.L.

Guest blogger: Patrick Cescau, CEO of Country Crock

All right, fuckos. It’s time to come clean.

Don’t even pretend like you don’t know what this is about, because I deserve a little more goddamn respect than that. I go to all the trouble of giving you delicious, healthy, butter- flavored spreads so your family can come together for once in your miserable lives and smile and laugh and sit around a picnic basket full of blueberry muffins, and you pull this shit? Did you honestly think I wouldn’t find out? Well, Q1 earnings are in, and apparently one of you 42.7 million Country Crock–consuming motherfuckers decided it was high time to jump ship.

You’ve just made the biggest mistake of your life.

Which one of you was it? Come forward now, or I’m coming after you. And don’t think I can’t find you, either. I don’t spend millions of dollars every year on market research just to get fucked sideways by Joe Consumer. Uh-uh. When I saw sales were down, I just pulled up a spreadsheet detailing trends in each of your margarine- buying histories from the time you were knee-high to a duck’s ass till last Friday, when you—a college-educated male or female, probably married, living in the suburb of a major city—decided you were going to stop buying Country Crock like you’ve got a choice in the matter.

I know several characteristics about where you live, I know the kinds of professions that tend to interest similar consumers, and I’m going to track you down, fucker.

Three days. That’s how long you have to come forward and stand in front of me like the scum you are. Just get yourself, your pissant husband or wife who makes $65,000 to $160,000 a year, and your 2.6 children into one of your two cars (the SUV), drive to my satellite office in New York and say, “I’m sorry Mr. Cescau. Within the last three months, I decided to act like a shiftless moron who figured he’d save a little money by feeding his family an inferior margarine. A margarine void of Homestyle Goodness. A margarine that isn’t rich, tasty, or filled to the fucking brim with 500 milligrams of omega-3 alpha-linolenic acids. Sorry about that, Mr. Cescau. I’m a shithead.”

You’re going to repeat that to me verbatim, or I will come to every three-bedroom, $250,000 to $395,000 house between Maine and California and ransack refrigerators for evidence of Parkay, or Land O’Fuckin’ Lakes. It may take weeks—months—but unlucky for you, we just finished developing our new line of microwaveable side dishes, so I have all the time in the world.

And when I do find you, I am going to tie up your entire family, pry open your filthy muzzles, and force-feed Country Crock Plus Calcium and Vitamins down your throats until you cry out for mercy.

My sweet Christ! What happened to you? Margarine buyers are supposed to remain loyal to their brand. You hear me? Loyal. What went wrong? Country Crock not wholesome enough for you anymore? Doesn’t spread easy enough? Or maybe you’re just a miserable sadistic shitbag who gets off on seeing a CEO take it up the ass every once in a while.

Look, I didn’t ask for this, okay? I wanted to be an actor. But my father told me on his deathbed that I had to run the Country Crock Empire, and here I am. Do you know how hard it is to live up to a man who took margarine out of the hands of the poor and into high society? Do you know what it’s like to live your life knowing that the only reason he had you in the first place was to ensure his margarine-making legacy? He didn’t love me. He didn’t care. Well, you know what, fuck him. Fuck me. And fuck you, too. We make choices every single day, and you chose to abandon me. What do I need to do, create a margarine that cures fucking heart disease? Is that what you wanted? Is that what you wanted, Dad? Would that have made you proud of me?

FUCK!

I’m sorry. I’m cool now.† I didn’t mean the things I said earlier about force-feeding your family margarine. That was uncalled for. Times have just been tough lately. My son is getting in with a bad crowd, my wife threatened to move into her sister’s place last night, and my 15-year-old daughter started dating some guy named Gary. Just please, for me, come back to Country Crock. I’d hate to think we spent all those years whipping you up a taste of the farmland for nothing. Come back, please.

Please come back.

Memorial Day is here, and that can only mean one thing:

Drunk Driving!

I’ll get this thing started with a disclaimer. I do not condone drunk driving in any way, shape, or form. However, in my younger, less discretion filled days, I did it.

A lot.

And before you moral high ground fuckers start leaving comments about how your aunt was killed by a drunk driver, let me say that probably 90% of the people you know who drink have been behind the wheel way over the legal limit. Go give them shit. If you want to rag on me, you need to get behind the long line of Koreans, black people, and cancer patients already waiting to kick my ass because of my earlier posts. Besides, no one cares about your dead whore aunt.

 I’m a good drunk driver. Check that. I am a great drunk driver. Nowadays, I’m a lot more prone to getting a cab, handing over my keys, or *gasp*  just not drinking as much (until I get home). Back in the day, though? Every night, closing the bar, revving a late 80’s Honda and tearing down I-74 to my parents’ refrigerator full of left over Donatos. Each time tempting God and the po-po to take me down.

It never happened. 10 and 2. Speed limit. Between the lines. I didn’t see myself as a criminal. I saw myself as a drunk driving artist. The highway was my canvas. The Honda, my brush. The Monster Burger from Hardees? My muse.

I would say other people out there aren’t so lucky, but the truth is, other people out there aren’t as good as me. Everywhere I look, I’m seeing more and more of the DUI license plate: The Scarlet Letter of the new millenium. Fuck, the thing is actually scarlet! I haven’t seen civil rights eroded with less objection since the formation of the Galactic Empire. And it’s all because of you, dead aunt fucker.

“Oooooh! Everyone should know how dangerous you are! You could be drunk right now! You should be thrown in jail if you have one beer and drive because some dude who drank a fifth of Old Crow killed my aunt! Waaaaahhhh! Waaaaaaahhh!”

What the fuck difference does it make? Great. We’ve branded all drunk drivers.  Now what? Do we now just pull them over for no reason anytime they drive after midnight? I thought the Constitution was pretty specific about that.

Plus, you dead aunt fuckers are now going to drive differently every time you see a DUI plate. Which is safe. After all, the one thing we need in traffic is more unpredictability.

My point is that I can’t think of one good thing to come out of this law unless someone challenges the court for their right to have a DUI vanity plate. “STR8BZN” “HIBAC” or “SWRVN” would be my first choices.

That’s all I got for today, kids. Get out there to the Taste of Cincinnati, have some pig, and remember:

Call a cab.

-k

A little while back, the H-Train Forum featured an insightful critique of the growing popularity of Nascar. When giving his dissertation, the H-Train poignantly makes this observation about Sportscenter’s increased coverage of stock car racing:

” But fuck me in the goat ass if you are going to add bullshit NASCAR to the equation.”

While the H-Train’s argument is a strong, well-laid out one, I must respectfully disagree.

I like NASCAR. I don’t love it, but I can sit around and watch a few laps on a Sunday afternoon. I’ll definitely watch the last 10 laps of a race, more than anything just hoping that one driver’s frustration turns into a spectacular t-bone of Jeff Gordon. However, one thing that I can not, and will not, agree with is the Craftsman Truck Series. Randy Moss be damned! A pickup truck was built for one purpose: to haul things. Two purposes if you count a place for Mexicans to mate. 

My point is that NASCAR is missing out on a grand opportunity. I’m not saying you can’t race a truck, but a truck was born to haul. I say you do both…. and you do it with livestock. Think about it: Each truck outfitted with a cage in the back with four chickens. You want to change two tires? Well, good sir, you also must change two chickens. Four tires? Better have an extra crew member ready, because there are going to be some shenanigans on pit row! This doesn’t even take into account the jaw dropping plumage white-out you’d get the first time a truck hits the wall at 140 mph. The only thing that would be shooting up faster than feathers and giblets would be NASCAR’s ratings. And the sponsers.. oh the sponsers! I’m sure Craftsman pays a pretty penny to have its name on the series, but there’s no way it could rival the money that would come from a Chick-Fil-A, Popeye’s, KFC, Tyson, and Lee’s Famous Recipe bidding war.

That’s all I got for this week. I’m gonna roll like Mr. Redlegs’ head.

-k

It’s all the talk in Cincinnati, at least on brain dead talk radio: “What to do about Chad Johnson?”

First off, I refuse to call him by his self-given nickname. You can’t give yourself a nickname, and I’m more than annoyed that more people don’t realize that. I’d rather be called “Thundarr” or “Doc Wurbler” than “Kato”, but you know what? It wasn’t my fucking choice. You don’t hear Noodles or B-Sac asking for new names either. Why? Because they know the damn rule.

So what do we do about Chad? And I’m not talking about his nickname. Nothing? Trade him? Let him sit and rot for spite?

I’m unfortunately a Bengals fan, but I have to temper that statement a little bit. I’m a fan in the sense that I root for the players, and I want them to win whenever they take the field unless they’ve been eliminated from the playoffs. However, I’m a complete realist. If seventeen years of losing doesn’t make you a realist, the thousands of dollars spent on tickets, stadium beers, and merchandise surely will.

So, for what it’s worth, this Bengals fan thinks that Chad is doing the right thing. Get out of this place. Get out as soon as you can any way you can.

I know there are people saying he should do these things behind closed doors, but who’s to say he didn’t try? What happens when you’re dead set on getting out of by far the worst organization in all of the NFL, and when you ask to be traded behind closed doors, they say “no way”? What choice does he have left?

The worst part about this is that it is yet one more situation that the Bengals organization, not Chad, has fucked up royally. There is no doubt in my mind that either he or his agent made his desire clear prior to Chad’s speaking to the media. If the Bengals had any sense, they could have been proactive and agreed to his demands. They knew they were dealing with Rosenhaus and what type of media spectacle he is capable of creating. Instead, per usual, Mike Brown held his ground in lieu of adapting to the situation around him.

They could have negotiated at that time. They could have told Chad they were going to trade him, but keep quiet until June 1st, when they could spread out his cap hit. Instead, they forced his hand. Now, instead of a stud wideout who was for the most part a media darling with incredible trade value, they have the second coming of T.O who they’d be lucky to deal for an early second round pick.

I know there’s a good lot of people out there who think he should “honor” his contract, but that’s both ignorant and naive. First, he hasn’t broken his contract. The NFLPA collectively bargained so that the language for holding out is specifically in there for this reason. Secondly, what owner honors the contract if his player underperforms? You can scream about players being millionaire crybabies who should honor their contract all you want, but that only puts you on the side of a billionaire owner who more often than not was born into their money. In this case, you’d be taking the case of the worst owner in sports whose only qualification for his position is once being shot out of the dick of one of football’s founding fathers. I’d take an ounce of piss shot out that dick as my owner over Mike Brown. Knock him all you want, but Chad grew up poor, raised by his grandma. He earned his money.

The reality is, Chad wants to win, and he knows it will never happen here. If he does get traded, sure, he’ll get another contract with a big bonus, but that’s not what this is all about. I really don’t think it’s what this is half-about. He realistically has three or four good years left, and he wants to be on the big stage before that time is up. People call him selfish, but I thought the idea was to have players committed to winning.

It took me seventeen years before I realized that this organization isn’t in any way committed to putting a playoff caliber product on the field.  Looks like Chad did it in seven.

Fuck it. Trade him. They lost with him, and they can certainly lose without him.

In short: Fuck you Mike Brown for proving my dad was right for seventeen years straight.

March Madness is here, and I really don’t feel like taking the time to pry my flabby ass from the couch. So I’m turning the Korner over to one of my many friends who helped my ass get this way. I’ll be back next week, but in the meantime, enjoy this guest blogger.

Don’t Call It A Comeback!  by The McRib Sandwich

 I know what you’re all thinking: “What the fuck is this guy doing here??” Let me clue you in, jerkass… I never left. Sure that half-pedo clown would like you to believe otherwise. He just gets his little dick in a frenzy everytime one of you pork munching bastards squeals “oooo oooo The McRib is back!”. His little suit cronies even made up a fake farewell tour, like I’m some punk bitch that would just walk off into the goddamn sunset. Well, fuck that. I’d rather pull on the string of chicken nugget anal beads Grimace probably has in his ass right now.

Apparently, though, I didn’t have to worry about shit. It was “viral” marketing. Those same limp dick cronies had already made up the “Viva McRib” campaign. Thanks a fucking million, assholes. It’s like they want me to be a “for a limited time” Che Guevara. As if I’m not enough of a polarizing figure already! Don’t believe me? Ask anyone… and I mean fucking anyone… if they like me. Either they love me, or they are absofuckinglutely disgusted by the thought of me. Never mind that they never tried me, those bigots. And don’t even get me started on the Jews and Vegeterian hippies. You’d think I was Hitler on a sesame seed bun. It’s enough to make me want to put Early Bird on a spit in front of one of those hippie drum circles and jerk off on her dead rotating body. Not because I’m some sick bastard, but because my spunk is obviously a sweet and tangy barbecue sauce. Not that they give a shit.

To those of you that love me: You’re the balls. The reason I’m never gone is because you fuckers won’t stop licking my processed rib groove pressed ass. Next time I’m in town, I’ll hit you up…. if you don’t find me first.

-m.r.s.

I hate every asshole that tells me how many tackles a linebacker had last season like it’s a good thing. Let me clue everybody in on something: Every play in football that doesn’t end in a touchdown, field goal, or the player running out of bounds ends in a goddamn tackle. Whether you tackle Ladanian Tomlinson five yards behind the line of scrimmage, or you hang onto some shitty flanker’s shoelace for thirty yards before the safety finally helps you bring him down, you get credited with a tackle. A hundred tackles doesn’t mean you’re good. In fact, it probably means you suck cock since the other team decided it was a good idea to run in your direction that often.

In short: Fuck free agency and Fuck you Landon Johnson.

that being said…

St. Patrick’s Day is here, and I’m pumped as hell because I’m mostly Irish, and therefore, mostly alcoholic. One of my favorite aspects of the day though, is that it exemplifies one glorious thing about being white. Namely, we don’t give a shit what other races think of us. You can have a Korean woman dressed like a Leprechaun chugging a car bomb on St. Patty’s, and no one says “boo”. However, get a bunch of honkies eating Popeye’s and drinking Kool-Aid in the same room on MLK day, and it’s a fucking CNN headline.  Nevermind that alcoholism is a debilitating disease with horrible personal and social consequences that runs rampant amongst the Irish people. It’s far more insulting to insinuate that black people enjoy delicious Popeye’s chicken.

It’d be so much more fun if everyone would just get on board with the Irish. If I had it my way, we’d have an Asian-themed holiday celebrated by the men doing math and the women crashing cars. We could have a Native American holiday where we huff paint and sleep on diseased blankets. There could even be an Indian holiday where we shit in a river we drink out of and get AIDS from a hooker. Just to show I’m a good sport and not a hypocrite, we could even have a Kato day where we all get drunk on Steel Reserve and jerk off to something weird on the internet. That’s the world I want to live in.

My Irish eyes smile just thinking about it.

-k

Spring time is nigh, and that can only mean one thing: Chicks are going to decide that some silly fucking fashion that dudes hate is “cute”. Despite the fact that we hate it, the sisterhood will band together for their own selfish desires. Whatever happened to the days when bitches would wear corsets and whatnot? You know, the type of shit that would restrict their movement and cause them mind numbing pain, if only so that it could push their tits an inch higher and a centimeter closer together. Nope. Those halcyon days are gone, my friend.

Remember a few years ago when every broad on Earth had one of those sweaters that had a really long back so it covered the ass? That garment would have never occurred in nature. It’s a perfect example of the fat-assed women of the world uniting for a common cause, aided by the insecure chicks with hot asses that didn’t like dudes ogling their shit bongos.

Nothing, though, is more egregious than these goddamn Ugg boots. How the fuck did this happen? A couple years back, girls were wearing these mexican blanket coverup things like they were sandpeople on Tattooine. Now, they’re wearing the same boots as Leia on the ice planet Hoth. If this trend continues, we’ll all be fucking chicks dressed like Ewoks in 2010.

If I don’t ride or own a Harley, I don’t wear the Harley leather jacket.

If you don’t ride a Tauntaun, or you’re not a proud Tauntaun owner, take off the goddamn boots.

-k

I love Geoff Hobson. In case you didn’t know, Geoff is the Bengals.com moderator and sole author of the site’s content. He also writes articles on the Bengals for the Cincinnati Enquirer. Some of you may have heard of my glorious ban from the Bengals.com message board for my post that asked Mike Brown to die. I had a brief email exchange with Geoff afterwards, and it was clear we did not see eye to eye. I believe the terms “lapdog” and “shit gargler” were used, but that’s neither here nor there. I respect Geoff Hobson, if for nothing else than his ability to spew out so many lies with Mike Brown’s dick in his mouth. If there were a GeoffHobsonxxx.com, it would no doubt feature Hobson getting throat fucked by Mike Brown until he pukes with “Bengalized” written on his chest with a grease marker.

So the little lady and I cooked this shit that was better than angry anal last week, and it was fucking easy as hell. Took us like 20 minutes to make from start to finish. Since I care deeply for the nutrition and well being of my fellow Pirates, I’ve decided to post it here. Enjoy.

http://www.foodnetwork.com/food/recipes/recipe/0,,FOOD_9936_31091,00.html

That’s all I got this week for the Korner. Keep reaching for them stars, Pirates, and maybe… someday… you too can be cum rag for a rotten NFL owner.

This isn’t news. Any of you who’ve seen me know it: I’m fucking fat. You know you’re getting fat when it’s hard to put on your socks.

There’s all types of shit out there telling people how to lose weight. It’s a billion dollar fucking industry. I wish someone would pay me for diet advice. “Put down the fork and get off your doughy ass. That’ll be $37.50.”

But fuck it. If people are buying all this diet shit, I might as well throw out a couple of my own programs.

The Jesus Diet: A strict diet of fish, mediterranean fruits, unleavened bread, and wine. Avoid processed foods, thorned crowns, and Jews.

The Tapeworm Diet: Purposely ingest a tapeworm. In 4-6 weeks, that little fucker will be burning 1000 calories a day. Bonus: When you’re done losing the weight, you can yell from the bathroom “Honey! Look what I just shit out!”

The Chemotherapy Diet: This one requires either cancer or a really shady physician, and it can get really costly. Plus, you’ll probably go bald, but who gives a flying fuck? I’d rather be skinny and bald than fat with a fucking anchorman’s hair.

That’s all I got for today in Kato’s Korner. I’m gonna go eat a bag of Funyuns and cry like the tubby bitch I am. www.cryingwhileeating.com

-k