A teammate's last second plea to Drew Brees...

SCENE: Cafe Du Monde - DAY

(Dozens of people are seated in the Cafe, stuffing their faces with inferior beignets and coffee.  Those that aren't are staring toward a back corner, where Drew Brees is talking with his agent.)

BREES: I feel weird being out in public like this.  I mean, we're a week away from the deadline.

AGENT: Yeah...

BREES: It's like they're undressing me with their eyes or something.

AGENT: Uh-huh, dreadful thing, that.

BREES: Arliss, are you even paying attention to me???

ARLISS: Why sure, my good boy!  I was just admiring a spider that was crawling along the floor over there.  To have THAT many legs is a sure sign of evolutionary superiority!

BREES: Uh, yeah, whatever.  Why do we have to be out here?

ARLISS: My boy, have you not forgotten or potential Jimmy John's deal?  If we play our cards right and can make ourselves visible in the French Quarter, we'll get a sandwich kiosk near Jackson Square.  Ha!  We'll even hire a temperamental fat bearded guy who looks like that schlub from that book everyone around here adores!!!

BREES: You mean 'Confederacy of Dunces'?

ARLISS (slams fist on table): Exactly!  It'll be a hoot!!  These saps will eat that right up, on top of our delicious Jimmy John's sandwiches, of course.  We run the kiosk for a few months, then we goto the city council again and talk about getting a permanent location in the French Quarter!!

BREES: I wish we'd gone to Morning Call, honestly.  And...Shouldn't we at least wait to talk expansion until after our first Jimmy John's opens and is proven successful?  Seems kinda ridiculous to start making future plans when we haven't done anything yet.

ARLISS: Nonsense, my boy!  We must strike whilst the iron is hot!  That's your problem, Drew.  Always waiting to attend to your deals.

BREES: What do you mean?

ARLISS: We could've had this Saints contract business taken care of last year, but no, you didn't want to be aggressive enough in getting one done.  I could've kept pushing them during the season, but you were all, "let's not cause a distraction."  And you thought, "surely, they'll have to give me a great deal!  I won a Super Bowl here and just broke one of the few NFL records people actually give a damn about, so they'll HAVE to reward me."  How's that working out for you?

BREES: Isn't this what I hired you for?

ARLISS: Of course!  And you also hired me to protect the Brees Brand!

BREES: My "brand"?

ARLISS: Absolutely.  I'm going to single-handedly take care of all your needs with this contract.  That's why it's taking so long.

BREES: Yeah, but do we really have to take this to the 11th hour?  The arbitrator ruled in my favor, so we should just get a deal done.  The fans need some really good news to offset everything this offseason...

(Arliss reaches under the table and pulls out a plush.)

ARLISS: Do you see this grave injustice!

BREES: It's a stuffed toy of me.

ARLISS: You?  That's supposed to be you???  How do you expect to be taken seriously and respected when these toy makers can't even get a good likeness of you???

BREES: It's really not that back of a deal, Arliss.  I just want to play football.

ARLISS: See, this is what I'm talking about.  I had to pull you into the sandwich business and now I'm going to have to pull you into the personal branding business.  This is where the big bucks are!

BREES: What's this got to do with my football contract?

ARLISS: We get these toys to actually look like you.  Listen, I know a guy who used to make the old WWF Wrestling Buddies...

BREES: At least they got the birthmark right, Arliss.

ARLISS: Bah!

BREES: And why are we asking for so much money on this contract?  Isn't $100 million over 4 years a little much?

ARLISS: Nonsense.  Do you think my wheelchair will grow mechanical legs on its own?  No, those cost a lot of money.

(A football crashes on the table, sending the coffee and poorly made beignets up into the air and on the floor.)

ARLISS: What the what???

MORSTEAD: Enough!

(Morstead walks over to the table and sets down between Arliss and Brees.)

ARLISS: What is the meaning of this?!?

MORSTEAD: Oh, you hush, you.  Drew, you gotta get this contract thing taken care of!  I came all the way back from vacation home in Kathmandu to plead with you!

BREES: We're working on that, Thomas.  There's a lot of negotiating that has to be handled, certain qualifiers have to be met...

MORSTEAD: Fiddlesticks, Drew!  Fiddlesticks, I say!!  Don't you love it here???  Aren't the fans good to you?

BREES: Well, yeah...

MORSTEAD: And won't they elect you mayor someday down the road?

BREES: Well, sure, but...

MORSTEAD: So sign the deal and stay with us.

ARLISS: Do you have ANY idea what this man is worth on the open market, punter boy?

BREES: Open market?

ARLISS: Sure!  If the Saints don't acquiesce to ALL our demands, you'll sit out for the year and we'll find you another team.


BREES: But I don't want to play for another team.


ARLISS: The Dallas Cowboys would pay you a lot of money...


(Morstead digs into his pocket and pulls out a roll of hundred dollar bills.)


MORSTEAD: Here.


BREES: What's this?


MORSTEAD: My cats got together and raised some cash for you to show how much they care.


BREES: Wait.  Your "cats" got the money?  Or did your CATS get the money?


MORSTEAD: My cats, Drew.  Duh.


BREES: Oooookay.

ARLISS: Drew, send this man away!  We need to draft a statement explaining why you're sitting out for the year...


BREES: No!  Fuck the Dallas Cowboys, fuck Jerry Jones, and fuck you, Mr. Arliss!  I'll get this deal done myself!


(Morstead shoves Arliss' wheelchair into the path of an oncoming horse-drawn carriage.)


MORSTEAD: Way to go, Drew!  C'mon, I'll take you to Morning Call.


BREES: Huzzah!

LATER.... MORSTEAD's APARTMENT - NIGHT

MORSTEAD: Well, that was a close one.  Mr. Drew got on the phone with Mr. Benson and they hashed out a nice contract.

Aren't you glad daddy was able to help, Mew Brees?

MEW: Meow.

You can HAVE Megatron, Lions fans...

We've got "LEGatron" bitches!

Shockmeister! Puntmaster! The Return!!

EXT. French Quarter -- NIGHT

(Jeremy Shockey and Thomas Morstead are walking down Dauphine street, drinks in hand. Shockey's double fisting 'hurricanes' while Morstead sips on a Mike's Hard Lemonade.)


SHOCKMEISTER: Dude, you know fucking gheys drink that, right?


MORSTEAD: Come on, it's good stuff, Jerm!

SHOCKMEISTER: I told you not to call me that in public!!!

MORSTEAD: Sorry. Well, look, if this bothers you that much I can just get a Smirnoff Ice whenever we get where we're going.

(Shockey stops and glares at Morstead.)

SHOCKMEISTER: You go to USC...brah?

MORSTEAD: No.

SHOCKMEISTER: Unless the word "vodka" immediately follows it, I don't want to hear you say the word "Smirnoff" again, okay?

MORSTEAD: (sheepishly hangs his head) Yes, sir...

SHOCKMEISTER: How's the arm?

MORSTEAD: You mean shoulder.

SHOCKMEISTER: Arm. Shoulder. Whatever. You feeling better?

MORSTEAD: Yeah...

SHOCKMEISTER: Good. You're gonna need that shoulder to function.

MORSTEAD: Why?


SHOCKMEISTER: Cause we gonna be swimming in pussy TO-NIGHT!!!!

MORSTEAD: Sheesh...So is this place we're going to that awesome?

SHOCKMEISTER: Puntmaster, I already told you...the chicks in this place are fucking smoking! They got FDP's there!

MORSTEAD: (Pause.) Fast Double Penetration?

SHOCKMEISTER: Lay off the Naughty America account, man! Shit, you ever think THAT'S how you injured your shoulder?! FDP means Flaming Dr. Pepper. They pour liquor and Dr. Pepper in a glass and light it on fire. You drink it. It's fucking sweeeeet!

MORSTEAD: And you promised arcade games, right?

SHOCKMEISTER: (Face palms.) Yeah, Puntmaster, they got arcade machines. All your classics. Pac-Man, Galaga, RBI Baseball.

MORSTEAD: Burger Time?

SHOCKMEISTER: (Double face palms.) Who the fuck plays Burger Time?

MORSTEAD: Hey, you want me to tell the guys you love playing Dance, Dance, Revolution?

SHOCKMEISTER: I was trying to get in a chick's panties! She wanted to play!!

MORSTEAD: They got Burger Time or not?

SHOCKMEISTER: Yeah.

MORSTEAD: Awesome!

(Morstead and Shockey continue walking along Dauphine until they come to a club at on St. Peters. There is a long line and a bouncer at the door. The two wait patiently in line and finish their drinks of choice. Shockey gets three phone numbers. Morstead opens up a roll of quarters. The two finally get to the front of the line.)


BOUNCER: Seven bucks apiece, gents.

SHOCKMEISTER: What the fuck? It used to be five.

BOUNCER: They changed it.

SHOCKMEISTER: Obviously. Why?

BOUNCER: Cause they wanted to? You wanna come in or not?

MORSTEAD: Let's just pay the man and get inside, I can hear Burger Time calling my name.

SHOCKMEISTER: Whatever...

BOUNCER: That's right.

(Shockey and Morstead each cough up the seven bucks to get in. The club is crawling with hot chicks and douche bags.)

SHOCKMEISTER: This place is douche-baggey-er than I remembered.

MORSTEAD: You haven't been here in a while?

SHOCKMEISTER: Not since early 2009. Used to be able to get in for five bucks.

MORSTEAD: Don't sweat it. Let's get a tab going and start playing some games!

SHOCKMEISTER: You can play your fruity Burger Time, I'm gonna try and get this DJ to quit playing everything just slightly faster than normal. It's fucking annoying and lame.

(Morstead walks up to the bar while Shockmeister goes to the DJ booth.)

MORSTEAD: Can I open a tab?

BARTENDER: WHAT?!?

MORSTEAD: CAN I OPEN A TAB?!?

BARTENDER: YEAH, SURE. $25 MINIMUM!!

MORSTEAD: WHY?!?

BARTENDER: CAUSE I SAID SO! THAT'S THE RULES!!

MORSTEAD: FINE.

(Morstead hands over his credit card with the kitties on it.)

MORSTEAD: I'D LIKE TO GET TWO FLAMING DR. PEPPERS!

BARTENDER: $20 BUCKS!

MORSTEAD: HAS IT ALWAYS BEEN THAT MUCH?!?

BARTENDER: YEAH.

MORSTEAD: OKAY...

(Bartender pours the FDPs. Morstead turns around and sees Shockmeister with a pissed off look on his face.)

MORSTEAD: What?

SHOCKMEISTER: Fucking DJ won't fix this shit. He said, "the chicks dig it, so I ain't changing it." Fuck sticks!


MORSTEAD: Did you know the Flaming Dr. Peppers are $10 a piece?

SHOCKMEISTER: No. They used to be like five or six bucks when I was last here.

MORSTEAD: Guy said it's always been like this.

SHOCKMEISTER: This is some serious fucking bullshit!

MORSTEAD: Hey, I'm gonna go find the Burger Time machine. You gonna be okay?

SHOCKMEISTER: Yeah, yeah.

(Morstead wanders off through the crowd while Shockey stews. The Shockmeister shakes his head in disgust as another Kanye West song is ruined. About two minutes later, Shockey hears a bloodcurdling scream from near the bathrooms. Shockey runs over and finds Morstead sobbing.)

SHOCKMEISTER: What? What?? WHAT???

MORSTEAD: (pointing) Look at the Burger Time machine!!!


SHOCKMEISTER: Oh, shit. They're all out.

MORSTEAD: Guy said they've been broke for months and the manager won't pay to get 'em fixed! Oh God...(sobs more) Where will I get my Excitebike fix now?!?

SHOCKMEISTER: I'm sorry, Puntmaster.

MORSTEAD: (wiping tears) Ugh, it's okay...let's just get outta here.

(The two walk back to their FDP's at the bar.)

MORSTEAD: I'd like to close out, please...

BARTENDER: 25 BUCKS, DUDE! I ALREADY TOLD YOU THAT!!

(Morstead clutches at his glass until it shatters in his hand. He grabs Shockey's glass and flings it across the bar, spraying fire onto a wall and burning several arcade machines.)

MORSTEAD: I'VE HAD ALLS I CAN STANDS AND I CAN'T STANDS NO MORE!!!

(Morstead becomes a whirling dervish of kicking and screaming as he busts up the nightclub. Minutes later, Shockey and Morstead are walking up Dauphine as the part of the nightclub burns.)

SHOCKMEISTER: Tell me that did not just happen...

MORSTEAD: I left my credit card in there, didn't I?

Origin Story: Thomas Morstead

SUPER BOWL MEDIA DAY.

(Saints players are being interviewed by dozens of members of the media. A small cluster of reporters is gathered around Puntmaster Flex, Thomas Morstead.)


TOMMY: Wow, I didn't really expect to get this much attention from you guys.


STINK: Thomas, you've played an important role in the team's success, and you've done so with very little fanfare. Your kickoffs have often pinned opponents deep in their own territory or you've gotten the touchback uncontested. Your punts allow Coach Payton some safety in saying, "let's put the defense out there and see what it can do."

TOMMY: Okay, so what's your question?

STINK: I didn't really have a question. I just wanted to state something very obvious so I'd come off as knowledgeable about the game.

TOMMY: Oh. Well, does anyone have a question...?

REPORTER: Yes, Thomas! When did you really decide to become a punter?

TOMMY: (rubs 3 o'clock shadow on his chin) Hmmmm....

FADE TO:



Date: September 1997
Place: The rolling plains of Pearland, Texas

EXT. Country House -- Day

(Three kids are tossing a football around down the driveway, about 20 yards away from a ranch-style home. One of the kids catches the pass thrown to him, turns around, and punts the ball high into the air...and it sails into a skylight on the home. The other two kids scatter at the sound of the broken glass. The kid who punted the ball stands still, hanging his head. A man, the boy's father, comes running out the house.)


DAD: You kicked the ball again, didn't you?!? DIDN'T YOU?!?

BOY: Yes, but...

(The dad wallops the boy upside his head.)

DAD: We don't kick balls in this house, unless it's for fighting purposes, you got that?!?

BOY: (meekly) Yes, sir.

DAD: My kids will THROW the goddamn ball! And they'll throw it as hard as I damn well tell them to!! You understand me, Tommy?!?


TOMMY: (nearly sobbing) But I wanna be a PUNTER, dad!!

DAD: Punter?!? I didn't raise no goddamn punter!!! Your mother! She's been coddling you too damn much!! She's entertaining these flights of pussy-dom in my house! I swear, if it were up to me, I'd have torn up that subscription to Cat Fancy when it first came in!! The fuck kinda kid reads a cat magazine anyway?!? A fucking mealy-mouthed punter, that's what!!

TOMMY: But I want to be a punter, dad...

DAD: You'll do no such thing! I'm raising a big, strong free safety! The kinda guy who'll knock mother fuckers on their sorry asses, force fumbles and score all sorts of pussy!! You wanna score all sorts of pussy, dontcha, Tommy?

TOMMY: Dad, I'm 11.

DAD: Fuck difference does THAT make?!? You're a MORSTEAD!!

TOMMY: But dad, I really admire what Ray Guy did in the NFL...

DAD: Ray Guy? You mean Ray GAY!!!! (laughs uncontrollably for 20 seconds.) See what I did there, Tommy? (elbows son in the shoulder repeatedly.) Huh? You see?!? I made fun of his last name and called him "gay" cause he's a fucking punter!!! You want people to make fun of you?!?

TOMMY: No, but I'll be really good. Really, REALLY good at punting. Why, I could prolly get a scholarship to a Big 12 school or something...

DAD: You'll do no such thing!!! You're going to SMU and majoring in theology to become a methodist minister!!! And you're gonna be grateful for it, too!!

TOMMY: But...but...can I have my ball back?

(Dad pulls something from under his shirt.)

DAD: Oh, no, I'm not having you break another skylight. You wanna kick something again? You try kicking THIS....



DAD: You'll forget all about this punting business after your foot breaks a few times....We eat dinner in twenty minutes. Gravy and biscuits.

TOMMY: Yes, sir.

(When his dad walks in the house, Tommy turns and punts the medicine ball clear across the front lawn.)

FADE TO: Present Day


TOMMY: Well, uh, my dad was a very big influence for me....

THE END.

(Ed. note: I wanted to include a link for a story really digging into Morstead's background. His parents both played soccer and he played it too. Nice stuff.)

"There's no killing what can't be killed"

INT. SAINTS HEADQUARTERS, WAR ROOM - DAY

(Sean Payton is flipping through binders, looking at player profiles and consulting medical charts, and visiting WebMD on his computer.)


PAYTON: Blast it! I can't figure out why all our guys are getting and staying injured! Hip pointers, sports hernias, pulled groins, hamstring issues, knee trouble, foot trouble, finger sprains, if never freaking ends! There has GOT to be a reason for all of this!

(Drew Brees walks up and knocks on Payton's door frame.)

BREES: Mind if I come in, coach?

PAYTON: Damn right, I called you in here because I need to know if you've seen or heard anything from the guys about their injuries.

BREES: What do you mean, coach?

PAYTON: You know, if the guys are talking about any off field incidents involving horseplay or something. Those douchey media types are saying guys, well Jeremy in particular, are getting injured by playing grab-ass all the damn time. I want answers!

BREES: You sure you wanna know, coach? I don't know if you're ready for this...

PAYTON: (slams fist on desk) Dammit, I demand to know why my guys are falling by the wayside here! We've got ONE week to get healthy and I can't be fretting over more injuries!


BREES: Okay, coach. Follow me...

(Brees leads Coach Payton downstairs, into the hallways outside the Saints locker room.)

BREES: (Points.) There.

PAYTON: What?

BREES: There. Straight ahead...



PAYTON: What? It's behind the drink machine?

BREES: No, coach. It IS THE DRINK MACHINE.

PAYTON: What? Dammit, Drew! You got me all worked up here!! I'm thinking Shockey screwed some mobster's wife or the wiring in Lynell Hamilton's head changed and he's set to "maim" or something. The fucking vending machine's the problem?

BREES: Coach, this is no ordinary vending machine...

PAYTON: Oh, come off it!

BREES: Coach, that vending machine has a mean streak a mile wide! It can leap about (stretches arms out) ... It can swallow five men's souls and cake them in corn syrup inside of ten minutes!

PAYTON: Fuck's sake, Drew, quit screwing around!

BREES: I'm not, coach! The guys are absolutely terrified of this thing! Look, they even hired a shaman to kill it...


KING WILLIE: "You can't see the eyes of the demon, until him come callin'."

PAYTON: What? Make sense, crazy black guy.

KING WILLIE: Dis ting be evil man. Dis is dread, Coach Payton. Truly DREAD!

PAYTON: Whatever...

(Coach Payton turns around and is surprised to see The Shockmeister standing by with torches and a chainsaw.)


SHOCKMEISTER: Oh, I hope this guy works out...Fucking vending machine broke my foot!

PAYTON: I knew it! You DID break your damn foot kicking this fucking thing!

SHOCKMEISTER: Damn right I kicked it, coach! Fucking thing tried to eat me! It spit out some rancid cola at me and it hit Fujita. Gave him staph infection.

PAYTON: That's bullshit, Jeremy.

BREES: No, it's true, coach. The thing fired a can at Jabari Greer's junk and gave him that groin pain. It lunged at him and gave Greer that sports hernia, too.

SHOCKMEISTER: Marvin Mitchell's hammy, Carl Nicks' back problems, Pierre Thomas' hip issues, Ellis' knee, McCray's back, Stinchcomb's knee...ALL OF IT connected to this fucking machine.

PAYTON: So unplug it, dickheads.

SHOCKMEISTER: Ain't you seen "Big," Coach Payton?!? These demonic things don't need to be plugged in!!!

PAYTON: Well then, who brought this ghastly fucking thing in here to begin with?!?

BREES: Remember this commercial, coach...?



PAYTON: Yeah. You're telling me that's the same machine?

BREES: No, it's his cousin. Reggie ran that other machine ragged and it dropped dead of a heart attack. This thing came here for revenge.

PAYTON: So have Reggie run this one ragged, too.

SHOCKMEISTER: We tried that, coach!! Remember last year when Reggie sucked ass?!?

PAYTON: ... Uh, okay...so what time frame again?

SHOCKMEISTER: Reggie couldn't tire this one out. This one is determined to destroy us! Reggie had to go into hiding in Kim Kardashian's massive cleavage.

BREES: Oh fuck!!

(Payton turns around to see KING WILLIE get his head cut off by the angry Pepsi machine.)

PAYTON: Holy fuck! Throw the torch, Jeremy! Throw the goddamn torch at it!

SHOCKMEISTER: Coach, fire doesn't do a goddamn thing to it! It only pisses it off more!

BREES: What are we gonna do? This thing has been bad luck ever since it came here! McCray said it got him drunk last week and wouldn't get him a designated driver. And now Brunell is saying the machine stole his talent.

PAYTON: Stole his talent?

SHOCKMEISTER: Yeah, like in "Space Jam." Jesus, don't you watch any fucking movies, coach?!?

PAYTON: Enough of this bullshit. Lemme make a phone call. I know a guy...

(CUT TO: One hour later...)

PAYTON: I'm glad you could come out and help us today.


THE DANE: Gid jer fik alarmeret mig i tidligere tider Coach. (I wish you had called me earlier, Coach.)

PAYTON: Sorry about that. I just learned of this problem today.

SHOCKMEISTER: He gonna fucking handle this?!? He's fucking 50!!

PAYTON: For the record he turned 49 last August...SO THERE!!

BREES: Whatever, Coach. But how's he going to kill this thing? He can't kick hard enough to dent the hull of this beast.

THE DANE: Lave ikke bekymre , Hævede mig bekendt. Jeg har den endelig våben. (Do not worry, Drew my friend. I have the ultimate weapon.)

(The Dane pulls a large hammer from his knapsack. He holds it in front of him and chants. Lightning flashes and everyone is temporarily blinded.)

SHOCKMEISTER: What. The. Fuck?

BREES: Damn. Is that...?


THE DANE: Holde sig tilbage samtidigt med at JEG drabsmand indeværende dyr. (Stand back whilst I slay this beast.)

THE DANE: JEG landsforvise thee af Midgard igen hen til den netherworld verily! (I banish thee from Midgard back to the netherworld, verily!)

(The Dane smashes his hammer against the Pepsi machine, which promptly explodes into a thousand pieces.)

SHOCKMEISTER: Dude, can I borrow that hammer? I wanna impress this chick at a bar...

Return of the 'Magnificent Seven' (Verily.)

EXT. Saints headquarters on Airline Hwy in Metairie -- NIGHT

(Dozens of Saints fans are outside, brandishing torches and pitchforks. Somewhere, Ralph Malbrough is sharpening the guillotine.)



ANGRY MOB: grumble-grumble-grumble-blah-blah-blah! We demand blood!!! BLOOD!!!

(Inside the Saints' practice facility, Head Coach Sean Payton and kicker Garrett Hartley watch from a third floor window as the crowd gets restless.)

PAYTON: Well look at 'em, Garrett.


GARRETT: Coach, I'm sorry. I said I was sorry. I even wept to Peter Finney hoping he might be able to buy me some time, but what can I do?

PAYTON: Well, for starters we've got to take some of the fire out of that crowd. (Pushes intercom button.) Uh, Doris? Could you please dispatch 'The Shockmeister' into the crowd to sex up a bunch of the women? Thank you. (Lets go of intercom button.) That should take a lot out of them.

GARRETT: But what about the guys in the crowd?

PAYTON: Jeremy's told me he's sexed up countless married women in the Crescent City and for whatever reason, the husbands seem content to be in the room watching while it happens. Can't figure it out for the life of me. Must be those "high society" types.

GARRETT: But what if those aren't "high society" types?

PAYTON: J-Shock will sell them his used chewing tobacco, which they can turn around and sell on eBay.

GARRETT: He's got enough?


PAYTON: Did you SEE him on the sidelines during the Bucs game? The guy was stuffing it in his mouth like it was titties or something!!!

GARRETT: Okay...well then what do we do?

PAYTON: (Pushes intercom button.) Send him in, Doris. (Lets go of button.) Well, I'm sorry to have to do this to you, Garrett, but we've got put you on IR.

GARRETT: What? I'm fine! I'm healthy!!

PAYTON: Look, I'm trying to save our asses here! Do you have ANY idea how fucking frustrating it is to be haunted by a kicking problem? I've had SEVEN different guys kick for me in four years!! That shouldn't be my legacy, Garrett!

GARRETT: Seven? Really? Who'd you have?

PAYTON: John Carney, Billy Cundiff, Olindo Mare, Martin Grammatica, Taylor Mehlhaff, and you.

GARRETT: Yeah, but coach that's only six guys. Who's number seven?

(In walks a VERY old man.)


THE DANE: Hilsener, bus! (Greetings, Coach!)

GARRETT: Really?!? You're bringing back fuckin' Morten Andersen?!? Dude's gotta be in his 50s!!

PAYTON: Wrong! He turned 49 this past August, so there!

THE DANE: Jeg er bedrøvelig hen til høre om jeres skade. (I am sorry to hear about your injury.)

GARRETT: Again...WHAT injury?

PAYTON: I'm having it leaked that you ruptured something in your foot during that first field goal attempt. Since it was the last time anybody saw you kick prior to the shank, I think some people will buy it, especially when I refuse comment for a week and a half.

GARRETT: You can't do this to me!! I was 21 of 21 on field goals under 50 yards, for Christ's sake! And you're gonna replace me with the fucking Dutchman?

PAYTON: Hey, I need people to not freak out and come down and hang us all from the I-10 overpass, okay? From here on out, Morten will handle everything under 40 yards. You can do that, right Morten?

THE DANE: JEG forsikre jer mig spark ben er kraftig. (I assure you my kicking leg is strong.)

GARRETT: And who handles the ones over 40?!?


MORSTEAD: Greetings! Garrett, I'm so sorry to hear about your foot injury. You seem to be getting around on it quite nicely, though.

GARRETT: For the last FUCKING TIME, I AM NOT INJURED! My foot is fine!!!

PAYTON: Oh really? Uh, Morten you wanna take care of this...?


THE DANE: JEG skal knase jeres fod verily! (I shall crush your foot, verily!)

(Morten Andersen slams the mighty hammer down on Garrett's kicking foot.)

GARRETT: Fuck, you've broken my goddamn foot, you asshole!!

MORSTEAD: Oh, sweet, you like to dress up, too? Hang on a second...


MORSTEAD: We are going to KICK SO MUCH ASS together!!

THE DANE: Verily.

GARRETT: Can somebody call a fucking medic for me?!? Jesus Christ...!

...Paved with good intentions

(INT. Shockmeister's house -- Evening, Saturday before the Monday Night Football game against the Patriots.)

Scene: Jeremy Shockey is having an informal get together the day after Black Friday. No chicks allowed, though. Time for man business, etc.

SHOCKMEISTER: Drew-seph! Glad you could make it out, man!!

BREESUS: Yeah, no problem, Jeremy. What's the deal with the party? We kinda got a big game in a couple days.

SHOCKMEISTER: Relax, 9! This ain't a "party" party, per say. This is a "let me try and do something nice for my main man, Drew Brees," kinda party!

BREESUS: Oooookay. Well who else is here?


TOMMY: Me, sir! I got here first!

SHOCKMEISTER: Fucker was here twenty minutes before the party was "scheduled" to start. Kinda prevented me from "opening up the playbook" if you know what I mean...

BREESUS: You masturbate before a party?

SHOCKMEISTER: Dude, why wouldn't I? Shit, I do that almost anytime before a potentially big pressure situation. I picked up that nugget from "There's Something About Mary."

BREESUS: So you're gonna do that before the Monday Night Football game?

SHOCKMEISTER: Fuck yeah, Drew! Maybe not twenty minutes before kickoff, but I'll definitely be doing it in the building.

(Brees shakes his head.)

BREESUS: Okay, well, uh, who else is here?

(Shockey leads Brees into his living room area, where a few other players are gathered.)


BREESUS: Hey, guys!

(John Carney wakes up after dozing off earlier. Devery Henderson springs up from the couch and catches two footballs with both hands while blindfolded.)

DEVERY: What's up, Drew Dat?


THE CARNEY: Hey! Where am I? Who are you people!? How did I get here?!?

BREESUS: Is he okay?

TOMMY: Yeah, he's been like this since he got here. I hope he's not having one of his episodes again...

SHOCKMEISTER: Yeah, the old fucker needs to be drinking his Metamucil and shit so he don't shank field goals or something. We're gonna need every point and every advantage this Monday to beat the Fag-triots!

BREESUS: Well, I'm feeling pretty good. I usually get these vibes before a good game.

SHOCKMEISTER: Good? No, Drew, we need GREAT from you on Monday! We can't afford to just be "good," we gotta kick the shit outta these chowder munching ass clowns! I never got to really enjoy that Super Bowl win with the Giants, so this is the next best thing!

TOMMY: Weren't you liquored up in a booth and not with your teammates?

SHOCKMEISTER: You're out of your element, Tommy!!! Look, Drew, I've got something here that is going to guarantee a victory for us on Monday.

(Shockmeister leads Breesus, Tommy and Devery into his bedroom. The Carney falls back asleep, mumbling something about Ray Guy.)

SHOCKMEISTER: It's up here somewhere...

(Shockmeister digs in his closet and pulls a game from the top shelf.)

SHOCKMEISTER: So? Whatta you think???



BREESUS: ...

SHOCKMEISTER: Well? Say something!

BREESUS: ...

DEVERY: Oh, you must be out-chore damn mind, fool!

SHOCKMEISTER: What? What'd I do?

BREESUS: ...

TOMMY: Uh, do you have ANY idea how offensive something like is for Drew? To even HINT or try and JOKE that Drew could communicate with his dead mother is definitely NOT COOL, dude.

SHOCKMEISTER: Communicate!? Fuck, I want her to tell us what the God damn Patriots are gonna run on offense and defense!!!

BREESUS: ...

(Breesus walks out of the Shockmeister's apartment without saying a word. The Shockmeister is dumbfounded.)

SHOCKMEISTER: What?!? I'm trying to give Drew a chance to say "hi" to his mom AND help the team out and suddenly I'M THE ASSHOLE???

TOMMY: Really not cool, Jeremy. You know about Drew's mother! Why are you being an insensitive prick?

SHOCKMEISTER: Don't get yer panties in a bunch, Puntmaster Flex! Shockmeister is gonna make this thing work!

DEVERY: Fuck that shit, man! I am getting outta here. Whenever there's weird freaky shit like this, it's ALWAYS the black guy who gets it first. And I don't need no "other worldly" help to catch shit blindfolded!

(Devery leaves the apartment.)

TOMMY: And how were you gonna ask his mom? The game hasn't happened yet!

SHOCKMEISTER: Dude, everything is known up in Heaven. Ain't you read the Bible?!?

TOMMY: Uh, I did go to SMU.

SHOCKMEISTER: Whatever. Besides, you saying she won't know? God and e'rybody knows what's gonna happen before it happens!

TOMMY: What are you, Calvinist?

SHOCKMEISTER: Nah, I was always a Hobbes fan myself.

TOMMY: Shit...

ONE HOUR LATER...

(Shockmeister and Tommy are hunched over the Ouija board, moving that weird pointy piece.)

SHOCKMEISTER: Brah, I'm not touching it!!

TOMMY: Me neither!!

SHOCKMEISTER: This is fuckin' insane, brah!

TOMMY: You feel a chill running up your spine, Shockmeister?

SHOCKMEISTER: Fuck-ing right on.

(The lights begin flickering in Shockmeister's apartment. The room begins vibrating.)

TOMMY: What the fuck is going on, Jeremy?

SHOCKMEISTER: Fucking place hadn't shaken like this since I bagged Vida Guerra's ass about a year ago!!

(Suddenly, Jeremy's closet doors rip off and fly into the walls, a large beam of light comes shooting out, pouring over the room. Jeremy's room is now lily white. Shockey and Tommy are blinded by the light, but begin to see a figure walking out of the closet toward them.)

SHOCKMEISTER: Alright, now remember: I'll ask the questions, okay?

TOMMY: Right...


GOD: Can I help you gentlemen?

TOMMY: Oh, dang, it's Morgan Freeman! Wow, it's a thrill to meet you, Mr. Freeman!!

GOD: I'm not really Morgan Freeman. I Am Who Am.

SHOCKMEISTER: You're Popeye?

GOD: (rubs eyes.) No Jeremy. I am the one called Yaweh. The God of Abraham, Issac, David, Muhammad, I AM the Host of Hosts. The Alpha and The Omega. The Life and The Light.

SHOCKMEISTER: So you're really Morgan Freeman?

GOD: No. So many people love the idea of Morgan Freeman as Me that I figure, 'Hey, why not oblige some of them?'

SHOCKMEISTER: Oh.

TOMMY: Uh, Mr. Yaweh, sir?

GOD: Yes, Thomas?

TOMMY: Uh, why'd you respond to our Ouija board game?

GOD: Well, I needed to come down and tell you two guys to knock it off with the Ouija board. And, Jeremy, what in the sam hell were you thinking by bringing that thing out in front of Breesus?

SHOCKMEISTER: Yeah, I'm sorry, I just wasn't thinking straight...wait a second? YOU call him Breesus?

GOD: Oh yeah, my son gets a big kick out of it. He's got Drew's Fathead on a wall in his room. Now listen, you boys can't be whipping out a Ouija board in front of Drew, okay? He's a special man and he needs to have his mind at ease before Monday's game.

SHOCKMEISTER: But I wanted to try and help him out...

GOD: But not like this, Jeremy. You have to be a friend to Drew and be ready to block and catch for him on that field. That's what you can do for him.

SHOCKMEISTER: Okay.

GOD: And Tommy, you can help Drew by blasting the devil out of those footballs every time you get to kickoff our punt, okay?

TOMMY: Yes, sir! Can do!

GOD: Oh, and could one of you, probably Tommy since Drew won't talk to you Jeremy for a while, please give Drew this card for me?



TOMMY: A credit card?

GOD: Not just any credit card. Give it to Drew, if he spends anything for charity's sake, he'll have a monster game.

SHOCKMEISTER: How come the numbers aren't there?

GOD: Drew will see them. Don't worry about that. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go appear in bathroom fixture in Laramie, Wyoming. (The number Drew will see is: 3817 1823 3715 1583)

(God walks back into the closet. Jeremy's apartment goes back to normal.)

GOD: Oh, and don't tell anybody I came to see you. Otherwise I'll have to give Devery leprosy.

TOMMY: No problem.

SHOCKMEISTER: Yeah, later, God.

ONE HOUR LATER

(God is on the phone.)

GOD: Yeah, this is the Bellagio? Hey, what's the odds on Drew Brees throwing for five touchdowns and no picks, more than 370 yards, completing more than 75 percent of his passes, and....Oh, getting a perfect QB rating? What's that? Wow. Sounds incalculable. Well, let's only wager a few hundred on it then, okay?

From the files of Twitter: Get dressed. We are going out to eat.

From Twitter:

Rookie night at Morton's.....May God take care of my wallet!
4:24 PM Oct 1st from web

(EXT. Morton's Steakhouse - NIGHT)

(The well dressed Chip Vaughn is standing outside a fine dining establishment. He checks his watch.)


CHIP: Man, I hope they aren't late. I had to slip the guy a fifty just get a solid 8 o'clock reservation. These rapscallions better get here on time.

(Cornerback Malcolm Jenkins pulls up in a BMW and tosses his keys to the parking lot attendant.)


JENKINS: Now, when I come out later, I want you to hang on to those keys and wait for me to swat 'em out your hands and claim 'em for myself, got it?

VALET: Yes, sir, Mr. Jenkins.

CHIP: Hey, Malcolm! Great you could make it out tonight!

JENKINS: No problem.

(Silence.)

CHIP: Soooooo...how's it going?

JENKINS: Okay.

(Crickets.)

CHIP: Uh...how 'bout this weather?

JENKINS: Yep. Humid.

(Tumbleweeds blow by.)

CHIP: You, uh, talk to anyone else before rolling out here?

JENKINS: Can't say that I have cause I haven't.

CHIP: Oh. Well...you want to go inside and wait then?

JENKINS: Fine.

(The two men walk inside. Minutes later, they are joined by Jonathan Casillas and Chase Daniel, who sit and wait with them for the final member of their party to arrive.)


JONNY: You told him 8 p.m., right?

CHIP: Absolutely. He knew that.

CHASE: You think he got lost, Malcolm?

JENKINS: ...Nope.

CHASE: Okay. You think I should try calling his cell?

JENKINS: ...Nope.

CHASE: Why not?

(Jenkins points to the front of the restaurant.)

JENKINS: He's here.

(The men at the table turn and look...)


TOMMY: Hey guys!!

JONNY: You gotta be shittin' me...

(Chase Daniel buries his head in his hands. Malcolm Jenkins stares into space -- he remains a vacuum. Chip gets up and greets him.)

CHIP: Yeah, uh, good to see you Thomas.

TOMMY: Thanks for inviting me out, Chip! Say, where's y'all's costumes?

CHIP: Dude, when I said "dress up" I didn't mean to go as one of the Thundercats.

TOMMY: Oh.

CHIP: You got a change of clothes or anything?

TOMMY: Sorry, Chip, I thought this was, like, some preemptive Halloween party.

(Chip hangs his head.)

TOMMY: Well, look on the bright side: at least I didn't dress as a Furry, am-I-right?

CHIP: Christ...

(Minutes later, the guys have all placed their orders and are waiting for their steaks.)

CHASE: Man, I can't wait to sink my teeth into that steak! I'm so friggin' excited!

CHIP: I don't wish to sound rude or anything, Chase, but are you just trying to run up the bill for me?

CHASE: Hells no, Chip, why?

CHIP: Well, uh...you see...

(Jonny interrupts.)

JONNY: Cause you ordered a $67 steak, white bread!

CHASE: Yeah, but I got reasons for that.

JONNY: You don't see Malcolm ordering that much off the menu.

CHASE: (whispering to Jonny and Chip) Guys, he's only been eating sugar packets.

JENKINS: Good for alertness.

CHASE: Dude, how many calories are you operating on?

JENKINS: Don't know. Starved mind's a football-crazed mind.

CHASE: Oooooookay....

JONNY: You still never answered my question. Why you eating so damn much?


CHASE: Have you SEEN the SIZE of my HEAD? It's like a fucking asteroid is resting on my neck, Jonny! I gotta feed it every chance I get!

JONNY: Sheesh, take it easy, Chase, no need to get worked up about it...

CHASE: Worked up?!? My head's got its own orbital system for fuck's sake!!!! There's "Low Earth Orbit" then there's "Chase Daniel Orbit!"

JENKINS: ...

CHIP: Shit, I hope you boys don't...Oh shit...

(Tommy comes up to the table with a friend.)

TOMMY: Uh, can she stay and eat with us?



CHIP: God damn, man...


(Ed. note: Again, this is a reminder that these vignettes are inspired by the work being done at Kissing Suzy Kolber.)

What to endorse...?

(Int. Saints facility on Airline Highway.)


FUJITA: Aw, I am so looking forward to pounding Mark Sanchez into the field turf this weekend! Nothing could be better!

(Fujita walks into a computer room for the players and sits at a terminal.)

FUJITA: Well, let me just check my email here before hitting the weight room...(Eyes widen.) Holy shit!! Hate mail?!?!? What the fuck? Didn't we prevent the Bills from scoring an offensive touchdown? What did I do wrong?

(The Shockmeister pops his head up over the monitor. He's wearing a headset.)


J. SHOCK: What'd you expect, Brosef? "No, I'm not talking to you guys. Hang on." (J. Shock takes his headset off.) Sorry about that, Scottie 2 Hottie, I was just toggling between playing Left 4 Dead, dissecting Jennifer's Body on the message boards and watching the new trailer for the Nightmare on Elm Street remake. Did you know they got that dude from Bad News Bears to play Freddy Kruger? Fucking sweet, yo!

FUJITA: Yeah, that's great, Jeremy. But what's up with all this hate mail?

J. SHOCK: Dude, you broke the fourth wall.

FUJITA: Huh?

J. SHOCK: You mentioned the third rail.

FUJITA: What?

J. SHOCK: You talked about the gheys, Bro-Hamm.

FUJITA: Oh.

(Another Saints player, sitting at a monitor next J. Shock, sticks his head up over the wall. He is also wearing a headset.)


TOMMY: Yeah, can't do that, Scott. I'm a fucking rookie punter and even I know better than that.

FUJITA: But why not? Don't people care?

J. SHOCK: Course people care, "Dred" Scott, but the kinds a people who're gonna be emailing and commenting on this are pretty fervent on the issue.

FUJITA: How you know what "fervent" means?

J. SHOCK: Shut up.

TOMMY: Look, you gotta find a safe issue. Something that everyone can get behind.

FUJITA: I don't understand...

(Drew Brees ducks his head in.)


BREES: Take me for instance, Scott. I support foundations for the zoo and aquarium. Everybody loves animals and fish. I also do stuff for the USO, because everybody loves the soldiers.

J. SHOCK: The mighty Shockmeister goes around the world teaching the soldiers how to run the "Eiffel Tower" on a chick.

BREES: Anywho...I also take kids out fishing on a "Big Brothers" trip. And...I help build Habitat for Humanity houses.

FUJITA: Jesus, Drew! How do you manage all that?

BREES: Uh, cause I'm awesome?

(Drew walks out of the computer lab.)

FUJITA: That still doesn't help me. Of course people love charities. I'm talking about a serious human issue.

(Coach Sean Payton walks in.)


PAYTON: You wanna talk about a human rights issue? How 'bout preventing people from getting Chinese dry wall!! That is a SERIOUS violation of human health standards!

(Crickets chirping.)

PAYTON: All right, fuck you guys, I'll be in the film room.

(Payton leaves.)

TOMMY: Look, Scott, the problem is...we're athletes. Glorified entertainers. People don't want us to voice an opinion on anything unless it's about next week's game.

FUJITA: Yeah, but I already endorse some used car lots with Bobby Hebert.

J. SHOCK: Different thing. Nobody gives two shits about used cars. Well, except maybe Kurt Russell.

FUJITA: But then why do politicians court celebrities and public figures for their message?

TOMMY: You want me to handle this one, Shockmeister?

J. SHOCK: Do your thing, Puntmaster Flex.

TOMMY: Cause it's all a big ole hypocritical bullshit mess. Nobody wants to hear what some "Hollywood type" says about an issue unless it's something they already agree with. Obviously, the environmental folk want somebody who drives an electric or hybrid car, and the "gay marriage" folk want somebody who's in favor of it.

J. SHOCK: Personally, I could give two fucks about it, long as they ain't touching my dong.

TOMMY: How eloquent.

FUJITA: But I mean, it's like you can't even mention gay marriage without people shitting a collective brick on message boards.

J. SHOCK: It's the price we pay to make millions and score pussy all the time, dude.

FUJITA: But this is a serious issue!

TOMMY: Sorry, Scott. Look, maybe in the future people might be a little more enlightened or understanding or whatever the heck you wanna call it, but until then, all people care about with us is whether or not we win. Hell, if we make the playoffs or something, maybe you could try and mention something again. In the meantime, I suggest you stick to product endorsements.

J. SHOCK: Yeah, dude, you should totally endorse some sunglasses or shit!

FUJITA: (Sullen.) Damn...but, what the hell could I possibly slap my name on....?

(D-list celebrity walks into the computer lab.)


ERIK: "ES-TRA-DA."