As you know, ball-stealing fat camper Peter King is still on vacation this week, which means another week of combing through the extensive King vault, sifting through all the empty Starbucks cups and Kit Kat wrappers, and harvesting only the most idiotic of his old material to make fun of for no good reason. Last week we brought you the sorrowful tale of Peter using his press access to trick a precocious youngster out of a precious, precious, spring training foul ball. This week, we go right up Peter’s ass for his infamously pointless tale of colon cleansing from March 2006. But first, a quick note about King’s LA “Tweetup” today…
SI_PeterKing Just a reminder: Peter King/Sam Farmer Tweetup, LA Coliseum peristyle, 4-5 pm today prior to NFL 101/201 at Coliseum. We’ll have fun.
This is a rare treat for you Angelenos, seeing as how you usually have to wait until the end of August for the LA Coliseum to be packed with privileged douches. And even then, USC is still playing nonconference patsies and has yet to bloom into full fall douchefoliage. Anyway, any of you KSK readers who toss on a LOFTY SHIRT from our lovely t-shirt store and get your picture taken with King gets a special prize, and our endless kudos. Now, onto the old column…
Factoid That May Interest Only Me
Jim Burt Jr., the son of the former Giants and 49ers nosetackle, is a minor league first baseman in the Mets’ system. In two seasons as a pro, Burt has hit eight home runs. Last week he batted in a simulated game against ace Pedro Martinez — and hit a long home run.
Well, that kid’s got a future! Watch out, Daniel Schlereth!
Aggravating/Enjoyable Travel Note of the Week I
Hold onto your butts, people. Literally. This one’s a real growler.
I was scheduled for a colonoscopy on Thursday in West Paterson, N.J.
When you think of things going up your ass, think West Paterson!
If you’ve had one, or if you’ve had any intestinal procedure, you know that the day before such an internal snaking you’ve got to be, well, cleaned out.
Let’s pause right here and consider the necessity of the story you are about to read. When people make fun of Peter King these days, this item is usually Exhibit A in their complaints. It has nothing to do with football. It’s of no interest to anyone other than its author. And, despite being a poop story (and I’m a sucker for good poop stories), it isn’t funny. It’s just… ugh.
/holds my nose
One problem for me: On Wednesday, I was covering the Vince Young workout in Austin.
And there’s a certain lovely symmetry to someone observing Vince Young’s career prospects while needed to empty out all the contents of their large intestine.
Keep in mind, also, that this is Peter King’s ass that’s getting the spring cleaning. Think of all the stuff that’s been lodged in there over the years: old voice mail tapes, batting gloves, balls of discarded Brett Favre ankle tape, coffee grounds. His ass is the Ninth Ward of anal cleanup jobs.
My cleanout was due to begin at 1 p.m. My flight was due to leave Austin three hours later, and I was scheduled to get home by 8. In other words, I was not going to have the home-bathroom advantage for a good portion of the internal preparation.
And every autoflush toilet in the Austin airport just signaled a Code Brown.
I know nothing about colonoscopy prep, so for the sake of this post, I looked it up on about.com. Here are some, uh, chunks.
Most people who have had a colonoscopy would agree that the preparation is the worst part, since during the procedure, patients are sedated or given “twilight sleep” so that they do not feel any pain or even remember the test. However, preparation is usually done at home, and it can be quite challenging.
“How do I get all of this shit out of my ass?”
Why? The goal of colonoscopy prep is to eliminate all fecal matter from the colon so that the physician conducting the colonoscopy will have a clear view. There are several ways to achieve this, and some [doctors and patients will have their own methods that work best for them. There are, however, three main types of preparation: Golytely (also called Colyte, or Nulytely), phospho-soda, and sodium phosphate tablets (Osmo-Prep and Visicol).
I love that there’s a treatment called Golytely. Now I know where Truman Capote got his inspiration for Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
This preparation will require a prescription from the doctor. It consists of a gallon jug with a powder mix inside. The patient will fill the jug with water to make a drink out of the powder. The instructions are usually to drink one 8 oz glass of the mixture every 10 minutes until the entire gallon is finished or eliminations are clear. After the first few glasses, bowel evacuation (in the form of diarrhea) will begin. Before the gallon is finished, many people find that their evacuations are totally clear and all the waste material is gone from the colon.
“Phew! I’m shitting pure water now. Don’t flush that! Put it in the Brita filter!”
They describe the other methods of prep, and they’re all basically the same: take something until you shit Deer Park. Sounds fun. Let’s see what happens when Peter King does it!
Pretty tricky. I’ve had two prior colonoscopies — you should have these things fairly regularly after turning 40, and I’m 48 — and know that once you begin your prep work, it’s about a six-hour process.
Ten hours if you ate at Pam Whiteley’s the night before!
So I figure, OK, I’ll start on the plane home, then finish at home.
Wouldn’t it have been prudent, at this point, to simply postpone the procedure? “Well, I’m going to have water spouting out of my ass for six hours straight. Let’s spent five of those hours in transit! I hope they fully stocked my DC-10’s bathroom with oversized sanitary napkins!”
When I advised a friend, Rich Fitter, of my plan, he shook his head and invoked an old Cosmo Kramer line. “Wet … and wild,” he said.
/throws up into paper bag
There’s no way that guy’s name is really Rich Fitter. “Say, Mr. Fitter, what do you think about my prep work in advance of having something lodged in my rectum?” Rich Fitter, you are the Mitch Puin of asswork.
I took the first of the preparatory medication (and believe me, that’s putting it very nicely) just before the three-plus-hour flight took off from Austin. I was in fine shape until maybe 40 minutes from landing when the captain came over the intercom and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve been told by the tower in Newark that we’re going to have to slow things up a bit because of traffic into the New York area. They’re putting us into a holding pattern, and we’re going to head over to Pennsylvania to circle…”
What? Traffic in the New York area? Arrival times delayed at a New York area airport? UNHEARD OF. MY PRECIOUS ASS PLAN HAS BEEN FOILED BY SUCH A RARE OCCURRENCE!
If only you had taken your sodium phosphate in the Back Bay, Peter. You city folk have been keeping from Peter how great it is to have an epic case of the runs in a major city.
I heard nothing else. All I could think was: My worst nightmare is coming true. It would get worse 10 minutes later, as we were banking bumpily somewhere over southeastern Pennsylvania.
“Stop shaking my colon! I can hear my shit water sloshing around!”
The flight attendant came on and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, because of the bumpy ride, we’re going to be turning on the fasten-seatbelt sign for the remainder of the flight…” AAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHH!
What is it with Peter King and obeying signs? Dude, half your ass is about to fall out. Get up and go to the bathroom. Make like Arnold in Commando. “I am ay-uhsick.”
Take deep breaths. Long, deep breaths.
Pretend it’s a date with Romo. You’re in heaven.
Bumping around for 45 minutes. An eternity. Hold on. Just hold on. You raised two kids not to be ax murderers, you can survive this.
Yeah but one of them is a Lakers fan, so don’t go patting yourself on the back.
I’m going to have to get up and brawl with this flight attendant in a minute because of the seat-belt sign…
IGNORE THE SIGN, YOU SHIT BALLOON.
Out of the holding pattern. And seven or eight minutes later, like the God of Aviation knew what was happening inside me at that moment, the captain came on and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re on our final approach into the Newark area.”
Day of my wedding. Births of my children. Red Sox win the World Series. Landing in Newark.
So this story doesn’t end with you shitting your pants? COLOR ME DISAPPOINTED. This is what annoys me about Peter King. A good poop story ends with you shitting your pants. If you somehow manage to make it to the shitter, you do not end the story humiliated and bathing in your own filth. That won’t do. It’s not a proper poop story.
Once off the plane, I was as dignified as was humanly possible. I brisk-walked to the men’s room, and the rest is history.
As is your credibility. You just had readers wade through the swampy contents of your ass just to tell them you ended up just super? Fuck you.
One benign-polyp postscript:
/shakes fist at God
The anesthesiologist and the internist were both big Sopranos guys.
In Jersey? Get out.
And my last memory before drifting off into never-neverland was those two guys talking about how unrealistic some of the medical scenes in the second episode were. Seems the family would never be allowed to witness the gruesome sight of dressing a gunshot wound, and there was insufficient attention paid to cleanliness in what should have been a perfectly antiseptic room. And my doctor, John Farkas, pointed out that the size of Tony’s wound was consistent with an exit wound, not an entry wound. “He got shot in the front, right?” Farkas said (I think). “Unless the bullet somehow hit something and came back out where it came in, that wound was far, far too big.” See what you learn reading this column?
Yep. Nothing. “Oh, no! This fictional show contains elements that are fictional!”
Aggravating/Enjoyable Travel Note of the Week II
There’s a second one? Oh, Christ.
Continental flight to Orlando, Saturday morning, 8:18 a.m.
NO KIT KATS ANYWHERE TO BE FOUND.
Beverage cart rolls through coach. Woman across the aisle says: “Bloody Mary. Two Skyes.” She gives the flight attendant $10, pours both mini-bottles of vodka into her plastic cup, and barely splashes the nearly fully cup with Bloody Mary mix. In five minutes, the cup is empty, except for the ice. Who can do that? That woman’s got Betty Ford written all over her.
Either that, or she knew she was sitting near a human water balloon. More from the column…
2. In Vinatieri’s last 55 regular-season games, he is 0 for 5 on field goal attempts of 50 yards or more. We all think he’s got a great leg, but what he has is a clutch leg.
This leg defines clutch! No other leg in league history is able to focus quite like this leg can. When I think of clutch body parts, I rank Vinateiri’s leg up there with some of the best:
-Scarlett’s clutch rack
-David Eckstein’s clutch torso
-Derek Jeter’s clutch hand
-Obama’s clutch ears
-Jack Bowers’ clutch prostate
3. I think Brett Favre’s coming back.
Keep in mind, this is 2006. So Peter King has been doing this speculative Favre shit for over three years. That’s three full years of nothing.
I think Roger Goodell, the NFL’s business czar, has by far the most internal support to succeed Tagliabue… This should matter, too: Goodell is one of the most decent men I’ve met in 22 years covering this league.
“Listen, men. This Goodell guy seems like a smart fellow who knows our league and how it operates. BUT I DON’T GIVE FUCK ALL ABOUT THAT. What we really need to know is if Peter King and his bloated asschute think he’s a decent man. That’s what matters. Jennifer, have Goodell meet with King and the Normans THIS INSTANT.”
I think the one thing the competition committee is going to pass this week is giving the horse-collar-tackle rule some teeth. How many times did you see the horse-collar tackle made last year without a flag thrown? I saw four or five of them. Why put in the rule if you’re not going to enforce it? The committee will press officiating crews to make the call more of a point of emphasis this year.
And so they did. No more attempting to tackle people by grabbing onto them in a manner that looks kind of dangerous but really isn’t. Thanks, league!
I think it’s an excellent idea to cut the replay review time from 90 to 60 seconds, which will likely happen this week. If you can’t see the play clearly enough in one minute of replay-reviewing, there’s not indisputable visual evidence to overturn the call.
Or you haven’t been shown the correct and clearest angle yet.
J.J. Redick is one of the classiest kids in sports today.
Damn right. HE ONLY PISSES ON CHICKS THAT DESERVE IT. And when he gets busted for DUI’s, he hangs a LEGAL U-turn at the police barricades!
He’s what’s good about sports.
He’s a cocky asshole who got lots of press in college because he was white and shot jumpers for an overcovered team. WHAT’S NOT TO LIKE?
Those who have taunted him over the years at Duke in ways other than normal booing need to look in the mirror and think: It’s pretty small to be ripping a kid who does nothing but try to make the most of his ability.
It’s true. Save your bile for Peter King and the fluid leaking out of him.
I’m begging you, Continental: Stop showing Joey on the in-flight videos. That is one brutally unfunny show.
It’s no FrankTV!
Coffeenerdness: I was standing next to Giants exec Frankie Mara in the coffee line at the faux Starbucks in the lobby of the Hyatt Grand Cypress Hotel on Sunday. I say “faux” Starbucks because it’s one of those improvised mega-carts, without real baristas or Starbucks staples like whole milk.
THIS IS NOT THE AUTHENTIC PHONY ITALIAN EXPERIENCE I AM USED TO.
Anyway, I got ready to fork over $2.93 for a regular cup of coffee. So did Mara, who also had a regular cup of coffee in his hand. Neither of us was very happy about it. “I don’t go to Starbucks,” he said with some disdain in his voice, holding a $20 bill. “I hope this is enough to cover it.”
(Sopranos spoiler alert) Steve Buscemi as the Angel of Death in The Sopranos. Never saw that coming, David Chase. I watched Episode 3 on Sunday night with Paul and Linda Zimmerman, and I must admit that when Tony was on the verge of buying the farm, I got up from my chair and yelled at the TV: “No! You can’t kill Tony! It’s not his time!” Happily, Mr. Chase listened.
He sure did! He heard you just as that scene was airing, then had it rescripted, reshot, and re-aired in real time! You can’t afford to disobey Peter King people. He will shit hot Volvic all over you and your loved ones if you defy him.
From the next day’s followup column…
There was some confusion, obviously, about my cryptic Brett Favre comment in Monday Morning Quarterback. All I meant to say, quite literally, is that I believe Favre will play football again, and I believe he’ll play for the Green Bay Packers. This is decidedly not set in stone.
Just a guess. No real reporting here. He may retire. He may unretire three times and become the most insufferable man on Earth. It’s anyone’s guess. For you see, Brett Favre is just like chemistry, or a rectum full of poop water at 30,000 feet…
Here at the NFL owners’ meetings, the Packers’ people I’ve talked to believe the same thing I do: that the longer Favre goes without announcing what he’s going to do, the better chance there is that he plays. And judging from my last lengthy conversation with him on this subject, late last season, I simply don’t believe that he’d play for anybody else.
Except for two more teams, including the Packers’ most hated rival. You know Favre like no other, Peter.
Now, Favre is famous for changing his mind. So I could be totally full of hot air.
Or shit soup!
But I just think this guy doesn’t have anything in his life right now that could fill the void that would be left if he retired.
You could write that sentence every offseason for the next 60 years and it would still be true, my friend. Here’s to land barons and empty asses.