If I am curt with you, it is because time is of the essence.
Oct 15, 2008 Fake Conversations with Real People, Fire Richard Smith, Guest Posts, Pulp Fiction
Continuing today’s theme of “Let Other People Do My Job For Me,” here’s a guest post from Will the Thrill. As an aside, if you combine fake conversations, the Texans, and Pulp Fiction, it’s damn near impossible to not get your stuff posted here. –Matt
[Gary Kubiak and Richard Smith are standing in Bob McNair's office]
Kubes: God damn Bob, did you see that Mario Williams got two sacks again today?! That’s some serious pass rush shit. Hell, me and Richard here would have settled for hell, just a few quarterback pressures. And he springs this serious Pro Bowl DE shit on us…what college did he come from?
Bob: Knock it off Kubes. I don’t need you to tell me how good Mario Williams is, okay? I’m the one who pays him; I know how good he is. When Casserly drafted, he drafted shit. I got him to draft a real fucking pass rusher, because when he plays I want him to sack the quarterback. But you know what’s on my mind right now? It ain’t my soon to be All-World defensive end, Mario Williams. It’s the other fucking losers in my stadium.
Kubes: Oh, Bob, don’t even worry about it….
Bob: N-nnnn-nu no. I don’t want to think about anything. When you and Richard came pulling in here from Denver, did you notice a sign up in front of my stadium that said “Fucking Losers Play Here?”
Kubes: Bob, you know I didn’t see no shit….
Bob (a little louder): DID YOU SEE A SIGN IN FRONT OF MY STADIUM THAT SAID “FUCKING LOSERS PLAY HERE?!”
Kubes: No, I didn’t.
Bob: You know why you didn’t see that sign?
Kubes: Why?
Bob: BECAUSE IT AIN’T THERE BECAUSE HAVING FUCKING LOSERS PLAY FOR ME AIN’T MY FUCKING BUSINESS, that’s why!
Kubes: Bob, we ain’t going to lose all the time…
Bob: N-nnnn-nu nuh…Don’t you fucking realize that if we keep losing, that fucking Charlie Casserly is going to sit there in his analyst chair and say how HE wasn’t the fucking problem? We’re in our third season and you know what they’re going to call us? Fucking losers. Not up and coming, not on the verge, fucking losers. And I don’t want to be called a fucking loser. (calms down a little) You know Kubes, I want to help you. I like you, help progress your career a little. But I don’t want to be called a loser doing it, alright?
Kubes: Bob, Bob, they ain’t gonna call us lose–
Bob: DON’T FUCKING “BOB” ME KUBES! OKAY?! Don’t fucking “Bob” me. There’s nothing you’re going to say that’s going to make me forget I bought this team to win, is there? Look, you know we got 11 games left to play, okay? A few home games, a few road games. You gotta make some phone calls, you gotta make some personnel adjustments, you gotta hire or fire some coaches, well then DO IT. All we gotta do is win eight more fucking games to keep from being “officially” losers.
Kubes: It’s Kool and The Gang. We don’t want to fuck your shit up. All I’m going to do is call my people, talk to my team, we’ll bring this in, that’s all.
Bob: You don’t want to fuck my shit up?! You’re fucking my shit up right now! You’re going to fuck my shit up big time if Casserly calls us losers. Now there’s a phone down in your office, a mulimillion dollar practice bubble down there, I suggest you get to it.
Church
Sep 16, 2008 Fake Conversations with Real People, I ask that you wash it first, I really need a different hobby, Inflamed body parts, Kevin Bentley, Too far?, Travis Johnson, What the fuck?, Will Demps makes love to the...ladies?
Methodist Practice Bubble parking lot, September 19, 2008, after practice
Kevin Bentley: (jogging) William! William! Do hold on a moment, William!
Will Demps: Will Demps is not very fond of talking to your pretty, er, ugly ass. Besides, there’s a good chance some random bitches are waitin’ for Will Demps back at, um, Will Demps’s crib, ya dig? Make it fast, mofo.
Bentley: Well, William, I was just going to suggest that, now that we’ve both made the team and, more importantly, now that Hurricane Ike has given us some perspective on the important things in life—things like family, love, community, and the need for proper skin care in inclimate weather—perhaps we should call off this entire wager.
Demps: The fuck you mean “call it off?!” Motherfucker, Will Demps is going full dick ahead with this bet! Will Demps is going to drive your cockblocking ass out this town, holmes! Will Demps is going to ball Rhonda Kubiak so good, SHE be callin’ you up to tell you Will Demps won the bet. Ain’t no calling it off, brothaman.
Bentley: William, I fear you might have gotten concussed in our competition against Pittsburgh, as you do not seem to be thinking all that clearly. What makes you think your odds of winning a bet in which you’ve been a decided underdog from the outset have somehow improved of late?
Demps: What makes…odds? I, er, Will Demps ain’t got no clue what the fuck you’re jibba-jabberin’ about. But if you askin’ why I’m going to win, take a look in the mirror. You look like you done gained fiddyleven pounds. You fat, dawg. Not P-H-A-T like Kim Kardashian’s ass, either. Straight F-A-T. Will Demps is still a sexy ebony god with fifteen inches of throbbing black Jesus.
Bentley: Silly William, I gained a small amount of weight on purpose. I have neither the time nor the patience to explain the mathematics to you right now, but rest assured that my increased mass gives me more power when I tackle and makes me an even better player.
Demps: On special teams, bitch.
Bentley: Point taken, William. Of course, were I to decide I wanted to play defensive back, I am sure I’d have no problem out-performing the disastrous results you and C.C. provided against Pittsburgh. Tell me, William, is it customary to give wide receivers a fourteen yard cushion when they are at the five-yard line?
Demps: Fuck you, dude.
Bentley: Charming. So, you really do not plan to give this wager a rest?
Demps: Hell naw, Chubb-o.
Bentley: Fine. Then consider yourself forewarned—with your play, it will not be a huge blow to anyone when you leave after I bed our target.
Demps: And, um, consider yourself forewhatevered—Will Demps taps ass.
Bentley: …
Demps: That’s right!
Bentley: (looking over Demps’ shoulder) Not to change the subject, William, but is that an ass I see over in Travis’s vehicle?
Demps: That’s Travis’s ass, dude!
Bentley: And you know that…nevermind.
[Both run over to the truck, where Travis Johnson is having sex with Rhonda Kubiak]
Demps and Bentley: WHAT THE FUCK?!?
Travis Johnson: (rolling down window, but without breaking his stroke) The fuck you frilly faggots want?
Rhonda Kubiak: Oh oh oh oh god oh fuck yes god holy cock yes oh fuck oh jesus oh mandingo oh pound that snizz you big, black stallion!!!! THERE’S A SNAKE IN MY SNIZZ!!!!
Demps: Will…Will Demps…um…Will don’t…
Bentley: What my semi-literate friend means is ‘How in the world did you get her to have sexual intercourse with you!?!’
Johnson: (stroking) Because, Ass Pirate Roberts, Travis Johnson fucks bitches. He don’t act like one. While y’all busy tweezing and buffing, I gots hoes skeezing and sucking. Ya feel me?
Kubiak: I feel you! I feel you! Holy Christ, it’s so big I can taste it!
Bentley: B-b-but…I have seventeen and a half inches of manhood! I know you don’t have that!!!
Johnson: (stroking) Nope, Cockbreath, I sure don’t. But I have something better.
Bentley: What’s that?
Kubiak: (nearly out of breath) His dick is…consecrated by the God! So this…isn’t…OH GODDAMN…YES, BIG DADDY…KNOCK THE LINING OUT THAT MOTHERFUCKER…isn’t a sin!
Johnson: (stroking) That’s right. I told y’all there was a reason for having the Pope conse– consecr– bless my shit. Married bitches always be looking for that loophole so they can indulge they fantasies. I gots the ultimate loophole, Nancy!
Bentley: (shaking head, muttering as he walks off) This just…it doesn’t make sense…I was supposed to be knocking that lining out of her motherfucker. (looks back over shoulder) C’mon, William. I’ll buy you a lapdance at Centerfolds.
Demps: Will Demps says the bet is over.
Bentley: (patting him on the shoulder) I know, William. I know.
Johnson: (yelling after them) Wait! Don’t y’all wanna watch this bitch get baptized?!? (to Rhonda) Open up, ho…you ’bout to taste some religiousness up in here!
God Hates The Cowboys
Jul 30, 2008 Blasphemy, Fake Conversations with Real People, Fuck the Cowboys, Ha ha... you like the Lions, Horribly obvious jokes
Heaven, 12:03 PM GMT, God’s House (which looks a lot like something Gilbert Arenas would design).
God: I don’t get it, Job. Athletes are constantly giving me credit when they win. Why is that? Why the hell should I care who wins in college basketball for example? I HATE basketball. And hockey players? Shit, I hate Canada as a whole. So, like I said, I don’t get it. People seem to think I like every sport and every person equally and that, for whatever reason, I bless some teams and some athletes to win like I’m a benevolent Tim Donaghy or some shit.
Job: Yeah, I never understood that. The ones that crack me up are the diehard Christians who claim you helped them do everything. Does Jon Kitna really think you would make someone into a mediocre quarterback if you gave a rat’s ass about him?
God: Exactly! The last QB I helped out was Kurt Warner for a few years, and that had more to do with me thinking his perpetual five o’clock shadow—which I also created—was pretty awesome. And I got just as much joy from ceasing to help him as I did from seeing him succeed. Jon Kitna?!? Please. Jon Kitna can suck my dick. Fuck Jon Kitna.
Job: Where’s all this coming from, anyway, dude?
God: Eh, I dunno. I was thinking about those douchebag Cowboys and them re-incorporating that fucking hole in their new stadium so I could watch. What a bunch of fucking assholes. I’ve tried everything through the years—letting Satan buy them, giving them a gay QB, introducing Michael Irvin to coke, making Romo fumble that game-winning FG, consistently making Jacques Reeves look like Petey Faggins—and they STILL think I like them.
Job: Yeah. Hey, wait. You did a ton of shit to me, too, and said it was because you “loved” me!
God: Totally different, man. Totally different. That was…um…a test. Anyway, the point is, I fucking HATE the Cowboys. How can I get this across to them more effectively? I thought putting Tank Johnson and Pacman Jones on their roster would do the trick, but I guess not.
Job: Hmm. How about a natural disaster?
God: You mean like another flood?
Job: No, nothing that severe just, I dunno, shake them up a bit.
God: Great idea! (causes massive earthquake) Maybe that’ll teach ‘em! Suck on shaking earth, you filthy sonsabitches!!!! BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
Leonard Davis (on Earth): AGGGHHHHH!!! FUCK!!! SHIT GODDAMN!!!! WHAT THE FUCK?!?!? THE SKY IS FALLING!!!! JESUS, SAVE ME!!!! (breaks down in tears)
Job: Nicely done, man. Really, top-notch work. Oh, hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you—did you have a hand in David Tyree’s catch?
God: Of course.
Job: So, does that mean you are a Giants fan?
God: Hell no. I just cannot fucking stand the Patriots. Bunch of cheatin’ homos.
I CAN HAZ RUNNING BACK?
Jul 11, 2008 Fake Conversations with Real People, Gary Kubiak, Inanity, Rick Smith, Ron Dayne likes pie
Rick Smith: So, yeah, I figured out that if you order from Papa John’s online you can order one of the specialty pizzas — meat lovers, Hawaiian, whatever — but then add and remove toppings, so that you get whatever pizza you want at the special price.
Gary Kubiak: Wait…what?
Smith: Yeah, you can pick whatever pizza has the best deal but still get something else.
Kubiak: I honestly don’t– You mean I can say I want a barbeque chicken pizza, but still end up with black olive and mushroom?
Smith: Exactly! Wild, huh?! The missus and I had QUITE the laugh over that.
(secretary enters)
Rick Smith’s Secretary: Mr. Smith, a delivery man just brought this box of donuts for you.
Smith: Huh?
Secretary: Yeah, he said that it was to be delivered to you. It’s very sticky. May I set it down?
Smith: (clearing space on his desk) Of course. Thank you. (considers slapping her ass as she leaves, but doesn’t)
(opens box) Gary, look…someone FedExed me 12 donuts. (counts again) Wait, no, 11 donuts. Odd.
Kubiak: Are those sprinkles?
Smith: Yeah. No, hold on…they are letters. Someone stuck Alpha-Bits to the donuts! (takes one out) This one says “Ron haz itch to.” (pulls another from box) “Take Ron back.”
Kubiak: (picks up donut) “Dayne haz tal–.” I’m guessing that said “talent” before someone took a bite out of it.
Smith: This one just says “Ron” (pauses, looks closer) and the other glaze seems to have been licked off! (drops donut)
Kubiak: “Ahman wuss Brown haz gay.” What in the world?
Smith: “I eat ur kidz if Ron not play.”
Kubiak: This is freakin’ weird, man.
(Smith’s phone rings)
Smith: (answering phone) Hello?
Disguised voice: Did yu git muh meshizh?
Smith: Excuse me?
Voice: Muh meshizh!
Smith: Why does it sound like you have a mouth full of Funyuns?
Voice: (chews, swallows) DID YOU GET MY MESSAGE?!
Smith: Yes, Ron.
Voice: Good. I mean, this isn’t Ron! This is…um…a concerned fan.
Smith: Ron, your name came up on caller ID. I told you, we have no need for your services this year.
Voice: Oh.
…
Hmm.
…
Could you return those donuts, then?
I think it was Jean-Paul Sartre who once said, “how do you spell spell ‘Sartre?’”
Jul 8, 2008 Bitchephant, Fake Conversations with Real People, Frank Okam is an evil genius, I ask that you wash it first, Kevin Bentley, President Lyndon Veins Johnson, Will Demps makes love to the...ladies?
7:45 PM. Kevin Bentley’s meticulously-appointed, feng shui-friendly loft apartment. Houston, TX.
Kevin Bentley: (doing situps, counting in Mandarin) …shi si, shi wu, shi liu…
(knock at the door)
Bentley: Enter! (resumes situps) …shi qi, shi ba, shi jiu…
Frank Okam: Hello, Kevin.
Bentley: Welcome, Francis. Please, come in and make yourself at home. I shall only be a few more moments. (finishes situps) …er shi. (towels off) What brings you here, Francis? More questions regarding string theory?
Okam: Not tonight, Kevin. No, this eve finds me possessed of a worried mind fettered by dastardly plans.
Bentley: Do tell, young squire. You have piqued my interest most assuredly.
Okam: First, allow me to posit an ontological query. Can one actively pursue the destruction of another without in turn destroying himself? Which is to say, does the driving out of existence one’s enemy have a similarly deleterious effect on one’s own self?
Bentley: Interesting question, Francis. To my way of thinking, when one focuses on his own being qua being, his interactions with others become a necessary rubric for understanding one’s self. That said, those interactions with others only help to cast light upon one’s own being; they are not a condition precedent for being.
(cell phone rings)
Bentley: A moment, Francis. (answers phone) Hello….yes…I see…well, have you spoken to your sister about it?…and she is fine with the idea?…I see…no, nothing rough…yes…indeed…I shall see you both in one hour. (hangs up)
(resumes discussion) Thus, the destruction — either literal or merely relative to his current socio-economic status — of one’s enemy does not impact one’s being so much as allow one to see the side of his being which is capable of such malevolence.
Okam: Interesting. So, by that rationale, the capacity to destroy is a characteristic of the destroyer’s being, for better or worse, and does not, in fact, define the being any more than, say, a predilection toward certain cereal brands would?
Bentley: Precisely — so the question is not “will one’s destruction of another bring about one’s own destruction,”
(cell phone rings)
Bentley: Apologies, dear friend. (answers phone) Hello…this is he…the going rate is $500 and hour…yes, that works out to just over $29 per inch per hour…indeed…I can work you in three hours from now…of course…you can make it payable to Lyndon Veins Johnson…yes, see you then. (hangs up)
(resumes discussion) but, rather “can one tolerate the self-reflection that knowing one’s capacity to destroy provides?” Now, obviously, if the answer to the second query is negative, then it could very well be that, by extension, the decision to destroy the other person might lead to one’s own destruction, but it does not by definition have to lead there.
(cell phone rings)
Bentley: Excuse me for just another second or two, Francis. (answers phone) Hello…speaking…I leave the decisions regarding lubricant to you…sure, but that runs slightly more…all cards except Discover…I ask that you wash it first…of course…see you in five hours. (hangs up phone)
(resumes discussion) But now, Francis, with that query answered satisfactorily, I must inquire as to what tipped you off to my wager with William?
Okam: You find me at a loss for response, sir; I am unaware as to any wager with anyone. I was speaking on behalf of my own concerns and issues. Might you elaborate upon this wager?
Bentley: Well, Francis, upon the realization that the female population is not ample enough to sustain both myself and William Demps, he and I entered into an agreement whereby the first one to bed a predetermined target female would win, forcing the other competitor to leave Houston and the Texans organization at once.
Okam: How very fascinating! Yet, I have found myself wondering of late how someone as vapid as William could find constant success with the ladies. Surely this competition is most heavily tilted in your favor!
Bentley: One would certainly think so, but Mr. Demps possesses a certain manner of talking to women that makes him, at times, irresistible to them. He is, if you will, a “cunning linguist.”
Okam: Good show! Well played, indeed!
Bentley: Thank you. I found that aphorism quite humorous as well.
Okam: I assume the target female was chosen for her relative unattainability?
Bentley: Very intuitive, young Francis. The target female is none other than Rhonda Kubiak.
Okam: I imagine my face reveals my utter amazement at your answer!
Bentley: Quite! (laughs, composes self, checks watch) I have greatly enjoyed this conversation, Francis. Now, I hope you don’t think me a boor, but I must excuse myself post haste. For, if I don’t apply the champagne and talcum powder mask to my testicles before engaging in tonight’s activities, I will surely find myself chaffed come the morrow.
(cell phone rings)
Bentley: I shall call you soon, Francis. (answers phone) Hello…
The courting of Ted Thompson
Jul 8, 2008 Fake Conversations with Real People, Rumors, You'd like to think I was joking
(Inspired by this.)
Ted Thompson: Honey, there I am! This is the part where I kick the extra point to tie the game!
Mrs. Thompson: Yes, dear, I know. Instead of taking me to the beach or fancy restaurants for vacation, you watch old tapes of yourself playing football every year. Doesn’t this look nice on me? Dear?
TT: Sure, honey, you look great in black. Stabler sure was on fire that game. *phone buzzes* What the fuck! I thought I told people I am on vacation. *looks at phone* Oh, it’s a text message. Honey, do you know how this works?
Mrs T.: *takes phone* Are you ever going to learn how to operate this thing? *wife looks at text*
Hi mr naughty man u can join me im wet and naked now. i will lick and suck ur hard buddy while u sip my juice ohh honey im coming
Mrs T.: What is this!?! Are you cheating on me!?!
TT: *takes phone* Oh fuck, it’s Brett Favre.
Mrs. T.: WHAT!? You lying fuck, you’re cheating on me!
TT: Calm down. It really is Favre. That fucker is unretiring again. What a fucking media whore.
text: wtf you asshole. im on vacation, and now my wif thinks im cheating. go fucking retire.
TT: There, that should do it. CRAP! I missed my kick! Now I have to rewind the tape. That fucker is trying to kill me. Could you get me another beer?
Mrs. T.: You know, Teddy, that text message gave me some great id—*phone buzzes*—FUCK!
Favre text: “sry, my first booty text. cmon, take me back. you love me!”
TT: That motherfucker really wants to unretire. We had to put up with John Madden’s incessant cock-slobbering the last couple of years, and this guy can’t even play anymore.
text: ur retired. fuck off
TT: Dammit, I re-wound too far. Where’s that beer?
Mrs. T.: You know, speaking of cock-slo..*phone buzzes*….damn you, and damn him. I’ll be in the bedroom. Don’t come in for at least 20 minutes.
TT: Of course not! I still have overtime to watch!
Favre text: the panthers want me! cmon, take me back.
TT: I hate this fucking guy.
TT text: u suk. no they don’t.
Favre text: the texans want me!
TT text: ???
Favre text: cmon! you know you love me! ima gunsliger!
TT text: FOAD, you fucking drama queen. and quit texting me. *gets up and throws phone into the backyard pool*
TT: Now, finally, some peace and quiet.
David Carr’s dirty secret
Jun 19, 2008 Fake Conversations with Real People, Inanity, Sandy Vag, Zoolander's blond love interest
Carr residence, 10:43 P.M.
Melody Carr: (lying in bed, next to her husband) Davey. Hey, Davey…you feel like fooling around a little? (inches close to him) It’s been a little while. Like…six months, I think. I really miss the feel of making love to you. I want to be in your arms.
David Carr: (pouting) I dunno. I suppose we could.
Melody: What’s wrong, hon? Did I do something wrong? I just…I don’t understand why you never want to make love to me. What has happened to our sex life? Do you not find me attractive anymore?!
David: Sure…I…do…. It’s just, well, I just think that maybe we should do some stuff to, say, spice our sex life up a little bit. It’s not that I am bored, really…but, ya know…I think we need to be a little more, um, adventurous from time to time?
Melody: Like what–something other than missionary? You want to leave the lights on or something?!
David: Well, yeah, kinda. But, I was thinking, you know, um…maybe we could work some costumes into the mix. Nothing weird like Little Bo Peep, just more regular costumes.
Melody: (hesitating) Cos-tumes? Like what?
David: (reaching under the bed for a box) Well, I got some stuff here. Nothing specific–just a couple random ideas I had at some point prior to today. I mean, not that I’ve been planning this or anything. Anyway, first, why don’t you put on this wig?
Melody: That’s a blond wig, David. I already have blond hair.
David: I know, but this one is wavier than your hair. And I like the shape of it.
Melody: The shape? David, that is a mullet. Why do you want me in a wavy blond mullet wig? That doesn’t make any sense at all. (pauses) You know, what? Nevermind, this is something you want and if it’s going to help our sex life, I’m going to keep an open mind about it. (Puts the wig on.)
David: Very nice. I’m getting excited already. Now…I was thinking we could draw some tattoos on you. Something edgy, but still artistic and classy.
Melody: Huh?
David: (takes out Sharpie) Yeah, some real cool stuff on your shoulder and arm. (starts drawing on her) Like, um, I’ll draw a big eagle head here on your right arm. (draws big eagle head on her right arm) And, yeah, in the background, I’ll do an American Flag. (in background, draws American flag)
Melody: Wow. I, um–I had no idea that you liked tattoos. Isn’t that a little manly, though?
David: No! Not at all! It’s very feminine. OK, then I was thinking that you could put on a football jersey. I have one of mine right here.
Melody: That’s not your jersey, Dave. That’s number 80. That’s Jeremy’s jersey.
David: Oh…hmm…I must’ve grabbed the wrong one on the way out. No biggie, you can go ahead and wear it. 80, 8…same same, ya know?
Melody: Ewww! What is that smell?!
David: Um…dunno…maybe I grabbed the jersey from the dirty pile instead of the clean pile. It’s just a little sweet musky odor. No big deal, right? I mean, you said you were going to keep an open mind about this…
Melody: No no…that’s fine. It’s only a little smelly. I can wear it (gags as she pulls it over her head) EWW…it’s still damp. David, this is gross. I’m only doing this because I love you. I hope you realize that.
David: I do, honey. I appreciate it a lot. Now, turn around so I can see the wig and the jersey. (mumbling) Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about it. God, I want you to fuck me.
Melody: What?
David: Uh…you look awesome. There’s just one more thing I want you to put on before we make love. It’s over there, in my top drawer.
Melody: OK. (walks to drawer, opens it) OHMIGOD!!! David, this is a used jockstrap with a dildo duct-taped to it! What the fuck do you want me to do with that!?!? (turns to see David naked, face down on the bed, clutching a giant tube of Anal-Eze) Oh Lord!! (faints)
David: Damn it! I was this fucking close!
Goodbye Stranger
May 22, 2008 Anna-Megan is retarded, Dancing With the 'Tards, Fake Conversations with Real People, I had to use Google for the JR's joke I swear, Inanity, Inflamed body parts, This might have crossed a line...but so what?, Travis Johnson, Vince Young can't read this post
Game Show Host: Aaaaaand, we’re back! It’s time for the lightning round. You all know how this works; You pick a category, I ask a question and, if you get it right, I ask you another one. If you get it wrong, the next person gets a chance to answer. The first person to answer five correct wins. Travis, as the only person without a negative dollar amount following round one, you get to go first. Please choose from General Knowledge, Human Anatomy, and Authors.
Travis Johnson: General Knowledge.
Host: OK…name the first President of the United States.
Johnson: George Washington–
Host: Correct!
Johnson: Carver.
Host: Um…incorrect. Ms. Raley, your question.
Anna-Megan Raley: What?
Host: It’s your turn to answer the question.
Raley: What question?
Host: Name the first President of the United States.
Raley: Sam Houston.
Host: Ugh. No. Vince, please, who was the first president of the United States?!
Vince Young: Oh, that’s that dude on the dollar bills I put down those strippers pants at JR’s. Oh, what’s his name…um…Washington! Yeah, George Washington!
Host: Correct! Next question: In the equation 2x+4=6, what does x stand for?
Young: X? Hold up! This is a trick question, dawg. X is a letter, not a number!
Host: Good god. I mean, seriously…sweet holy Jesus. Travis?
Johnson: (dancing to music no one else hears) Word.
Host: What does X stand for?
Johnson: Shoot, I dunno…one?
Host: Wow…that’s right! OK, what is the capital of Texas?
Johnson: Ha, that’s easy, dude! The letter T!
Host: What? Oh. No. Anna-Megan?
Raley: (two octaves higher) Uh huh!
Host: Ow. What is the capital of Texas?
Raley: AUSTIN!!!!!
Host: Yes, but please calm down. You still have to answer four more to win, ok?
Raley: OK!
Host: (sighing) Jesus. In the sentence, “the dog bit the cat,” what part of speech is “dog?”
Raley: I love dogs! What color is he?!
Host: WHAT PART OF SPEECH IS THE WORD “DOG?”
Raley: The tail?
Host: (stares blankly at Anna-Megan)
(stares)
(stares)
(considers the sweet release of death)
Host: Moving on…Vince, what part of speech is “dog?”
Young: (removes shirt) A noun, dude.
Host: I honestly have no idea how you knew that, but correct!
(bell rings)
Host: Oh, we are running short on time! That means it only takes THREE correct answers to win the lightning round. Vince, if you can answer this, you will win. How many sides are there on a dodecahedron?
Young: I don’t know nuthin’ ’bout dinosaurs.
Host: (muttering) Goddamnit. Travis, dodecahedron, sides?
Johnson: It burns when I pee.
Host: (eyes fill with tears)
(stabs self in the chest with pocket knife)
(dies)
Johnson: Whoa. That’s some fucked up shit there, dude. (looks at Raley and Young) Yo, Vince, you wanna stuff this broad like a pair of Chinese finger cuffs?
Young: (rubbing nipples) Nah, dawg. You know I don’t get down like that. (realizes what he said) Um, with, uh, white women. Yeah, that’s it. Nothing to do with guys at all…no, no sir, not me. Not that, like, there’s anything wrong with that, but, you know, I ain’t, um, like that…
Johnson: Whatever. (to Raley) Yo, bitch, you ever get yo’ shit rocked by a big ol’ dude like me?
Raley: Puh-lease…how do you think I GOT my job? Let’s go back to your place and I’ll show you why they called me “Ol’ Three Hole” in college. (pauses) You’re wearing a condom though…Lord knows I don’t need another inflamed elvis.
Travis Johnson composes his wedding vows
May 13, 2008 2008 Draft, Corky Johnson, Fake Conversations with Real People, Frank Okam is an evil genius, God hates ugly, Okam's Razor, Travis Johnson
Travis Johnson: (to self) OK, Trav…you gots to get these vows done. OK…here we go…
(takes out pad and crayon and begins to write) Baby, u so fine, I want to suck u like a smokt nekbone.
Frank Okam: (entering lockerroom) Hey, Trav, what’s up?
Johnson: Shut your ass, rookie. Can’t you see I am trying to think here?
Okam: Think about what? What are you writing?
Johnson: Damn, you a nosy motherfucker. Shit. I’m trying to write my motherfuckin’ wedding vows. The woman says we have to write our own so they be special. She knows I ain’t wrote nuthin’ since high school.
Okam: You mean college?
Johnson: D-d-d0 I stutter, you rookie asshole? No, I mean HIGH SCHOOL.
Okam: Oh, yeah, I totally forgot you went to Florida State. My bad. Well, uh, I could give you some help on this if you want.
Johnson: The fuck do you know about wedding vows?
Okam: Well, not much per se, but I tend to write well. And I’m willing to help. (glances at paper) And based on what you have so far, it’s probably a good idea for you to let someone help. Assuming you actually want her to say “I do,” I mean.
Johnson: The fuck is wrong with what I have so far? That’s some romantical shit right there, rookie. You ain’t got no idea how bitches think. They don’t want some lovey Homeo and Juliet making out on the Eiffel Tower shit. That shit is for the gays. Like Trent Green would probably whisper that kinda shit.
Okam: (looking confused)…on the…Eif–nevermind. (has epiphany) OK, fine, you’re probably right; you’ve got way more life experience than I. How about I just help you with some ideas and help you proofread it?
Johnson: I guess that’s cool. So, after the neckbone bit, I was going to go into detail about how much I love her.
Okam: Sounds like a plan.
Johnson: Something like this:
Baby, I luv u mor than I luv getin relly high and watching old kung-fu movies.
Okam: Hmm.
Johnson: What?
Okam: Oh, nothing. Just considering how great the woman must be. That’s all.
Johnson: Yeah, she pretty fly. No doubt about that. So, then, I thought I’d tell her how much she means to me.
Baby, u meen mor to me than my PS3, my 22s, and that time I got to hang out with Jamie Foxx and ride arond in his limo and shit.
Okam: Pure poetry, man. Go on, though. Tell her why she means so much to you.
Johnson: Yeah, dawg! Good call.
Baby, u are so speshul to me because u done had my kids.
Okam: That’s it?
Johnson: More? How about
And becuze u luv me and becuze u don’t mind how much I swet when we be sexin cuz u understand that Houston is one humid mutherfucker.
Okam: Awesome.
Johnson: Then, finally, I thought I’d get all deep on her ass and tell her how because of her, I understand what love really is.
Okam: (genuinely shocked) Seriously? Preach on it, man.
Johnson: Yeah, so, like
Baby, u no I never understude why Jay-Z didn’t put the song Encore last on the Black Album if that was relly suppost to be his final album. I mean, shit, the last verse says “this heres the victry lap and I’m leevin’;” don’t that sound like the way to end an album? But luv ain’t neer as confuzin as that shit–when I am with u, I understan that love is what I feel in my heart.
Okam: (relieved) Fantastic, man. She is going to love it. Great job.
Johnson: Thanks, rookie fag. Now, I gots to go memorize this stuff.(Johnson leaves)
Okam: (to self) Yes, go memorize your little vows, Travis. I can’t wait for her to hear them, either. BWAHAHA! I will destroy you, Travis. Yes, DESTROY! And then the starting Nose Tackle job shall be mine!!!! BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!!!
To Be Continued…
Bentleysutra
May 7, 2008 Bitchephant, Blasphemy, Fake Conversations with Real People, Kevin Bentley, Might as well piss off as many religions as possible, President Lyndon Veins Johnson, Rendhel and Sid, Will Demps makes love to the...ladies?
Will Demps: Man…this is some shit. How the fuck is Will Demps supposed to win this competition? Will Demps has to think of something.
(thinks of himself, naked on a bearskin rug, making love to a woman who looks like him)
No, no…Will Demps has to think of something different.
(thinks of himself masturbating to the thought of himself masturbating)
Goddamnit. There has to be a way. How can Will Demps get some sweet Rhonda Kubiak nappy and win this bet? Will Demps HAS to win…if only there was, like, a god or something that could just make her fall in love with Will Demps.
(thunder)
(lightning)
(suspicious-smelling smoke)
(peacock scream)
(porn music)
Demps: What in the motherfuck is THAT?!
Kama, Hindu God of Desire: Hello, there, young William.
Demps: The fuck?!
Kama: Young squire, I am Kama, the Hindu god of desire. I am here to help you win this bet.
Demps: Yo, dawg…your skin is, like, green and shit.
Kama: Yes, but that is not important. For, you see–
Demps: And, hold up…that’s not an elephant; that’s a buncha hoes crammed together to LOOK like an elephant!! How in the sweet fuck did you do THAT?!
Kama: My appearance is not important, William. What is important is that I can help you win this bet of which you speak. I am the god of desire and, when I shoot my arrows, I can make people fall in love.
Demps: Like cupid?
Kama: No, not like cupid! Cupid is a faggy little cherub who ripped off my game! Does cupid have a Bitchephant like I do? Does cupid get down with, like, 100 hoes a day? DOES CUPID HAVE A SEX BOOK DERIVED FROM HIS MOTHERFUCKING NAME?!?!
(takes deep breath)
I apologize, William. I should not yell. That is just a rather sensitive subject. I blame Hallmark. ANYWAY…as I was saying, I can help you. All I need is some information and the bet will be yours. Now, who is the target?
Demps: Rhonda Kubiak.
Kama: Easy enough. Hell, getting a 40-year-old white woman with a workaholic husband to fall for you will hardly require any effort at all. I think I shall use one of my weaker arrows, as there is no need to expend a great deal of energy completing such a menial task as this. Say, who are you competing with in this wager of love?
Demps: Kevin.
Kama: Kevin? You mean Kevin Bentley?! Oh, shit, dude…even I can’t compete with that pretty motherfucker. Have you SEEN the dick on him?!? Praise Ganesh!
Demps: Hold up, man! Will Demps can compete! Will Demps just need a little help…
Kama: Fuck that…you’re on your own. Let’s go, Bitchephant!
(disappears to the sounds of Barry White)
Travis Johnson has an audience with the Pope
Apr 23, 2008 Bad Idea Jeans, Corky Johnson, Fake Conversations with Real People, Huh?, Inanity, Might as well piss off as many religions as possible, Polygamy, Trent Green's mushed up brains
Gary Kubiak: (on phone) …uh-huh…yep…really, him? OK…no, that’s fine…I just didn’t…I didn’t know he was Catholic…I’ll tell him. (hangs up, dials Travis Johnson’s cell phone)
Travis Johnson: (singing) And IiiiIiiiiIiiiiiIIIIIIiiiiieieeeee, will always LOVE youuuuuuuuuu, IIIIIIIIII will always love youuuuuuuu… (answers phone) ‘Sup, coach?
Kubiak: Hey, Trav. How’s it going? I just got a call from the strangest person.
Johnson: You mean someone pretending to be Mayor McCheese? That’s not so weird; I get that all the time.
Kubiak: (sighing) No, Travis…not someone pretending to be Mayor McCheese. I have no idea–nevermind. Anyway, I got a call from the Missionary Oblates of Mary Immaculate.
Johnson: The fuck is an oblate?
Kubiak: You know, the people who provide priests for your church here in Houston? Shit…ANYWAY, it seems that the Pope is in the U.S. and he wants to invite you to have an audience with him. This is quite an honor, Trav, and–quite frankly–I am petrified that you will do something monumentally stupid and turn every Mexican in Texas against us. Please don’t fuck this up. Please?
Johnson: Shit, baby…it’s all to the good. I loves me some Pope.
(later that evening, in the rectory of St. Patrick’s Catholic Church in Houston)
Johnson: Hi, Mr. Pope. Nice hat, dawg.
Pope Benedict: Hello, Travis. God bless you.
Johnson: So, what’s up, man? What’s good? What’s the word? (does elaborate, thirty-eight step handshake, points to the sky)
Pope: (looking startled) I…I…well, it is certainly wonderful to meet you, Travis. Father McHale tells me that you are setting a wonderful example for Catholic youth in Texas. He says that you–
Johnson: Oh, hell yeah, dawg! I be doin’ all sorts of shit fo’ the little kiddies. Why, just the other day, I took ten kids to the Mall to let them watch me buy some shoes.
Pope: I’m sorry? Do you mean you bought them shoes?
Johnson: Shit, no, man. I bought ME some shoes and I told them, “y’all practice hard and, someday, you’ll be able to afford all these shoes fo’ yo’ damn selves.” They were feelin’ me.
Pope: (looks slightly frightened and confused) You…bought yourself shoes…I…I don’t know what to say.
Johnson: I know, right?! Shit was great, dog!
Pope: (suddenly rethinking the entire meeting, changes subject) Tell me, son, is there a prayer you would like to say with me?
Johnson: Nah, dawg. I’m good.
Pope: Well, perhaps there is something you’d like blessed?
Johnson: Wait…whatchu sayin’? That you can give, like, super Jesus powers to something?
Pope: Not exactly, my son, but I can bless you or someone you love.
Johnson: Fo’ real?
Pope: Yes.
Johnson: Fo’ really real?
Pope: (sighing) Yes.
Johnson: Awwwww, SNAP! (unzips pants) Bless this, Pope.
Pope: What?!!
Johnson: Look, here’s the deal. I gots these two dudes on my team–Will Demps and, uh, this other Ivy League brotha we just signed–and they are both packin’ some SERIOUS dick, Pope. And, to make matters worse, they are both pulling more ass than a Texas Mormon, ya dig? So, I’s thinkin’ that, if you blessed my little Osceola, I could use my Jesus Dong to compete with those two.
Pope: (aghast)
Johnson: (looks at dick, looks at Pope)
Pope: (frightened)
Johnson: (looks at dick, looks at Pope.) Man, you gonna sit there slack-jawed like some motherfuckin’ Trent Green or you gonna holify my shit?
Pope: (looks for nearest exit, making blessing motion in Travis’ general direction) Ego contemno meus vita.
Johnson: (zipping up pants) Now THAT’S what I be talkin’ about, ya heard! 20 minutes ago, I had a lot of respect for the Pope. Now, I’m all like, HELLZ YEAH, THE POPE IS THE SHIZZNIT, BABY!!!! Vatican City in the house! Florida State in the house! My holy dick in the house!!!
Pope: (scurries out the side door)
Travis: (yelling after him) Yo, dawg, I’ma give my cell number to that dude out front in the big red hat! Holla at a playa if you are back in town! Tell Jesus I said what’s up!
Indecent Proposal
Mar 28, 2008 Fake Conversations with Real People, Gary Kubiak, Inanity, Kevin Bentley, President Lyndon Veins Johnson, Tempting Fate, Will Demps makes love to the...ladies?
Houston Texans lockerroom, 9:35 pm
Will Demps: (singing to himself) It’s my dick in a box, my dick in a box, girl / Christmas…dick in a box / Hannukah…dick in a box / Kwanzaa…dick in a box / Every single holiday, a dick in a box / Over at your parents house, a dick in a box / Mid-day at the grocery store, a dick in a box…
Kevin Bentley: Hello, William.
Demps: Whoa! Will Demps didn’t see you there! Why are you sitting in here with no music on? (turns Justin Timberlake CD on) I’m bringin’ sexy back…
Bentley: I was conjugating irregular Latin verbs from memory, William.
Demps: Conju-what?
Bentley: You know, “sum, erum, ero…” You have no idea what I am talking about do you?
Demps: Will Demps caught his reflection in the mirror and totally stopped listening to you.
Bentley: Anyway, William, much like our last encounter, it is fortuitous that I have again encountered you.
Demps: Speak English, motherfucker. Will Demps doesn’t speak uppity college jibber-jabber.
Bentley: (sighing) Cretin. Like I was saying, it’s good that you are here. Let me preface this by asking a question–you consider yourself quite the ladies’ man, don’t you?
Demps: Does a bear shit in the woods? Will Demps has been in more bush than Crocodile Dundee. Will Demps has plowed more fur fields than John Deere. Will Demps has bon–
Bentley: Christ, I get it! OK, that said, I think you realize that there can be only one, William.
Demps: What kind of Highlander shit are you talking about?
Bentley: This lockerroom–nay, this TOWN–is not big enough for both of us. There are only so many fine young females to go around, you know. So I have come up with a solution…if you have the courage for it.
Demps: Motherfucker, Will Demps has all the courage in the world. Will Demps once let a hungry fat girl go down on him; you have any idea what kind of courage THAT takes?!?
Bentley: Glad to hear it. Here’s the deal–a Contest of Sexual Conquest. Except, rather than sheer numbers, there is only one lady who matters. Bed this prize and you win; I’ll ask to be released so that I can go finish the Great American Novel. But, if I win, you must leave Houston and never return.
Demps: Shiiiiiiiit, holmes. Will Demps has never met some red snapper he couldn’t filet with a quickness.
Bentley: Is that a yes? I rarely have any clue as to what you are saying.
Demps: Fuck yes, it’s a yes. Wait…who’s the Golden Vag?
Bentley: Rhonda.
Demps: Rhonda? Rhonda who, Will Demps don’t kno–WAIT! You mean Rhonda KUBIAK?!?!
Bentley: Indeed, young William. Indeed. You see, I have found that the only prizes worth chasing are the ones that require the most risk. Much like how, once a man has killed another man, mere hunting of dumb animals never satisfies his blood lust again.
Demps: (looking confused)
Bentley: (exasperated) Yes. Rhonda Kubiak. Bed her and you win.
Demps: Will Demps is not so sure this is a great idea…but Will Demps loves him a challenge. Let’s do this. May the best man win.
Bentley: Oh, I shall, William. I shall.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Moisture is the essence of wetness. And wetness is the essence of beauty.
Mar 8, 2008 Fake Conversations with Real People, Inanity, Kevin Bentley, President Lyndon Veins Johnson, Will Demps makes love to the...ladies?, You're the Man Now Dog
Will Demps:(singing to himself) …don’t you wish your girlfriend was HOT like me? Don’t you wish your girlfriend was a FREAK like me…don’tchu dont’chu?…
(cell phone rings) Hello?
Will Demps’ Agent: Will?!
Demps: Yeah, whassup dawg?
Agent: I can’t hear you! Can you turn down the radio?
Demps: WHAT?!
Agent: TURN! DOWN! THE! RADIO!
Demps: Oh, ok. Hold on. (turns down radio) What’s up, man? You got Will Demps signed anywhere?
Agent: Well…sorta.
Demps: What the hell do “sorta” mean? Am I signed or not? Will Demps needs to start working the print advertisers in my new city.
Agent: Well…it…um…seems…that, well, the only people who wanted to sign you for much of anything were the Texans. No one was really interested in a guy who had three-fourths of a good season.
Demps: Oh, that is SO gay!
Agent: (mumbling) You’d know.
Demps: What?
Agent: Nothing. Anyway…there’s something else I need to tell you.
Demps: Whazzat?
Agent: Well, it seems that the Texans also signed Kevin Bentley.
Demps: What the fuck is a Kevin Bentley? Is that a car? Will Demps loves him a fine automobile.
Agent: No, it’s another player.
Demps: What the fuck does Will Demps care about another player. Will Demps only cares about his pretty, pretty self.
Agent: Well…uh…it’s just that Bentley is sort of–
Demps: Will Demps does not have time for this idle chit-chat! (hangs up phone)
[Five hours later, at Zeppelin]
Demps: (entering the club) Will Demps in the HOUSE, ladies! Whassup?! Will Demps, bitches! Will Demps! Who wants to buy Will Demps a drink?!
(gets no response from the ladies) What the fuck? Bitches, I said ‘Will Demps!’ (to random girl) Hey, baby…as sexy as you is, you wanna get down with some Will Demps?
Random Girl: Puh-lease. You know who is here? Kevin Bentley. You ain’t no motherfuckin’ Kevin Bentley, either. Busted ass motherfucker. (walks toward back of club where a throng of women surround Kevin Bentley.)
Bentley: …so, yes, football is my job but Bikram yoga is my passion. (lifting shirt) I think you ladies will agree that it has done wonders for my abs.
(collective swoon by the ladies)
Demps: (shoving to the front of the crowd) Yo, yo, yo…what the FUCK is this? Who the FUCK are you? Oh, damn…nice abs, brotha. (offers handshake) Will Demps, strong safety for the Houston Texans. But you probably already knew that.
Bentley: Actually, I was utterly unaware as to your identity. This is fortuitous, however, as it appears you and I are now colleagues. My name is Kevin Bentley and I, too, am employed by the NFL team located here in the Bayou City.
Demps: Please, Will Demps has no “colleagues.” Will Demps is in a class by himself. Will Demps not only plays football; Will Demps is also a high-sought-after male model. (whips out 8×10 glossy)
Will Demps is a beautiful, beautiful man. Here, let Will Demps autograph this for you.
Bentley: That’s not necessary, my good man. I am also a male model. In fact, during my tenure both at my beloved Northwestern University as well as throughout my NFL career, I have done several print ads. I am told that my combination of good looks, fantastic physique, and high intelligence make me one of the more desirable models in professional sports. Perhaps you saw this picture of me from a few years ago?
Demps: No, Will Demps did not see that picture. Well, let Will Demps tell you something, Kevin. Will Demps is the man in Houston and the man in the lockerroom. You best stay out of my–I mean, out of Will Demps’–way. If you know what’s good for you, that is. You don’t want to have to go up against Will Demps.
Bentley: I’m sorry to hear you say such things, William. You see, I hear words like “beauty” and “handsomness” and “incredibly chiseled features” and for me that’s like a vanity of self absorption that I try to steer clear of. I like to let my body of work speak for me, but not define who I am. (bats eyelashes at ladies) I feel like this enlightenment makes me a much better person…and a much better lover.
Demps: (unzipping pants, to ladies) Yeah, well Will Demps believes this fifteen inches of black, throbbing Jesus makes Will Demps a better lover.
Bentley: (unzipping pants, to ladies) Interesting. But I think you ladies will find my seventeen inches of spiritual awakening even more impressive. (to Demps) It seems, dear William, that the irony of this is that your own ego forced you into a competition that you cannot win–which is to say, your own ego has caused itself to be hurt by the very things that drive your ego in the first place.
Demps: (in tears) GodDAMNit, this isn’t fair! It’s not fair! I am the pretty one! This isn’t over…you…big…meany-head!!! (runs away)
Bentley: What an odd fellow. (to ladies) So, which one of you fine Texas hoes wants to get on your knees and kiss President Lyndon Veins Johnson?
Mr. and Mrs. Glass
Feb 20, 2008 Faggination, Fake Conversations with Real People, Jerome Mathis got hurt reading this, Johnny Fisterbottom, Pro Bowl 2008, Too far?, Tremendous Busts, Will Demps makes love to the...ladies?
February 15, 2008. Manvel, TX. 10:30PM.
Jerome Mathis: (in car, to himself) Damn. DAMN! I have completely fucked up. Fuck. She is going to be pissed, too. Why the fuck did I let the dogs get out? After the year I had…man…I’m fucked.
(pulls into driveway, goes into house) Erica! Erica?! You here?
Erica Smith: (from upstairs) Yeah, I’m upstairs. Hold on. I’ll be down in a minute.
Mathis: (to self) Fuuuuuck. OK, Jerome. Hold it together. You’re a Pro Bowler; you’ll get a job somewhere. And she loves you for you…y’all having a baby together and shit. OK, here she comes. Stay calm. Don’t get defensive… (to Smith) Hey, baby! How was your day?!
Smith: Motherfucker, how do you think my day was?! I am fucking pregnant. I threw up this morning, then I was tired, then my feet started hurting, then I threw up again, then I had to nap for a while. That’s how MY day was. But that’s not what concerns me right now. What concerns me is whether you talked to McNair about what we talked about last night.
Mathis: Yeah, I did.
Smith: And?!?
Mathis: He said the team wasn’t entirely sure if they were going to bring me back. He said the pit bull incidents really having him questioning whether I have the right kind of character to be a Houston Texan.
Smith: You ignorant motherfucker! I told your stupid ass to chain those dogs up! Did you listen?! Fuck, no, you didn’t listen. You just let those mutts go out and maul some people. Brilliant. Asshole. Did you at least mention that you were a Pro Bowler not that long ago?
Mathis: Yo, you need to ease up off me a little bit. I thought I told you I wasn’t going to put up with that kind of tone anymore.
Smith: Fuck you, jack. Who the fuck do you think you are? Motherfuckin’ Ron O’Neal or somethin’? Talkin’ ’bout I better not talk to you like that.
Mathis: Look, bitch, seriously…I’m not going to put up with much more of this lip.
Smith: Whatchu gonna do, then? You ain’t gonna hit a pregnant woman. Besides…remember what happened last time you tried to pick a fight with me. You want your ass kicked again?
Mathis: Bitch, I told you I had a sinus infection. And I was kinda drunk. You can’t take me in a fair fight and you know it! I’m in the NFL, goddamnit.
Smith: Yeah…that “F” stands for “Fragile As A Motherfucker.”
Mathis: I am leaving before you make me break my foot off in your ass. (turns to leave, pauses, turns back) Hey, where the hell is my phone charger? I need it–my Blackberry is dead.
Smith: Just like your career, apparently.
Mathis: Shut up. Just go get my charger. (shoves Smith)
Smith: Make me, bitch.
Mathis: That’s it. It’s on now! (grabs Smith by the throat) Yeah! You like that?! You like…wait…what the fuck…LET GO OF MY NUTS!!! OW OW OW OW OW!!! FUUUUUCK!!!! (begins weeping)
Smith: Yeah! You think you’re bad?! You ain’t bad! You ain’t shit!! Get the fuck out of my house, bitch! (throws him out the front door, locks it behind him, heads back upstairs)
Will Demps: (from closet) Everything cool.
Smith: Yeah, baby. It’s cool. Come give mama some of the black throbbing Jesus before I call the police on his unemployed ass. I love me some Pro Bowler sex.
Battle of the seven-button suitcoats
Jan 21, 2008 2006 Draft, 2007 Season, Bad Idea Jeans, Fake Conversations with Real People, Huh?, I'm not even sure this one is funny, Inanity, Overrated, Super Bowl 2008, Teams that aren't the Texans, Thannon Tharpe, Vinsanity
Bathroom at Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport, 10:45pm
Shannon Sharpe: Man…I really gotta take a thit. Thtupid airplane food.
(2 minutes later)
Sharpe: (singing to himself) Thwing loooowwww, thweet chariot, comin’ for to thumthin thumthin hoooome…
(Merril Hoge enters the next stall)
Hoge: Damn, son…that’s some FINE singin’. I love me an old-fashioned black spiritual. Makes me feel like I am back home in Idaho. Not that we had blacks…hey, who’s in there, anyway?
Sharpe: Thumone tryin’ to thit, dammit. Thut up and give a brotha thum peathe.
Hoge: Hooooo, boy! Listen to that lisp! You sound frutier than bag of Starburst, son! Wait…is that you, Vince?!? I always knew you’d sound gay!!! I’d ask you to toss me some toilet paper, but you couldn’t get it over here even if you wanted to. Isn’t that right, Mr. Overrated?
Sharpe: Motherfucker, ith me–Thannon Tharpe! Who the hell are you?
Hoge: It’s Merril. You know, ESPN Analyst Merril Hoge. Good lord, I never realized how gay you sound. If you’d have been tapping your foot there in the stall while you were singing, I’da thought you were hitting on me.
Sharpe: Whatever, man. Jethuth taught me to turn the other cheek and not hate juth becauth thumone ith diffent. (pauses, grunts, continues) Hey, thpeaking of hate, why the hell are you alwayth ripping on Vinthe? You jus make yourthelf thound ignurrant, cuz it thows you don unnerthand what he really bringth to hith team.
Hoge: What he brings to his team? You mean like twice as many INTs as TDs? (farts, laughs)
Sharpe: Thee! Thath what I am talk about! You mith the point–that he bringth intangimableth that thtupid thtatithticth can’t meathure!
Hoge: Please! That’s what everyone says, what’s that even mean? If the only thing he does well is stuff that can’t be measured, then how much stock can you put in the “intangibles?”
Sharpe: But he winth gameth!
Hoge: No, the Titans’ DEFENSE wins games. Their offensive line that turns shitheads like LenDale White into viable options wins games. Vince is just along for the ride and, if he manages not to screw shit up, gets all the credit for the win! How does that make any sense? But no matter how much I scream about it, people listen to you lisp about how great he is!
Sharpe: You are thuch an ignurrant hick. Taking all thothe hitth to the head mutht’ve methed you up. You thimply don’t know what you are talking about, becauth he ith that great. I mean, tho what if he can’t throw thirty yardth with accurathy? He ith deadly effithient on thothe eight yard dump offth. He creath playth with hith legth. He fortheth defentheth to adjutht. He hath a chanthe to be one of the betht dual-threat quarterbackth in hithtory. I’ve gotta be honetht, Merril–it really thoundth like thour grapeth, man. All you’ve done thince he wath drafted wath talk about how awful he ith.
Hoge: Maybe I am just sick of people making him into Jesus in Cleats! Maybe I fail to see what he does that is worth a first round pick, let alone a high first round pick. Or…maybe…
Sharpe: What ith it?
Hoge: Maybe I miss the old days, Shannon. The days when I could still play and quarterbacks were not supposed to run. That’s what the running backs were for. I miss the days when Neil O’Donnell was a god among men.
Sharpe: Neil O’Donnell wath never a god, Merril! Thath juth thtupid.
Hoge: You didn’t know Neil like I knew him, Shannon! No one did! See…NOW who is being the negative prick?!
(voice from the third stall)
Emmit Smith: Guys, guys, guys…let me be the void of return. All this negativosity is impending you from researching a mortgageable contraceptive.
Shannon: Oh, Jethuth Chritht.
BeezleBud
Jan 16, 2008 Bad Idea Jeans, Bud Adams is evil, Curious Coaching, Desperate times call for desperate MEshawns, Fake Conversations with Real People, Jeff Fisher's Mustache, Teams that aren't the Texans
Lucifer, The Dark Lord, (nee Bud Adams): (as a booming disembodied voice) JEFFREY!!!!
Jeff Fisher: Yes, your unholy darkness?
Lucifer: DID YOU THINK THIS WOULD BE ACCEPTABLE?! DID YOU THINK I WOULD SETTLE FOR SUCH A SUB-PAR PERFORMANCE?
Fisher: Well, your evilness, we did make the playoffs and we improved a game over last season.
Lucifer: HORSESHIT! DO YOU THINK I PURCHASED YOUR ETERNAL SOUL JUST TO MAKE THE PLAYOFFS?!?
Fisher: It’s just…well…I think Vince might not be progressing the way we’d hoped. He might not be as good as we thought he’d be.
Lucifer: YOU SIMPLE TWAT, VINCE YOUNG IS MY GREATEST COUP! HE IS THE SON OF GOD! HE WINS!!! SOMETHING ELSE MUST BE THE CAUSE!
Fisher: What could it be, though, my lord?
Lucifer: HMM…WAIT! I KNOW! THE PROBLEM IS YOU!!!! PREPARE TO BE CAST DOWN WITH THE SODOMITES AND FORMER COWBOYS!!!
Fisher: No no no no no!!!!! Wait!!!! It’s not me!!! It’s…um…some of the staff!!! Yeah, the assistant coaches caused this!
Lucifer: WELL, THEN, FUCKING FIX IT!!!
Fisher: Yes, my malevolent master.
[20 minutes later, Fisher reaches Norm Chow by phone.]
Chow: What’s goin’ on, Jeff?
Fisher: Yeah, Norm. Umm…I needed to talk to you about something for next season.
Chow: What’s up?
Fisher: We’ve known each other a long time, Norm. A really long time. And we’ve had some success, too, right?
Chow: Uh, yeah.
Fisher: But…well…the club wants to go in a different direction with Vince’s development and…well…I’m afraid I’m going to have to let you go, Norm. I really hope there’s no hard feelings.
Chow: No hard feelings? NO HARD FEELINGS?! You are throwing me under the bus, you bearded shitbag! Did that evil cocksucker Bud Adams put you up to this??
Fisher: Now, Norm, let’s no–
Chow: Don’t “now, Norm” me, asshole! You’ve submarined me at every fucking turn, yet I keep making lemonade out of the shit-covered fruit you give me each year. I wanted Matt Leinart, but noooooo, someone had to give mustache rides to Captain Interception. Nine TDs?!? Nine fucking TDs against seventeen interceptions?!?!? Christ. But I didn’t complain–I just kept working with the retard, trying to teach him to read defenses and books. And when I said we should go after some real wide receivers, what did you do? You signed a Houston cast-off and tried to beg Keyshawn fucking Johnson out of retirement. Zipadeefuckingdoodah! Or how about letting my leading rusher leave and saddling me with a guy who didn’t crack 1000 yards in college and a guy who might crack 1000 pounds in the offseason?! How about that?!?
Fisher: Look, I–
Chow: You what? You didn’t have the balls to stand up to Adams because you made the mistake of selling him your soul back in Houston? Not my problem, dickface.
Fisher: I’m sorry, Norm.
Chow: Fuck you. I hope you die. (slams phone down)
Lucifer: DAMN, JEFF. THAT’S COLD.
Fisher: Wait, what??? I thought you said–
Lucifer: I SAID FIX THE PROBLEM, NOT GET RID OF THE ONE LOYAL AND TALENTED GUY ON YOUR STAFF. SHIT, IT’S NOT LIKE YOU GAVE HIM ANYTHING TO WORK WITH. EVEN I WOULDN’T HAVE DONE SOMETHING THAT LOW. AND BY PHONE, NO LESS? YOU’RE A FUCKING ASSHOLE, MAN.
I wish I knew how to quit you, Vince
Jan 7, 2008 2006 Draft, Bad Idea Jeans, Black Salaami, Fake Conversations with Real People, Jeff Fisher's Mustache, Teams that aren't the Texans, Vinsanity, Vomitopia
LenDale White: C’mere baby and let the Whale hold you. Mmm…you smell so nice, so musky.
Vince Young: Not here, man. Chill. Wait ’til we get off the field at least.
White: Don’t play. I feel you rubbing your junk against mine.
Young: Yeah, well you are grabbing my ass. Fag. (giggles)
White: You know you like it, baby. (squeezes ass)
Young: C’mon, let’s get out of here. I haven’t been this turned on since I saw Brady Quinn showering at the Combine.
Who’s the Boom King? Hah! I’m the Boom King!
Dec 19, 2007 Fake Conversations with Real People, Inanity, Kris Brown's golden leg, Pro Bowl 2008, Will Demps makes love to the...ladies?
Tuesday, December 18, 2007. 6:45PM EST.
Will Demps: (looking in mirror) Daaaaamn. I look goo-ooo-ood. (yelling into other room) Yo, Casper!
Kris Brown: What?
Demps: Come look at how fuckin’ perfect these eyebrows are. And these waves I got hooked up in my hair. Sheeeeit. You’d do good to take notes, Powder. Bitches love this shit.
Brown: I thought we were just going to Mario’s house for dinner.
Demps: We are, but you still gots to be prepared. You never know when you are going to get bum-rushed by some hoes who are demanding to see the 14 inches of throbbing black Jesus. And besides…I need to look good because I plan on admiring myself in the rearview mirror on the way over.
Twenty-five minutes later, in Will’s car
Car Radio: “…Cribbs and Special Teamer Kassim Osgood round out the AFC Roster.”
Brown: WOW! We are Pro Bowl alternates! That is fantastic!! And, golly, DeMeco is a starter?! This is great!!
Demps: (turns off radio, grips steering wheel tightly) Oh, HELL no! This ain’t “great,” gabacho. This is some BULLSHIT! How the fuck they gonna leave Smoove Will off the motherfuckin’ roster?!
Brown: Well, I mean, you weren’t even on our roster in week one.
Demps: The fuck does that matter?! This thing ain’t nothin’ but a popularity contest. And who is more popular than Smoove Will D? WHO?! Bob Sanders? Cracker, please! Bob Sanders is a little midget and I guarantee he didn’t get 15,000 hits to his website last week. Ed Reed? Man, fuck him. He ever had Beyonce ask him to be in a video? Hell to da naw, dawg!
Brown: That’s not really what they are voting on. It’s abo–
Demps: Well it should be! They want to increase exposure, right? Appeal to more demographics? Then put Will in the game, baby! Every woman in America will be watching. It ain’t like Troy Polamalu has women text-messaging him, asking to let them bounce quarters off his ass while they feed him grapes! Well, maybe some Samoan bitches, but that’s it. Will appeals to all women, including them big-ass Samoan hoes.
Brown: But Mario didn’t even make it, and he’s having a great year. If anyone should complain, it’s him.
Demps: That’s what I am saying, Miss Lilly! This ain’t nothing but a popularity contest, but somehow they forgot about Will! I mean, yeah, Mario has 13 sacks and shit like that, but he ain’t pretty. Will done brought sexy back so long ago that sexy is old school now.
Brown: I honestly have no idea what you are talking about.
Demps: Let me break it down for you, real simple like. You know how every television news station has a token hot skank that does the weather?
Brown: Yeah…
Demps: Well that’s me.
Brown: You are a skanky weather girl?
Demps: No, you simple corn-fed motherfucker. I am the pretty piece of ass that would make the Pro Bowl worth watching, just like the skanky weather girl does for the 6 o’clock news. But the NFL and the powers-that-be refuse to put this fine mocha-colored Adonis to his highest, best use. And that’s a damn shame, Beaver Cleaver. A goddamned shame. There’s really only one thing I can do to get rid of this anger.
Brown: Drown in some stripper poon?
Demps: Word. Now you’re gettin’ it, Opie!
Rumpleforeskin
Dec 11, 2007 Boobies, Fake Conversations with Real People, Inanity, Johnny Fisterbottom, Will Demps makes love to the...ladies?
Junior High Principal: If everyone could please take your seats and settle down, we’ll get started. As you know, this…um…sex education lecture is normally given by Coach Wright. However, due to certain ongoing legal proceedings, we didn’t feel that would be in the best interest of the school this year. So, we decided to bring in a local celebrity to talk to you about…um…sex today. So please give your full attention to Mr. Will Demps of the Houston Texans.
Will Demps: Hello, little school children. Principal Whitey–
Principal: That’s “Whitley.”
Demps: –asked me here today to talk to you young men about sex and peer pressure. Now, I asked myself, “what do I wish someone had told me when I was in seventh grade?” Then I remembered that I actually lost my virginity in fifth grade–that’s the type of thing that happens when you are a natural-born athlete with 14″ of throbbing, brown Jesus in your jockstrap. (adjusts junk) Tell ya what… how about I just answer some of your questions about sex and we can go from there? Let’s see. You, the skinny cracker in the back. What’s your question?
John: Well…um…I was…well…could you kind of…uh…explain a woman’s anatomy?
Demps: Seriously? Y’all don’t know?
(lots of head shaking and nervous glances around classroom)
Demps: DAMN! Ok, no problem, young devil. First, you know, you have them big ol’ tit-tays up top, right? That’s like the previews at the movies. You don’t actually do anything with those, because there is nothing in it for you, but they are kinda fun to play with and look at for a few minutes. Plus, if you have a big girl, you can use those things as a flotation device should your boat capsize.
Down below, you’ve got the vagina. This is made up of, um, the meat curtains and, uh, the love button and some other parts that scientists don’t totally understand. This is where the magic happens, though. Next question?
Steve: Yeah, my older brother says that you can get AIDS from oral sex. Is this true?
Demps: No, you cannot get AIDS from getting head because that ain’t how it works. I mean, they calling it “getting” but you are the only one giving anything away in the transaction.
Steve: But what about from giving oral sex to a girl?
Demps: Only lesbians do that. True playas don’t snack on fuzzy tacos, Whitebread. Next question.
Brian: Um, I was with my girlfriend the other night and, well, it…I mean…I couldn’t get it up. Is there something wrong with me?
Demps: Look, I’ve sexed with pretty much every beautiful woman between New Jersey and Houston and never once did my Fallopian Fiddler have trouble playin’ his tune, knowatImsayin? So, yeah, if you couldn’t get your little Escalante to Stand And Deliver, then there must be something wrong with you. Now, I’m no doctor, but I would say you either have a venereal disease or you caught the gay. Or you are dating a fat chick. Next?
Jason: I have a date with a girl tonight and I don’t know what to do for fun. Any ideas?
Demps: Let’s see…I’d go with “do her in the butt.”
Eric: Mr. Demps, I feel like there is a lot of pressure to have sex, even though I am not sure if I am ready. I just think that maybe a man should wait unt–
Demps: Hold up, Honky Lips. That’s not pressure to have sex; that’s pressure to not be a big ol’ pussy. What do you mean, “not sure if you’re ready?” I seriously can’t believe I’m hearing this shit. “Not sure if I’m ready.” Man, you have got to be kidding. Would I be where I am today if I’d been a scared little bitch when my fifth grade teacher started feeling me up? Hell to da naw, dog.
Look, I’m about out of time here, so I am going to leave you with this advice: LIFE is about two things–getting someone to mouthify your wang and getting some funk on your hangdown. The rest is just gravy.
“A man without hand is not a man. I’ve got so much hand I’m coming out of my gloves.”
Dec 5, 2007 2007 Season, Fake Conversations with Real People, Fisted by Jessica Alba, I guess this storyline has run its course...or has it?, Non-Texan stuff, Sandy Vag, Sucks to be John Fox, Teams that aren't the Texans, Zoolander's snazzy handwear
Saturday, November 24, 2007. Panthers locker room, top shelf of locker #8.
David Carr’s Left Glove: Psst. PSST! Righty, you awake?
David Carr’s Right Glove: Guh! I am now, asshole. I was dreaming about getting fisted by Jessica Alba, you jerk.
Lefty: My bad, dude.
Righty: S’alright. What’s up?
Lefty: Well, I was thinking. This whole “actually being on the field” thing sucks. There’s a grass stain on my palm that will probably never come out. Captain Buttplug can’t keep himself upright long enough to do anything and we are taking a beating because of it.
Righty: Dude, TELL me about it. If John Candyass goes all fetal position and lands on me again, I’m going to fucking lose it.
Jar of Pomade: (lisping) Would you two shut the hell up? Some of us are trying to sleep.
Lefty: Don’t make me slap the shit out of you, hair snot. I’m not even fucking kidding. I’ll shove you to the goddamned floor and break your jar again. You didn’t like that last time, did ya?
Pomade: (lisping) Asshole.
Righty: Homo.
Lefty: ANYWAY, here’s what I was thinking. If you can make the Rump Ranger look like total shit tomorrow, that might just do it. I mean, Coach Fox is pissed as it is–surely one more bad game would do it. And it’s not like you’ll have to work that hard–he’s totally capable of looking like shit on his own. You just need to kick it up a notch or two.
Righty: Dude, that’s brilliant! If we do this right, we’ll get to hang out on the sideline and hold a clipboard for the rest of the year.
Lefty: Man, I love holding a clipboard. It fe–
Jockstrap: Guys, not to butt in, but I am not totally sure about this. We could get in a lot of trouble.
Righty: Listen here, cockrag–no one asked you. If I want an opinion on the relative merits of shaved testicles as compared to unshorn, I’ll find you. Otherwise, shut the fuck up and contemplate just how ironically useless you are.
Lefty: So, it’s settled?
Righty: Hell yeah. It’s on.
Sunday, November 25, 2007, 2:15PM CST.
Lefty: Dude, what are you doing?! He’s completing passes to Steve! That is so not cool! It’s second and eight from midfield–fucking throw an interception!!
Righty: OK, OK…chill out. I got this. (pulls thumb off the ball too early)
Radio Announcer: “Carr takes the snap, steps up in the pocket. He looks left. He fires deep to Carter down the left side aaaaaaannnnnnd INTERCEPTED!! Carr threw that ball right where Craft could get his