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?


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: 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!

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