Sometimes, I'll ask a random question that everybody can answer.
Here's my first one:
What football-related euphemism can we (men) use to describe masturbation? Ladies, if you have one for yourselves, I'd love to hear it.
I tried thinking of this while taking out the garbage today and I'm stumped.
The best thing I could come up with is, "He's gonna take it himself!" or "He's calling his own number!" I just believe there's something better out there. I'll consult with Ralph, Dave and anyone else who'll listen.
Meantime, share your ideas in the comments section.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Jeremy Shockey: Philosopher King
From Jeremy Shockey's Twitter account:
"today you will never get back.... what did you do????"
3:14 PM Aug 26th from web
Wise words from a wise man. For he is truly a leader of men (well, mostly women) and one who can identify with us common plebs. Why, not twenty-three minutes earlier, he wrote:
"Just got home from practice.... setting on sofa tunr into sleeping on sofa haha.. how is everyone?"
2:51 PM Aug 26th from web
To paraphrase the great poet Rudyard Kipling, the mighty J-Shock is able to walk with kings but not lose the common touch that is crashing on one's couch on a lazy afternoon.
For this is a man who knows and enjoys the finer things in life...
"just got my 69 dodge charger R/T in new orleans... lets race!!!!!!!"
4:05 PM Aug 23rd from web
But is no stranger to wants, desires and missed opportunities.
"would loved to have meet Torrie Wilson the ex wrestler"
9:28 AM Aug 22nd from web
The wise man understands that there is always work to be done...
"sleeping is for the dead!!!!"
3:43 AM Aug 18th from web
And places high value on individuality and the virtues of being one.
"whatever floats your boat.. we all cant be the same if we were what a boring place this would be"
11:17 AM Aug 8th from web
And let's never forget: it's good to be the king sometimes.
"damn vanessa came out with some more nude photos!! Going to hurt her chances for playboy hhaha"
12:16 PM Aug 5th from web
----------
In other, non-philosopher king news, I cannot recommend enough Bradley Handwerger's piece on Saints defensive lineman Anthony Hargrove.
And everyone's favorite feline aficionado won the punting gig this week. Huzzah for Tommy Morstead! Thundercats, ho!
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
Opening this weekend: "Shockey's Eleven"
They thought they could push him around without repercussion. They thought he was smart enough to realize he was outnumbered 6-to-1 and not get into a fight. They were wrong.
SHOCKEY: Alright! Fuck THESE assholes! We're going to war! They think I'm gonna let this shit slide? They don't even know! Hey, Rod, you down with getting some sexy vengeance?
COLEMAN: You know it, J-Shock! DeMeco Ryans can suck a fat one!
SHOCKEY: Damn, skippy, brosef. Now, we gotta get the odds back in our favor. I think we need some help.
COLEMAN: You want me to make a few phone calls? Maybe get the O-Line or D-Line together? Kick the shit outta this guy?
(Shockey considers the move, but ultimately shakes his head.)
SHOCKEY: No, we're gonna do it my way. I've had my eye on a few people for just this situation.
(Shockey picks up the phone.)
(JUMP CUT: Saints weight room.)
SHOCKEY: Drew, you want in?
BREES: Absolutely. I feel the need to destroy something. We shouldn't it be the Texans?
COLEMAN: We don't know which hotel they'll be staying at. Think you could get one of them to talk?
BREES: Oh yeah.
SHOCKEY: You certain?
BREES: I have my ways...I'm gonna fire Nerf footballs at the genitalia until they talk.
COLEMAN: That's a little harsh, ain't it?
BREES: Hey, they got it good right now. Wait 'til ole Drew Brees beats 'em with a Nerf Crotchbat.
SHOCKEY: Yikes.
(JUMP CUT: Fairgrounds Race Track.)
SHOCKEY: We need a guy who can front our revenge operation.
COLEMAN: You want in, old man?
BENSON: You want money, guys? I can provide you with my private jet, my private yacht, my own private idaho, you name it...
(JUMP CUT: An old folks home.)
COLEMAN: Heard you enjoy kicking the shit outta things.
THE CARNEY: What's that, sonny? I don't kick shit.
SHOCKEY: No, John, KICK THE SHIT OUT OF PEOPLE! Can you do that?
THE CARNEY: Me? Oh sure. I can also gum somebody to death if need be.
(JUMP CUT: A graveyard.)
SHOCKEY: So, Joe, you think you could scare the shit outta DeMeco Ryan and those Texan dickheads?
JOE: Sure, J-Shock! Not a problem. Who's the black fella?
COLEMAN: Does he know who the president is?
SHOCKEY: No. Might be too much of a shock.
COLEMAN: Fuck's sake. I gotta put up with an outta touch naked ghost for this?
SHOCKEY: Trust me, he'll come in handy. And if he throws his keys at you, just humor him, please?
COLEMAN: Fuck me...
(JUMP CUT: Inside a car. COLEMAN driving. SHOCKEY rides shotgun.)
COLEMAN: I think we need us a confidence man.
SHOCKEY: Huh?
COLEMAN: Con man. Somebody with the appearance of a pathetic loser, but has ice water in his veins. Somebody who can take all sorts of verbal and physical abuse and not crack. And he's gotta have a talent, something that can disarm our mark.
SHOCKEY: I know just the guy...
(JUMP CUT: Inside a dumpster.)
SHOCKEY: You want the gig?
JOEY THE PIANO MAN: Do I?!? I'll do whatever you need! Hey, you gonna eat that pizza crust?
(CUT TO: Back in the car. SHOCKEY drives this time.)
SHOCKEY: Okay, we should have the rest of the guys lined up.
COLEMAN: Who?
SHOCKEY: We need...
SHOCKEY: A distraction...
SHOCKEY: And a hooligan.
COLEMAN: Really? You want the guy who dresses like Master Chief from Halo? AND Ryan Perrilloux?
SHOCKEY: Perrilloux's a loose cannon. And pretty dim. We need somebody stupid enough to fuck up a perfect situation on our team.
COLEMAN: That doesn't make a lick of sense, J-Shock.
SHOCKEY: That's why it'll work. It's too stupid to fail!
COLEMAN: And Master Chief?
SHOCKEY: Dude, Master Chief is one of my 'Five Favorite People' on Facebook. He taught me the one important rule in life: I. NEED. A. WEAPON. Gotta stay ready and focused, Coleman.
COLEMAN: Are you drunk?
SHOCKEY: Not yet. Oh, and we'll have Kim Kardashian's ass running interference for us.
...
...
...
...
COLEMAN: Couldn't score a picture of it, J-Shock?
SHOCKEY: Dude, there ain't enough pixels on this fucking screen for it, brosef.
(CUT TO: Nightclub in the French Quarter. Both Shockey and Coleman are sitting at the bar, nursing daiquiris.)
SHOCKEY: Now that's what I call a team!
(Coleman, leaning against the bar, says nothing.)
SHOCKEY: You think we need one more?
(Coleman remains quiet.)
SHOCKEY: Yeah, we need one more.
(CUT TO: Shockey, Coleman and Brees are standing in a massive loft in the Warehouse District. Dozens of cats are crawling on the furniture and sitting on the shelves.)
SHOCKEY: So, you wanna help us?
BREES: You want a chance to sit at the cool kids' table? This is it.
MORSTEAD: ...
COLEMAN: Man, lets kick outta here, guys. This dude ain't gonna help us.
MORSTEAD: You don't know what real loss is, Roddie! Those Texan asshats messed with the wrong punter!
(The trio exchanges confused looks.)
BREES: Uh, what are you talking about, Tommy?
MORSTEAD: LOOK WHAT THEY DID TO JERMAINE!!!
(The three guys avert their eyes in ghastly horror.)
MORSTEAD: (Sobbing.) Look at him!! LOOK-AT-HIM!! My bloodlust has been stoked, gentlemen!
SHOCKEY: Hey, the fucking punter's onboard! Time to rock and roll, my bros!
MORSTEAD: Wait a second, I'm not ready.
SHOCKEY: Huh?
(Morstead pulls out a giant broadsword and holds it in front of him.)
COLEMAN: The fuck is he doing?
BREES & SHOCKEY: Shit. We know where this is going...
(Morstead dives in the air with the sword. Lightning flashes and a loud boom shatters the glass in the loft.)
MORSTEAD: THUNDERCATS, HO!!!!
(Brees buries his head in his hands. Shockey falls to the floor and laughs hysterically. Coleman is not amused.)
COLEMAN: Dude, what the fuck is wrong with white people?
SHOCKEY'S ELEVEN. A Spike Lee joint.
Monday, August 17, 2009
A letter to the Saints organization...
"Dear Mickey Loomis / Tom Benson / Sean Payton,
WHY did you cut Jason David?!? He was just beginning to find his stride in the secondary!
Sincerely,
Fred Thomas, Toi Cook, Tebucky Jones, and Johnnie Poe."
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Well, hello...CARNEY! It's so nice to have you back where you belong!
(Sean Payton is in his office with Mickey Loomis. They are both waiting for someone.)
SEAN: Well, Mickey, I think we bought some goodwill from the fans with this one.
MICKEY: I don't know how much goodwill, per say, but it should make a few folks happy.
SEAN: Are you kidding, Mickey? This is a fantastic thing we're doing here! I already expressed regret to the public about letting him go, now we get to bring him back for the possibility of playing again! I dropped him for a guy who couldn't consistently make field goals for us.
MICKEY: You mean Taylor Mehlhaff?
SEAN: No, the other guy.
MICKEY: Oh, Martin Gramatica?
SEAN: No. The OTHER guy.
MICKEY: Wait, you mean Garrett?
SEAN: Shut up, Mickey. Can we not talk about him right now? I'm talking about Olindo Mare.
MICKEY: Hey, I'd almost forgotten all about him. Man, I can't believe we brought that guy onboard just for an extra five or ten yards on kickoffs.
SEAN: Tell me about it.
MICKEY: I mean, yeah, we had a Pro Bowl-caliber kicker on our roster who was getting up in age but could still make just about everything from inside 40, and we let him go.
SEAN: Yeah, yeah, yeah...thanks a bunch for reminding me, Mickey.
MICKEY: Still...it has been two years since he played with us. I hope he still has it...
SEAN: Oh, come on, this is a can't lose situation for us. He went to the Pro Bowl last year!
(The office phone rings. Sean Payton hits a button to answer it.)
SEAN: Yes?
VOICE: Mr. Payton, a Mr. John Carney is here to see you.
SEAN: Good, send him in.
(Sean Payton hits another button to hang the phone up.)
MICKEY: Do you want to do all the talking?
SEAN: No, feel free to jump in.
(Door opens. Creepy music flows in.)
THE CARNEY: Well, hello there, youngins! Mind if I set me on this chair a spell? My sacroiliac been acting up again...
SEAN: Uh, hi John...Um, how've you been?
THE CARNEY: Oh, don't get me started, Coach. I got the gout, the droopsies, I'm going to the bathroom four or five times a night, vision in my left eye is kinda blurry, I
SEAN: But...uh...your legs and feet are okay though?
THE CARNEY: Oh, sure, I'm just as viral as ever below the waist, coach.
SEAN: I think you meant "virile." John.
THE CARNEY: I'm sorry, what? Can't hear so good outta my ears these days.
MICKEY: (Shakes head) Fuck. Um, Coach Payton, could I have a word with you?
SEAN: Sure. John, would you mind giving us a minute of privacy?
THE CARNEY: Certainly. I'll just turn off my hearing aids. And if you can turn your backs if you're worried I might be lip reading.
MICKEY: Thanks, John.
(Mickey and Sean turn their backs to The Carney and have a private conversation.)
SEAN: Look, I still say it's a good PR move. I mean, we're gonna be dumping some dead weight soon anyway, this'll really get the fans on our side coming out of the gate.
MICKEY: This guy's 75-years-old! Man's got no tread left on his tires!
SEAN: You trying to make a cheap 'Cash for Clunker' joke, Mickey?
MICKEY: For fuck's sake, Sean, the guy's a walking pandemic. If he comes onboard and shanks an easy field goal, Jim Henderson might have an aneurysm live on the air!
(The Carney stands up and coughs.)
THE CARNEY: Oh guys, by the way, if you do want to sign me, I'm gonna need the following prescriptions filled immediately: Lexapro, Plavix, Fosamax, Flomax, Viagra, Lantus, Concerta, Glycolax, and Yaz.
SEAN: Jeez.
MICKEY: I stand by my previous statement of "Fuck," Coach. Your move.
(Ed. note: These little vignettes are inspired by the guys at KSK. Just wanted to make sure I'm covering my bases.)
SEAN: Well, Mickey, I think we bought some goodwill from the fans with this one.
MICKEY: I don't know how much goodwill, per say, but it should make a few folks happy.
SEAN: Are you kidding, Mickey? This is a fantastic thing we're doing here! I already expressed regret to the public about letting him go, now we get to bring him back for the possibility of playing again! I dropped him for a guy who couldn't consistently make field goals for us.
MICKEY: You mean Taylor Mehlhaff?
SEAN: No, the other guy.
MICKEY: Oh, Martin Gramatica?
SEAN: No. The OTHER guy.
MICKEY: Wait, you mean Garrett?
SEAN: Shut up, Mickey. Can we not talk about him right now? I'm talking about Olindo Mare.
MICKEY: Hey, I'd almost forgotten all about him. Man, I can't believe we brought that guy onboard just for an extra five or ten yards on kickoffs.
SEAN: Tell me about it.
MICKEY: I mean, yeah, we had a Pro Bowl-caliber kicker on our roster who was getting up in age but could still make just about everything from inside 40, and we let him go.
SEAN: Yeah, yeah, yeah...thanks a bunch for reminding me, Mickey.
MICKEY: Still...it has been two years since he played with us. I hope he still has it...
SEAN: Oh, come on, this is a can't lose situation for us. He went to the Pro Bowl last year!
(The office phone rings. Sean Payton hits a button to answer it.)
SEAN: Yes?
VOICE: Mr. Payton, a Mr. John Carney is here to see you.
SEAN: Good, send him in.
(Sean Payton hits another button to hang the phone up.)
MICKEY: Do you want to do all the talking?
SEAN: No, feel free to jump in.
(Door opens. Creepy music flows in.)
THE CARNEY: Well, hello there, youngins! Mind if I set me on this chair a spell? My sacroiliac been acting up again...
SEAN: Uh, hi John...Um, how've you been?
THE CARNEY: Oh, don't get me started, Coach. I got the gout, the droopsies, I'm going to the bathroom four or five times a night, vision in my left eye is kinda blurry, I
SEAN: But...uh...your legs and feet are okay though?
THE CARNEY: Oh, sure, I'm just as viral as ever below the waist, coach.
SEAN: I think you meant "virile." John.
THE CARNEY: I'm sorry, what? Can't hear so good outta my ears these days.
MICKEY: (Shakes head) Fuck. Um, Coach Payton, could I have a word with you?
SEAN: Sure. John, would you mind giving us a minute of privacy?
THE CARNEY: Certainly. I'll just turn off my hearing aids. And if you can turn your backs if you're worried I might be lip reading.
MICKEY: Thanks, John.
(Mickey and Sean turn their backs to The Carney and have a private conversation.)
SEAN: Look, I still say it's a good PR move. I mean, we're gonna be dumping some dead weight soon anyway, this'll really get the fans on our side coming out of the gate.
MICKEY: This guy's 75-years-old! Man's got no tread left on his tires!
SEAN: You trying to make a cheap 'Cash for Clunker' joke, Mickey?
MICKEY: For fuck's sake, Sean, the guy's a walking pandemic. If he comes onboard and shanks an easy field goal, Jim Henderson might have an aneurysm live on the air!
(The Carney stands up and coughs.)
THE CARNEY: Oh guys, by the way, if you do want to sign me, I'm gonna need the following prescriptions filled immediately: Lexapro, Plavix, Fosamax, Flomax, Viagra, Lantus, Concerta, Glycolax, and Yaz.
SEAN: Jeez.
MICKEY: I stand by my previous statement of "Fuck," Coach. Your move.
(Ed. note: These little vignettes are inspired by the guys at KSK. Just wanted to make sure I'm covering my bases.)
Sunday, August 9, 2009
J-Shock loves him some "Shark Week"
(Scene: Jeremy Shockey is sitting on his plush pleather couch watching Discovery Channel. He's got a few guests with him. As usual, Motley Crue is on in the background.)
SHOCKEY: Fuckin' Shark Week's on, people, look alive!
(Shockey proceeds to turn the volume up on his 90-inch HD television and switch on the surround sound.)
SHOCKEY: I swear, this is like the greatest week of the year, far as I'm concerned! Ain't that right, Malcolm?
MALCOLM: ...
SHOCKEY: Whatever, bro. Jon, you know what I'm talkin' 'bout, right?
GRUDEN: You're GODDAMN right Shark Week is awesome, J-Shock! My favorite part is when the sharks go "GAAAAA" with their mouths and they just "SPLOSH" on them seals and the seals are all like, "Don't eat me" but the sharks are like, "I'm gonna eat you anyway!!!" If I weren't doing Monday Night Football this year, I'd go work on Discovery so I could go uppercut some sharks in the taint!!!
SHOCKEY: Sweet, yo.
GRUDEN: By the way, thanks for inviting me over.
SHOCKEY: Don't mention it, Coach Chucky. What were you in town for anyways?
GRUDEN: Uh, I was at training camp.
SHOCKEY: ... Really?
GRUDEN: Yeah. Met with Coach Payton and everything.
SHOCKEY: Fuck, I must've missed it, dude.
GRUDEN: I shook your hand and everything. You said "hi, good to have you out here."
SHOCKEY: Oh, I was hung over, brosef. I was out getting ma drink on with a fine lady. Here, look...
GRUDEN: Well...I'm not your coach, so far be it from me to tell you what to do.
SHOCKEY: Hey, Malcolm, what-choo think about this chick, huh?
MALCOLM: ...
SHOCKEY: Ah, fuck off. Hey, Gregg, whatta you think?
MORSTEAD: Uh, it's Thomas, Mr. J-Shock. Not "Gregg." And that woman's showing her underpants in that picture. I don't think that's very lady like.
SHOCKEY: Christ, sake, punt-boy! You're coming off like some pussy ass blue shark. Know what a blue shark is, Tom? It combs the oceans lazily and is a tiny-ass little fish. Fucker looks like it's gonna cry all the damn time!
SHOCKEY: You wanna be that guy, Tom?
MORSTEAD: Golly, no, sir.
GRUDEN: Good, son, cause nobody likes a pussy. "Some" pussy, maybe; but "a" pussy. Got it?
MORSTEAD: I think so...
SHOCKEY: Shit, Coach Chucky, you're my kinda dude!
GRUDEN: Thanks, J-Shock. Hey, what's your favorite kinda shark, man?
SHOCKEY: Dude, you even HAVE to ASK? Motherfuckin' great white shark, dude!
SHOCKEY: Yep, ol' number 88 is a regular sexual great white shark! What kinda shark you like, Coach?
GRUDEN: Oh, same thing as you; I'm a great white fan.
SHOCKEY: Wait, are we talking about the band or the shark?
GRUDEN: The shark.
SHOCKEY: Oh. Hey, Malcolm, what's your favorite shark?
MALCOLM: My agent has advised me not to say or do anything until he gives me the okay.
(Jeremy Shockey throws a couch pillow at Malcolm.)
SHOCKEY: Oh, for fuck's sake, man! You're allowed to function as a fucking person in the meantime, twat waffle! So quit fucking holdin' out here and get in the conversation!
MALCOLM: Uh...I like...I can't make up my mind. I dunno.
GRUDEN: Whatever, young gun. Hey, punt-boy, whatta you like?
MORSTEAD: Me? Oh, I like the cat shark.
GRUDEN: Oh, cat shark, like this?
SHOCKEY: Kinda small, ain't it?
MORSTEAD: No, guys. THIS is a cat shark....
GRUDEN: Holy fuck, my eyes!
SHOCKEY: Sonnuva bitch, punt-boy, I'm gonna have nightmares for a week! Malcolm, ain't that gross?
MALCOLM: ...
MORSTEAD: What? Oh, here comes another shark attack victims show!!
(Ed. note: These little vignettes are inspired by the guys at KSK. Just wanted to make sure I'm covering my bases.)
SHOCKEY: Fuckin' Shark Week's on, people, look alive!
(Shockey proceeds to turn the volume up on his 90-inch HD television and switch on the surround sound.)
SHOCKEY: I swear, this is like the greatest week of the year, far as I'm concerned! Ain't that right, Malcolm?
MALCOLM: ...
SHOCKEY: Whatever, bro. Jon, you know what I'm talkin' 'bout, right?
GRUDEN: You're GODDAMN right Shark Week is awesome, J-Shock! My favorite part is when the sharks go "GAAAAA" with their mouths and they just "SPLOSH" on them seals and the seals are all like, "Don't eat me" but the sharks are like, "I'm gonna eat you anyway!!!" If I weren't doing Monday Night Football this year, I'd go work on Discovery so I could go uppercut some sharks in the taint!!!
SHOCKEY: Sweet, yo.
GRUDEN: By the way, thanks for inviting me over.
SHOCKEY: Don't mention it, Coach Chucky. What were you in town for anyways?
GRUDEN: Uh, I was at training camp.
SHOCKEY: ... Really?
GRUDEN: Yeah. Met with Coach Payton and everything.
SHOCKEY: Fuck, I must've missed it, dude.
GRUDEN: I shook your hand and everything. You said "hi, good to have you out here."
SHOCKEY: Oh, I was hung over, brosef. I was out getting ma drink on with a fine lady. Here, look...
GRUDEN: Well...I'm not your coach, so far be it from me to tell you what to do.
SHOCKEY: Hey, Malcolm, what-choo think about this chick, huh?
MALCOLM: ...
SHOCKEY: Ah, fuck off. Hey, Gregg, whatta you think?
MORSTEAD: Uh, it's Thomas, Mr. J-Shock. Not "Gregg." And that woman's showing her underpants in that picture. I don't think that's very lady like.
SHOCKEY: Christ, sake, punt-boy! You're coming off like some pussy ass blue shark. Know what a blue shark is, Tom? It combs the oceans lazily and is a tiny-ass little fish. Fucker looks like it's gonna cry all the damn time!
SHOCKEY: You wanna be that guy, Tom?
MORSTEAD: Golly, no, sir.
GRUDEN: Good, son, cause nobody likes a pussy. "Some" pussy, maybe; but "a" pussy. Got it?
MORSTEAD: I think so...
SHOCKEY: Shit, Coach Chucky, you're my kinda dude!
GRUDEN: Thanks, J-Shock. Hey, what's your favorite kinda shark, man?
SHOCKEY: Dude, you even HAVE to ASK? Motherfuckin' great white shark, dude!
SHOCKEY: Yep, ol' number 88 is a regular sexual great white shark! What kinda shark you like, Coach?
GRUDEN: Oh, same thing as you; I'm a great white fan.
SHOCKEY: Wait, are we talking about the band or the shark?
GRUDEN: The shark.
SHOCKEY: Oh. Hey, Malcolm, what's your favorite shark?
MALCOLM: My agent has advised me not to say or do anything until he gives me the okay.
(Jeremy Shockey throws a couch pillow at Malcolm.)
SHOCKEY: Oh, for fuck's sake, man! You're allowed to function as a fucking person in the meantime, twat waffle! So quit fucking holdin' out here and get in the conversation!
MALCOLM: Uh...I like...I can't make up my mind. I dunno.
GRUDEN: Whatever, young gun. Hey, punt-boy, whatta you like?
MORSTEAD: Me? Oh, I like the cat shark.
GRUDEN: Oh, cat shark, like this?
SHOCKEY: Kinda small, ain't it?
MORSTEAD: No, guys. THIS is a cat shark....
GRUDEN: Holy fuck, my eyes!
SHOCKEY: Sonnuva bitch, punt-boy, I'm gonna have nightmares for a week! Malcolm, ain't that gross?
MALCOLM: ...
MORSTEAD: What? Oh, here comes another shark attack victims show!!
(Ed. note: These little vignettes are inspired by the guys at KSK. Just wanted to make sure I'm covering my bases.)
Sunday, August 2, 2009
The Shockmeister knows how to get his "relax" on...
From the Twitter of one Jeremy Shockey:
just got back from Russian bath house in miami beach... going to eat then prob movie
6:34 PM Jul 8th from web
Here, now, a brief vignette from that visit...
(Scene: A Russian bath house along Miami Beach. 9 p.m. "The Shockmeister" is wearing a towel, seated in one corner of a large steam room with another similarly dressed Saints player.)
JEREMY: Dude, I wanna thank y'all for coming out and being a true dude. I wanted to get Reggie out here and celebrate his emancipation from that big-assed broad of his, but now I hear he's seeing some Spanish chick?
JEREMY: I mean, she's "kinda cute" I guess--J. Shock has had better and all--but this is supposed to be a "Bros before Hoes" sitch-e-ation, am I right, Gregg?
MORSTEAD: Actually, I'm Tom, Mr. Shockey. Thomas Morstead, to be more precise. I think you have me confused with someone else.
JEREMY: Quit fuckin' around, brosef, you're the punter! Ya sure as shit ain't big enough to be banging bodies on the field with the Shockmeister! What else could ya be?
MORSTEAD: Well, yes, sir, I'm the punter, but the guy you're talking about is Glenn Pakulak. "Glenn," sir, not "Gregg."
JEREMY: All right, fuck, I'm sorry. I gotta try and remember. It's "Glenn" and not "Gregg." Right. Sorry, bro-ham.
MORSTEAD: No, sir, it's, uh, "Tom." I'm "Tom."
JEREMY: Tom, Glenn, Gregg, whatever; point is, you came out to relax with the Shockmeister. That says a lot. Fuckin' Drew Brees gets invited to be part of some USO show for the troops. Fuck, ain't they seen my sweet tattoos of the bald eagle and American flag, Glenn? Shit, I even got a new one of Captain America fucking Hitler in the ass!! Literally. He's fucking Hitler in the ass.
(Morstead nods politely.)
MORSTEAD: Um, sounds pretty graphic, sir. How much did you spend on that?
JEREMY: Two grand. But it's worth it. Now e'ry time the Shockmeister takes off his pants in the club, them ladies know what I'm about.
(Morstead looks around nervously.)
MORSTEAD: Um, Mr. Shockey?
JEREMY: For shit's sake, Glenn, we bros. Call me "J. Shock."
MORSTEAD: Sorry. Um, J-Shock?
JEREMY: Yeah?
MORSTEAD: You don't think this place is a little strange for us, do you?
JEREMY: No. Why? You got a problem with it?
MORSTEAD: Well...
MORSTEAD: That man is touching the other's man, uh...penis.
SHOCKEY: Oh, fuck off, dude! He's just sudsing up his taint, man. Shit's normal. Ain't nothing "ghey" about this place. Just a bunch of dudes relaxing and chilling out and stuff. Nah, it's only ghey if you're doing it in the privacy of your own home and shit. If you're doing it in front of other people like this, it ain't ghey. It's like saying, "I'm so fucking awesome that I can totally let this dude rub ma junk and not be worried 'bout it." It's pretty fucking sweet if you ask me.
MORSTEAD: Okay, Mr. Shock--Oops, I mean, J. Shock.
SHOCKEY: Now let me tell you 'bout the time I got me a massage at this other place. I know what you're thinking: yeah, it was "with release," but hear me out...
MORSTEAD: Holy shit!!! What the fuck is going on there?!?!
JEREMY: Fuck's sake, Glenn! Act like you been here before or something! Don't tell me you never seen a dude get knifed in a bath house, huh?
MORSTEAD: Uh, no, J-Shock, sorry. That's not "how I roll." Holy crap, what's going on now?
JEREMY: Shit just got real, brosef. Come on, we better sneak outta here before they notice us.
(Morstead and the Shockmeister are in the locker room changing into their street clothes.)
MORSTEAD: Yeah, so thanks for inviting me out, J-Shock.
JEREMY: Hey, us bros gots to stick together, especially with training camp right around the corner. You look out for me...I look out for you.
MORSTEAD: Okay, well, I'm...holy living fuck!! What the fuck is that?!?!?
JEREMY: Dude, it's fucking Joe DiMaggio, what? Big deal? I fought a whole fucking army of zombies about a month ago. You worried about ghosts?
DIMAGGIO: Sorry to startle you, young man. Here, have a coffee maker.
MORSTEAD: Oh, God. Um...listen, I gotta go. I'll see you in a couple days, Jeremy. Bye...
(Morstead clears out his locker and hurries off, leaving the Shockmeister and the Ghost of Joe DiMaggio behind.)
JEREMY: So after I get dressed, you wanna hit up South Beach and tag team a broad?
DIMAGGIO: Only if I bat lead-off this time. I am NOT following your sloppy ass after what happened a few weeks ago.
(EPILOGUE: Morstead is back at his apartment in New Orleans the next day, seated on a pleather couch and listening to Andrew Lloyd Weber's soundtrack for "Cats." He opens up a bottle of Zima and sighs.)
MORSTEAD: Man, oh man...what am I going to do? If I can't hang out with Mr. Shockey, what's going to happen when training camp starts? What if he tells everybody that I can't handle some joshing around? And how can I possibly handle showering with the team NOW? I just saw Joe DiMaggio's dead wang not but three hours ago!! The guys are going to think something's funny with me for sure! Golly, I don't know what I'm gonna do?
(Morstead looks up at a massive 8' x 12' poster on his wall.)
MORSTEAD: Thanks, kitty. I think I will hang in there. Time for bed!
just got back from Russian bath house in miami beach... going to eat then prob movie
6:34 PM Jul 8th from web
Here, now, a brief vignette from that visit...
(Scene: A Russian bath house along Miami Beach. 9 p.m. "The Shockmeister" is wearing a towel, seated in one corner of a large steam room with another similarly dressed Saints player.)
JEREMY: Dude, I wanna thank y'all for coming out and being a true dude. I wanted to get Reggie out here and celebrate his emancipation from that big-assed broad of his, but now I hear he's seeing some Spanish chick?
JEREMY: I mean, she's "kinda cute" I guess--J. Shock has had better and all--but this is supposed to be a "Bros before Hoes" sitch-e-ation, am I right, Gregg?
MORSTEAD: Actually, I'm Tom, Mr. Shockey. Thomas Morstead, to be more precise. I think you have me confused with someone else.
JEREMY: Quit fuckin' around, brosef, you're the punter! Ya sure as shit ain't big enough to be banging bodies on the field with the Shockmeister! What else could ya be?
MORSTEAD: Well, yes, sir, I'm the punter, but the guy you're talking about is Glenn Pakulak. "Glenn," sir, not "Gregg."
JEREMY: All right, fuck, I'm sorry. I gotta try and remember. It's "Glenn" and not "Gregg." Right. Sorry, bro-ham.
MORSTEAD: No, sir, it's, uh, "Tom." I'm "Tom."
JEREMY: Tom, Glenn, Gregg, whatever; point is, you came out to relax with the Shockmeister. That says a lot. Fuckin' Drew Brees gets invited to be part of some USO show for the troops. Fuck, ain't they seen my sweet tattoos of the bald eagle and American flag, Glenn? Shit, I even got a new one of Captain America fucking Hitler in the ass!! Literally. He's fucking Hitler in the ass.
(Morstead nods politely.)
MORSTEAD: Um, sounds pretty graphic, sir. How much did you spend on that?
JEREMY: Two grand. But it's worth it. Now e'ry time the Shockmeister takes off his pants in the club, them ladies know what I'm about.
(Morstead looks around nervously.)
MORSTEAD: Um, Mr. Shockey?
JEREMY: For shit's sake, Glenn, we bros. Call me "J. Shock."
MORSTEAD: Sorry. Um, J-Shock?
JEREMY: Yeah?
MORSTEAD: You don't think this place is a little strange for us, do you?
JEREMY: No. Why? You got a problem with it?
MORSTEAD: Well...
MORSTEAD: That man is touching the other's man, uh...penis.
SHOCKEY: Oh, fuck off, dude! He's just sudsing up his taint, man. Shit's normal. Ain't nothing "ghey" about this place. Just a bunch of dudes relaxing and chilling out and stuff. Nah, it's only ghey if you're doing it in the privacy of your own home and shit. If you're doing it in front of other people like this, it ain't ghey. It's like saying, "I'm so fucking awesome that I can totally let this dude rub ma junk and not be worried 'bout it." It's pretty fucking sweet if you ask me.
MORSTEAD: Okay, Mr. Shock--Oops, I mean, J. Shock.
SHOCKEY: Now let me tell you 'bout the time I got me a massage at this other place. I know what you're thinking: yeah, it was "with release," but hear me out...
MORSTEAD: Holy shit!!! What the fuck is going on there?!?!
JEREMY: Fuck's sake, Glenn! Act like you been here before or something! Don't tell me you never seen a dude get knifed in a bath house, huh?
MORSTEAD: Uh, no, J-Shock, sorry. That's not "how I roll." Holy crap, what's going on now?
JEREMY: Shit just got real, brosef. Come on, we better sneak outta here before they notice us.
(Morstead and the Shockmeister are in the locker room changing into their street clothes.)
MORSTEAD: Yeah, so thanks for inviting me out, J-Shock.
JEREMY: Hey, us bros gots to stick together, especially with training camp right around the corner. You look out for me...I look out for you.
MORSTEAD: Okay, well, I'm...holy living fuck!! What the fuck is that?!?!?
JEREMY: Dude, it's fucking Joe DiMaggio, what? Big deal? I fought a whole fucking army of zombies about a month ago. You worried about ghosts?
DIMAGGIO: Sorry to startle you, young man. Here, have a coffee maker.
MORSTEAD: Oh, God. Um...listen, I gotta go. I'll see you in a couple days, Jeremy. Bye...
(Morstead clears out his locker and hurries off, leaving the Shockmeister and the Ghost of Joe DiMaggio behind.)
JEREMY: So after I get dressed, you wanna hit up South Beach and tag team a broad?
DIMAGGIO: Only if I bat lead-off this time. I am NOT following your sloppy ass after what happened a few weeks ago.
(EPILOGUE: Morstead is back at his apartment in New Orleans the next day, seated on a pleather couch and listening to Andrew Lloyd Weber's soundtrack for "Cats." He opens up a bottle of Zima and sighs.)
MORSTEAD: Man, oh man...what am I going to do? If I can't hang out with Mr. Shockey, what's going to happen when training camp starts? What if he tells everybody that I can't handle some joshing around? And how can I possibly handle showering with the team NOW? I just saw Joe DiMaggio's dead wang not but three hours ago!! The guys are going to think something's funny with me for sure! Golly, I don't know what I'm gonna do?
(Morstead looks up at a massive 8' x 12' poster on his wall.)
MORSTEAD: Thanks, kitty. I think I will hang in there. Time for bed!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)