(Aboard Paul Allen’s 414-foot yacht)
(interior of a room filled with money)
Paul Allen: (into intercom) Warburton, the money room.
Warburton: You rang, sir?
Allen: Warburton, when was the last time I was briefed on my minor assets?
Warburton: You mean your million-dollar assets, sir? Or your multi-million dollar assets?
Warburton: Three months, sir.
Allen: Then fill me in.
Warburton: Sir, your Portland TrailBlazers are presently worth more than four times what you paid for the franchise; the $10 million prize you got for SpaceShipOne has been successfully re-invested in your other holdings; the real estate development in South Lake Union is treading water during the economic downturn… and there’s some turmoil in the management of the Seahawks.
Allen: See whose now?
Warburton: The Seahawks, sir. Your professional football team.
Allen: Oh, of course. I apologize, I’ve just been so busy with the robot army. (into microphone) Camera 57, show robot army.
Allen: Look at them, Warburton. Hundreds upon hundreds of them, ready to do my bidding as soon as we make them more efficient killers. Aren’t they beautiful?
Warburton: Very, sir.
Allen: Now then. Where were we?
Warburton: The Seahawks.
Allen: Right, the Seahawks. What’s the problem? Does the stadium need to be louder? We can make the stadium louder. Each of my robots can realistically replicate the sound of human yelling at 135 decibels. That’s like a jet taking off, Warburton! Imagine if a human could make that sound!
Warburton: The stadium noise is fine, sir.
Warburton: It’s the management, Mr. Allen. The team’s general manager resigned in the middle of the season, and the new coach led the team to a 5-11 record in his first year on the job.
Allen: And what’s your assessment?
Warburton: Mr. Ruskell was a middling to above-average GM. No Bosworths, at least. Mr. Mora, well… I’m not sure he’s the answer.
Allen: Then dispose of him.
Warburton: Very well, sir. Breathing or bloody?
Allen: He may live. And what about replacements? Does this pissant sporting organization allow robot coaches?
Warburton: I believe not, sir.
Allen: Can we level the playing field by destroying the other teams with robots?
Warburton: Not legally, sir.
Allen: Christ, it’s like working with the Amish. Okay, then. I suppose we’ll need to find a viable human replacement. Bring some candidates in with the helicopter.
Warburton: Very good, sir. Would that be the golden helicopter?
Allen: Oh, the regular one’s fine. (sets $100 bill on fire, uses it to light rolled-up Picasso ink sketch on fire, uses that to light Cuban cigar) It’s a recession, don’t you know.
ONE DAY LATER
Warburton: Sir, I’ve rounded up the best candidates available. They’re waiting outside to see you.
Allen: Marvelous. Send Doctor Markovitz from M.I.T. in first.
Warburton: I apologize, sir. I didn’t realize M.I.T. had a football program. If I’d known…
Allen: Oh, is this for the Seahawks thing? I thought you meant the candidates for Chief Robotics Engineer! Ha, of course. Me and my robot army again. I apologize. Send the first candidate in.
Warburton: Very well, sir.
(door flies open)
Pete Carroll: BEEEYAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!! Hey howya doin’ Paul Allen! Great to meet ya! Great ship you got! Hope you don’t mind I brought some girls! You want some girls?! I don’t need ’em! Figured you could have ’em! You want ’em?! Take ’em!
Allen: Warburton, find these women some swimsuits. Show them to the pool.
Warburton: Right away, sir.
Allen: And Warburton–
Warburton: Yes, sir?
Allen: Bikinis. Skimpy.
Warburton: Nothing but, sir. (women leave)
Allen: Now, Mr. Carroll, tell me what you can do for the Seattle Seahawks.
Carroll: I’ll tell you this, Paul Allen! The Seahawks got down on themselves this year! They suffered from LOW MORALE! Low morale’s not a problem on a Pete Carroll team! I had an .864 winning percentage at USC, two national championships, and sunshine beaming from my players’ hearts like the warm southern California sun! And if the team ever got a little down, then by God I took them out for bowling! Bowling and ice cream!
Allen: Oh, I rather like ice cream.
Carroll: How about a scoop o’ Neapolitan right now! Always keep some with me, just in case! My players always tell me I have a Neapolitan complex! HA!
Allen: That would be lovely, thank you. (takes ice cream) Mr. Carroll, I enjoy your vigor and enthusiasm. And also your ice cream. I think I’d like you to be the next coach of the Seahawks. And my personal ice cream supplier.
Carroll: That sounds great! One thing though! I always said I wouldn’t go back to the NFL unless I got to control a team’s personnel, too!
Allen: You mean the GM? Oh, that works nicely. We need one of those as well. Wait — “back to the NFL”? You’ve coached in the NFL before?
Carroll: Uh… no! No I haven’t! So whaddaya say? How about 4 years, $20 million?!
Allen: Six years, $32.5 million. That’s my final offer.
Allen: Warburton! Draw up the contract for our new coach here.
Warburton: And what of the other candidates, sir?
Allen: Eh, toss ’em in the ocean with some chum. Do you want to see how sharks eat, Coach?
Carroll: DO I!
Allen: Tell me, what are your feelings about robots?
FIVE MINUTES LATER
Gruden: THAT SHARK THERE, I CALL HIM “THE BONE SHREDDER.”
Cowher: Shut up.