Dave Portnoy + KB No Swag In Vegas Is A Recipe For Extremely Uncomfortable Breakfasts
Thanks to the basketball powers that be, our office is sending ONE person to Las Vegas with Dave Portnoy for his 402nd birthday. One Budlight Buster. The lucky winner?
KB No Swag, or “KB” as he is known in a rush. His real name is Kyle, but nobody knows what the B stands for. I asked him once and he stuffed me in a wrestling singlet and twisted my bulbous junk to 9PM, making me sing like a tea kettle. Since that day, I have only and ever called him “No Swag.” Which is a strange abbreviation for KB No Swag but I do things my way. I also call Big Cat simply “Big,” PFT Commenter “Commenter,” and Frankie Borelli “cum donation box.”
I am so thrilled for these two. Really, I am. This is a match forged by the capricious machines of awkwardness, curated to draw out the pregnant silences that hang over two people with nothing—and I mean nothing—in common. What will they do? What in the flying fuck will they talk about?!
“So KB…”
“Yep!”
“W—why do they call it cauliflower ear?”
“Oh because your ears look like cauliflower.”
“So Dave.”
“Yeah!”
“What’s… Nantucket?”
No Swag is an introverted former collegiate wrestler from Pittsburgh who hates people who go to nightclubs. At 26, he’s much too old for Dave to throw a Team Portnoy tag on him. He speaks in a grumble with averted eyes, and only when you ask him a direct question. Given the choice, I’m sure he’d prefer to avoid conversation altogether. Did I mention that he doesn’t gamble, ever? Abstemious as the day is long, I expect No Swag to spend the majority of his Vegas weekend wrapped in blankets on the bathroom floor with the thermostat cranked to 100, getting high on the dizziness of making weight.
In truth, I’ve grown to love No Swag since he signed on six months ago. We don’t see him much because he doesn’t have a desk, so he takes his computer to a coffee shop, baits his traps across the internet, and waits. And when the idiots come sniffin’, he puts together terrific stuff. He eats lunch with the Call Her Daddy girls every day. He casually told me he was promoted to Operating Thetan IV at “church” recently. And he teaches chess to underprivileged Dominican children on Thursdays. He claims to love drinking, but not in a “glass of champagne at the horse races” way. For No Swag, drinking is more about unlocking and acting on his deepest, darkest instincts.
When it comes to No Swag, there is far more than meets the eye.
On the other side, Dave Portnoy is not exactly an easy person to talk to. Do you think Tommy and Frankie and 10-year-old Sleeve enjoy their indentured servitude? It’s Stockholm Syndrome. Ask Frankie in a quiet moment, away from the office, how he feels about his role on Team Portnoy. His lip will quiver, a single tear will wobble at the corner of his eye, and he’ll whisper, “He forbids me from calling my parents.” Then he’ll regain his composure and soldier on, but you’ll know. We all know.
I wish them well in the city of Sin. Maybe they’ll find common ground. But if they go to a legal weed shop and KB joins the MHOC before me, with God as my witness I’ll register as a libcuck Democrat the next day.