Hi Michael (or Mike, or whatever the fuck you want to be called) welcome back to society. I would like to welcome you back with a big FUCK YOU!

You are a fucking scumbag, we all know this. And I really don’t give two shits about the actual crime, I am not some PETA whack job on a crusade to save dogs, turtles, insects or insects stuck to shit, I just simply think you are a piece of dung, and the fact that you got your old job back pisses me off.

Why did you get your old job back? Oh right, because you are famous and have an extraordinary skill set that is suited for the NFL. During your bogus 60 Minutes interview the other night, I was just hoping Mr. Brown would have asked you one very simple question, actually two questions.

1. Are you remorseful that you were killing dogs, or that you got caught?

2. If you were never caught, would you still be dog fighting today?

That is all. I would venture to guess that you are pissed you got caught, which is why you lied about it when the charges were brought against you and I would bet the Bad Newz Kennels would still around today if you hadn’t been caught — so fuck you, you piece of dog shit, pun intended.

And you know what, NFL? Fuck you too. You are just as guilty as Vick in this situation. This is just another example of you spineless bastards letting criminals back into your league for ratings. This has been going on for years, but you continue to have a selective memory for players that have rap sheets as long as the Dead Sea scrolls. I would bet a million dollars if I were thrown in the clink for two years my employers would not hire me back once I got out. Those are just facts.

So, thank you NFL for teaching us this valuable lesson: You can break any law you want, just as long as you say “sorry, my bad” and find the lord while you are all clinked up. Come on back and play football for millions of dollars. It’s all good. They clearly have no standards, so fuck you, NFL, and fuck you, Vick. You two deserve each other. My vomit has more class and standards than you two combined, so get Sunday-fucked from now ’til February.

* Actually, under the same circumstances, The Sports Hernia would hire BBW back.

After regaining consciousness, one particularly flummoxed reporter complained, “I mean, this guy should be dripping with vag.  I don’t care if he has to sit out a few games for wang or herpes-related injuries, he’s at Florida for chrissake, not North Dakota State!  I’ll confess, I get a Teboner just thinking about all the girls he could plow.”

While others find the young QB’s patience and virtue commendable, some physiologists have warned that whoever Tebow chooses to marry could face an eruption the likes of which the world hasn’t seen since Krakatoa.  “Think Peter North in Bankok after taking a vitamin B shot…multiplied by 1,000″ warned one expert.

“That scene in Scary Movie will look like a faulty park water fountain compared to Tebow’s pending Old-Faithful-on-steroids eruption.” said another concerned physiologist.  “Like dropping a ton of Mentos into a 30-gallon bottle of Coca-Cola.”

And while some laud Tebow’s religious convictions, not everyone is impressed.

“Listen to me and listen to me good: It ain’t fuckin worth it,” a clearly irate A.C. Green said.

The 78-minute sex romp sees Vandeweghe explore the seediest, darkest alleys of the NBA player and GM life, virtually seducing the listener with an orgy of flute solos over tribal beats. Critics are already hailing the album as a “landmark fusion of music and sex” and “America’s answer to Bangkok”.

Indeed, Kiki has pushed the envelope here, with sales of the record already being banned in virtually every music store in the U.S. as well as iTunes. Sources say there is even word of the “full” album cover circulating on the black market, featuring the bottom half of the original photo, showing Mr. Vandeweghe in all his glory.

Vandeweghe also calls upon some of his longtime NBA cronies for some scintillating guest appearances, including Isiah Thomas on the 12-minute epic “Let Me Bust Your Salary Cap (Luxury Tax)”, a seedy double entendre that builds steam over a chorus of boos, screams and women panting.

Here’s a look at the scintilating track list:

1. Nothin’ But Nylon (Your Panties Better Be…)

2. Let Me Give You a Vande-wedgie

3. Won’t You Feel My Denver Nuggets?

4. I Won’t Play Any D, Baby

5. Don’t Tskitishvili Me

6. So You Know I Scored the Most Points in the Highest Scoring NBA Game of All-Time, Right?

7. Let Me Bust Your Salary Cap (Luxury Tax)

8. How High’s Your Vertical? My Wang Wants to Know…

9. Don’t Be Afraid of My Finger Roll

10. If You Want, I Can Dunk

11. Unconventional 3-point Play

12. I May Not Draft You, But I’ll Give You a Private Workout

At least once a year, those manly, extreme magazines found at Hudson News stores in airports or 7-11s post lists of “50 things to do before you die.” The lists are generally way too ambitious, time-consuming and expensive to achieve, leaving only the likes of someone such as Scrooge McDuck able to actually complete them – because he is not real.

Nonetheless, the Sports Hernia has taken on the unenviable task of putting together its own list of unrealistic things to do. Good luck.

1. Run your fingers through Kelly Tripucka’s chest hair.

2. Refer to a girl as Chocolate Thunder – or any other Darryl Dawkins’ dunk.

3. Find and buy a pair of Phoenix sneakers and play a game in them. If you can find a pair of Patrick Ewing’s old brand of sneakers we commend you. If you play an entire game in them, we feel bad for you. Call the orthopedic surgeon in advance.

4. Sex Mutombo.

5. Go to a Tennessee/Alabama football game and wear a shirt that says “The South never rose and never will.”

6. Go to a Grambling/Southern game and wear a shirt with the General Lee on it.

7. Find Bobby Fischer.

8. Get viciously berated by Bobby Knight or Vince McMahon.

9. Najeh Davenport some chick’s dorm room closet.

10. Snort a hashmark.

11. Tell everyone at the bar that you are Tim Tebow.

12. Intercept Vinny Testaverde.

13. Call Chuck Liddell a “pussy homo.”

14. Intercept Neil O’Donnell.

15. Threaten to eat someone’s children.

16. Vehemently deny taking steroids to a grand jury, then later test positive.

17. Go sledding on one of Mitch Albom’s ears.

18.Show up to Eagles training camp and claim to be Vincent Papale’s step child.

19. Stare directly into Greg Ostertag’s eyes for 5 seconds. I dare you.

20. Get A.C. Green LAID!!!!!!!!!

21. Go to work one day wearing Macho Man Savage’s robe and crown. Have a co-worker hum his entrance music.

22. Propose to someone named Miss Elizabeth.

23. Start a fight with Shawn Bradley.

24. Have a threesome with the San Diego Chicken.

25. Be managed by Bobby The Brain Heenan in some capacity.

26. Use Mr. Fuji salt on a food item or pair of eyes.

27. Speak like Mutombo during a best man toast.

28. Wear Andre the Giant’s tights to Christmas Eve mass.

29. Jam with Wayman Tisdale.

30. Smash Bronson Arroyo over the head with a guitar.

31. Eat a turnbuckle.

32. Pump up your Reeboks and throw down a tomahawk jam.

33. Find the beef.

34. Join Early Boykins for a sleepover at Neverland.

35. Play point guard for the Washington Generals

36. Bone Maria Sharapova

37. Get ripped with Johnny Mac

38. Legally change your name to World B. Free jr.

39. Take a slip ‘n slide ride down Pat Riley’s head.

40. Use Serena Williams’ ballsack as a punching bag.

41. Get into a staring competition with Stu Scott, Booya!

42. Eat dirt and bark at the moon as a sign for respect to fallen sailor, Bison Dele.

43. Find the guy that killed Nicole Brown Simpson.

44. Assist Clemens in investigating MLB for investigating his steroid use.

45. Pretend to go to a Grateful Dead show with Bill Walton.

46. Carjack a NASCAR driver.

47. Get in a fist fight with someone while both of you wear football helmets.

48. Go cougar-hunting with Mark Phillappoussis.

49. Impersonate Olden Polynice impersonating a police officer.

50. Go to work dressed like boat captain George Steinbrenner.

51. Go through a fast food drive-thru with nothing on but a Lions helmet.

52. Learn how to speak John Starks.

53. Play a round of golf without quoting Caddyshack.

54. Play a game of Scrabble with Evander Holyfield.

55. Get a haircut at the Coming to America barbershop.

56. Put a fish into a ziplock bag and scream “who’s comin’ with me?”

57. Trade yourself to the Devil Rays.

58. Screw your cell phone, get a helmet phone.

59. Urinate on Moises Alou’s hands

60. Start a bar fight and say “My ring’s outside.”

The ESPN Countdown crew, led by the shameful boozebag Chris Berman and a collection of jock-sweaters, took their Favre mancrush to a new level during Sunday’s broadcast. Berman, accompanied by an especially retarded-acting Stuart Scott, opened the show in unusual fashion.

Dressed in French maid outfits, the two poster boys of hell, along with Chris Mortensen and Ron Jaworski, began taking turns dancing and fondling a grotesquely stained life-size cardboard cutout of Brett Favre, while highlights of the beloved quarterback ran on the flat screen in the background.

“This is the guy we love to love,” Berman said to an audience that was dropping by the millions with each word he squeezed out of his wing-and-cock vacuum of a mouth. “And we’re not afraid to say it. Ever since I caught Stuie and Jaws in their boxers staring at this cutout, we decided to turn it into one big group love session. That love spread from the pre-show meetings to the actual show. As you can tell from this show, we love this guy, just as we really love this cutout,” he said while sliding the back of his hand down the cutout’s left cheek.

Mortensen, standing to the other side of the cutout like a little schoolboy, eased his ear into “Paper Favre’s” mouth and said: “What’s that Brett? You like to eat hamburgers with ketchup and mustard? Well, that’s exactly the way I like to eat them. We’re so much alike!”

Just then, a visibly sauced Jaworski swooped “Paper Favre” out of their grasps and performed what appeared to be a version of the electric slide with it. Scott, who was stone-cold sober, circled around the pair, doing a painfully white jig while giddily yapping “Boo-yah, Boo-yah, Boo-yah.” After a final dip, Jaws raised the ante and most likely ended or furthered his career with ESPN.

“As much as we don’t want Brett to retire, there’d be nothing more pleasing to this guy than if he posed for Playgirl. This cutout has kept us company on many late nights, but nothing would compare to the real thing.”

At the end of Jaworski’s confession a wild chant of “Playgirl! Playgirl!” broke out, forcing producers, while excited about the potential buzz of the segment, to go to a commercial break.

The ceremony will include highlights on the jumbotron of Rosenbach’s most improbable interceptions, jaw-dropping red zone gaffes, laughable fumbles and many of the devastating sacks he suffered during his tenure as a Cardinal.

“We thought it would be a nice way to celebrate the continued misery here in Arizona,” said the latest incompetent Cardinals executive. “It’s an eclectic group, or maybe it’s just a stupid group. I don’t know, but Seeing Timmy’s name next to Joe Bugel, Randall Hill and Kent Graham will be quite a moment for us personally as well as the thousands roasting in attendance. Ring of Heroes? I think not. What’s a hero anyway?”

In town for the festivities are former Cardinals and Ring of Embarrassment hopefuls Steve Beuerlein, Stan Gelbaugh, Chris Chandler, Terrence Flagler and Denny Green along with RoE mainstays Bugel, Hill and Graham.

Oddly enough, Rosenbach is also set to enter Washington State University’s Hall of QB Jokes this fall too, joining fellow legends Mark Rypien and Ryan Leaf.

First, the winning horse, Big Brown, continued galloping after the race was over, declining an interview with NBC and instead aggressively sniffing the pace horse’s face and ass. It was clear Big Brown had no idea what he just accomplished or why some lady riding a horse and looking like Gazoo was chasing him with a black stick and Greg Gumbel’s puffy hair attached to it. We really can’t blame Big Brown for his behavior, partly because that lady seemed a bit too ‘in your face’, but mainly because he is, like Barbaro was last year, a fucking HORSE.

As for the horse that was shot to death, Eight Belles, he too had no idea what was going on, except for the fact that his toothpick ankles snapped like a twig under the pressure of 2,000 pounds of horse forced to run at light speed while a midget struck its sides with a leather whip.

At the end of the race, the pompous crowd held their collective breathes while Eight Belles (who went from Six Belles to For Whom the Belles Toll) was laying on the track and the proper horse doctors or anyone with a rifle handy, loaded up and put the horse out of its misery.

“Oh gosh, I feel so bad for Eight Belles,” said Penelope Wadsworth, “he really had a bad day and I can’t believe they had to kill him. I mean, what kind of world do we live in where a horse has to be killed on the spot?”

Well Penelope, this happens in horse racing all the time. If you were that concerned for the horse’s well being, you wouldn’t be drinking mint juleps, dressing like an Easter themed clown and trying to point out Nick Lachey in the crowd.

Finally, PETA pointed the finger at Eight Belles’ jockey for the beast’s death, instead of just sticking a finger up its own ass. Forget the horse’s breeders, trainers, fluffers, etc., let’s blame this jockey who likely gets treated like utter shit and whose own livelihood remains solely on winning horse races. Eh, fuck him – let’s concentrate on a dead horse.

Despite writing the majority of his commentary naked in his parents basement between furious masturbation sessions to “BangBus.com” trailers, ChiefsRule86 provides an insightful, while altogether unique voice, especially when he routinely dishes out his trademark zinger “Trent Green RULES!”, a real treat for those lucky enough to be on the board at the same time. It’s insightful, witty commentary like that which has no doubt raised a few eyebrows in Bristol.

During a recent heated discussion on the Kansas City message board about the future of Trent Green, ChiefsRule86 dropped this truth bomb: “All I know is, the Chiefs better know what they’re doing if they release or trade Trent Green. They could be in real trouble if they don’t have another QB ready. They should trade Eddie Kennison for Drew Brees or something. Thank god Larry Johnson RULES.”

That mind-blowing declaration sent shockwaves throughout Kansas City and the Chiefs front offices, and left NFL gurus like John Clayton and Chris Mortenson shaking their heads in awe.

But it’s not just the big boys at Bristol who are impressed with Boninghouse. His fellow message board writers have a deep respect for him, constantly showing their approval of his commentary with thumbs up symbols, enthusiastic happy face emoticons and the occasional flash-loop of a storm trooper humping the air over and over again, the highest of honors.

“I swear, Boninghouse must eat sports almanacs sprinkled with milk of magnesia” says Paul Beaverham (aka—”RamsSuck83″) “because he can just throw up these 50,000 word rants ad nauseum. It’s awesome.”

Not to be outdone, message board newcomer and bitter rival “ChiefsDefinitelyRule84″ has displayed sure talent, clearly evidenced in his recent post “Herm Edwards needs to coach better”, a stunning departure from ChiefsRule86′s theory that “Herm Edwards kicks serious ass.”

Only time will tell who will get their hands on ChiefsRule86′s brilliant football mind first, ESPN or the Chiefs themselves.

Seeking: A full-blown centaur

Interested in: Weights, bodybuilding, female bodybuilders, sex with weights

Location: GNC stock room

Occupation: House thrower, part-time ref, full-time hard-ass

Ethnicity: Immortal

Religion: Joe Wieder

Star Sign: 100-pound plates

Relationship Status: Single and hungry as hell

Have Children: I gave birth to an Altered Beast once

Want Children: Only as worthy sparring partners

My Goods:

Height: 6’2″

Weight: 230

Hair: I dont know

Eyes: Can see through you

My Habits:

Cigarettes: Only after bench-pressing my dates

Booze: Does motor oil count?

Drugs: Just a few horse tranquilizers every night to get some z’s…

Self Love: You bet, I’m a pristine sculpture

Your Goods:

Height: Tall enough to bench

Weight: Short enough to curl

Hair: A mane or head of snakes will do

Eye color: Not necessary

Want Children: You won’t have much of a choice

Drugs: If you take testosterone, double it with estrogen supplement – I am firm on this

Your Habits:

Cigarettes: Never

Booze: You know it..

Drugs: If it helps you to keep up with me – knock yourself out

Self love: Don’t even think about it

Other:

Last great book I read: NFL Rule Book and Bowflex instructions

Most humbling moment: Not being able to bench press Giants Stadium

Favorite on-screen sex scene: Anything from “Stone Cold” with Brian Bozworth

Celebrity I resemble most: Zeus (not the wrestler, the actual god)

Song or album that puts me in the mood: Anything by Lita Ford or Joan Jett

5 items I can’t live without:
-My stadium ref microphone for my house
-MayoPlex Big Gulps
-bark
-whistle
-handcuffs

If I could be anywhere right now: Fraggle Rock

Van Gundy, who has been dogged by rumors of his imminent departure to the modeling world since his clothes were torn clean off his body during a famous fight with Alonzo Mourning’s leg, finally made it official Monday.

“It’s time” said Van Gundy, who was draped in fur and flanked by Tim Gunn, Marcus Schenkenberg and Marv Albert at an impromptu press conference at JFK airport Tuesday night. “I’ve done the NBA thing. It was a nice ride, I made some great friends. But now it’s time for something different. I can’t deny this calling any longer. I can only hope my friend Mike Fratello changes his mind and joins me as well.”

By Wednesday, Van Gundy was seen strutting his stuff down a Milan runway with his trademark arrogance and one of his closest confidantes, a poodle named Peter van Penelope. Reports of him and Giselle kanoodling backstage after the show have not yet been confirmed.

Notes: Many reporters noticed the extravagant fur that Van Gundy was draped in during the lengthy press conference appeared to be slowly moving up and down his suit at times. Many just chalked it up to being an optical illusion until a colorful section of the fur took a fierce swipe at Marv Albert’s toupee… Albert flinched a bit, but didn’t seem all that bothered. He’d already had a colorful ordeal himself shortly before the conference when he realized a squirrel had hitched a free ride to the airport atop his toupee. The squirrel, reportedly from Brooklyn, set off on his own near Terminal 3, close by to where the press junket began.