Josh McDaniels: Okay, guys! We’ve got the Jets this week, and I have a gameplan that can’t possibly fail. All I need is the exact right blend of gritty, no-name players to pull it off, which is why I’m going to have to cut twenty-six of you today. There are some 5’9” guys coming in who used to load bags over at DIA, and I really like their hustle. REAL TEAM GUYS. The kind of guys I can count on to execute the vision I have inside my very small head.
(door flies open)
Kyle Orton: (burp) Heyyyyyyy Coach McDanyulzzzz, freakin’ LLOYD man! LLOYD ALL THE WAY! I dunno if we’re winnin’ games er not, but I am gettin’ LAID! ROCKY MOUNTAIN THIGH, COACH!
Josh McDaniels: Someone put Orton back in the drunk tank until gametime, dammit!
(Orton placed back in drunk tank)
Josh McDaniels: No one is to open that drunk tank without my expressed written consent. OR I WILL CUT YOU. Now, for the Jets. I understand this Rex Ryan fellow likes to blitz.
Champ Bailey: Yes, sir.
Josh McDaniels: I’m sorry. I can’t hear players who ask for more money than I have slotted for their position. Now, I have the perfect plan to make sure those blitzes don’t hurt us. One: LEG WHIPS. EACH ONE WHIPPIER THAN THE LAST. Two: Concealed wooden stakes.
They come running in too fast? BOOM! Instant FIRST BLOOD.
Champ Bailey: Isn’t that wildly illegal? Even jailable?
Josh McDaniels: Since when have the Broncos stopped doing something because it was illegal? ALEX GIBBS WOULD SPIT ON YOU IF HE WERE STILL ALIVE, WHICH I DEEM HIM TO NOT BE. This is why I can’t have players like you on my team, Bailey. You won’t do what it takes to win. You lack Welkeritude.
(FedEx package arrives)
Josh McDaniels: Hmm. That’s odd. I don’t remember ordering anything on Amazon, except for that Sun Tsu audiobook I planned on listening to during my two hours of sleep every Tuesday night.
(opens up package)
(package contains several pictures of a men’s penises)
Josh McDaniels: OH FOR CRYING IN THE BEER! WHO’S SENDING ME PENIS SHOTS, DAMMIT?
(cut to New Jersey)
Mark Sanchez: Boy Shonn, I think those pictures of my cock turned out pretty well.
Shonn Greene: Yup.
Sanchez: You can’t even see the moles! At least, most of them.
Shonn Greene: I see a LOT of moles.
Sanchez: They’re distinguishing marks!
Shonn Greene: That shit’ll get tumors, man.
Sanchez: You think the Broncos got the pictures?
Shonn Greene: Yup.
Sanchez: You think they know we sent them?
Shonn Greene: Yup.
Sanchez: What do you think they’ll do?
Shonn Greene: How the fuck should I know?
Sanchez: You seem testy, Shonn. Is it because we brought in an old geezer to be your backup and now he appears to have gotten his quick burst back, rendering you irrelevant?
Shonn Greene: No. But fuck you.
Sanchez: Someone’s coming!
(door flies open)
Ryan: HOW THE FUCK YOU DOING, BOYS?
Sanchez: Good, Coach. We’re 4-1!
Ryan: Fucking goddamn cocksucking right, we are! Oh, men. MEN. Men, let me tell you about the shit I took this morning. I sat down on the can. One squeeze. ONE. That’s it. I look down in the pot, and there is a footlong coil of my solid waste sitting there, floating on top. MARBLED, like a peanut butter brownie. It looked like it had been sculpted by fucking MICHELQUEERIO! Then I realized, I had to do it again! I sit down, one squeeze, BOOM. Same result. Then I stood up, and realized I had to do it one more fucking time. THAT IS A FUCKING GREAT EFFORT. Men, we are building something with this team. My thick, cocky, unicorn horn-like stool tells me so.
Sanchez: We sent the cock shots to McDaniels, Coach.
Ryan: Good! Good! Did we send Greene’s, too?
Shonn Greene: No. You sent LDT’s.
Ryan: Don’t worry, Cawkeye. One day, your cock will be asked to STEP UP, and I fully expect it to deliver. Now, first order of business: Nicknames! Braylon, your new nickname is D.U. Fly.
Ryan: Nacho, your new nickname is EL MINERO. I like that your people worked so hard to get out of that mine shaft. HOW MUCH PUSSYMINING DO YOU THINK THOSE BOYS DID WHEN THEY GOT OUT?! I BET A LOT!
Sanchez: I’m not Chilean, sir.
Ryan: I know you’re not chillin’! YOU’RE WORKING AS HARD AS THE REST OF THESE FUCKERS! Next order of business: SABOTAGE! Someone hand me the phone.
(dials Broncos headquarters)
Josh McDaniels: Hello? Please be brief or I will cut you.
Ryan: (puts on girly voice) Is this Mr. Josh McDaniels, head coach of the Denver Broncos and offensive wunderkind?
Josh McDaniels: Why, yes. Yes, it is.
Ryan: (girly voice) Well, my name is Rex…ita. Rexita. And I am a girl. I have tits and everything. And one of your players acted in a very naughty way toward me last weekend when I was at the Outback Steakhouse.
Josh McDaniels: Please refer all media inquiries to our Ministry of Silence, madam.
Ryan: (girly voice) But he sent me pictures of his pe… his pe…! Oh, God! I can’t even begin to say the word, it’s so terrible.
Josh McDaniels: His what?
Ryan: (girly voice) His… his… (whispers) penis. His very brown and moley penis. Looks like a twig you’d throw in a creek!
Josh McDaniels: Well, that is a very serious accusation.
Ryan: (girly voice) And he sent me picture of his friends’ penises too! Oh, God. I hate saying that word. I’m just going to call them Maroneys. He sent me ten different Maroneys, sir! Do you know how hard it is to look at ten Maroneys? I am a LADY! A very innocent and attractive lady who likes shopping and watching pleasant romantic comedies and shit!
Josh McDaniels: I’m sorry to hear this, Rexita.
Ryan: (girly voice) Yes, well this player’s name was Kyle Orton.
Josh McDaniels: ORTON! Dammit!
Ryan: (girly voice) And I will be pressing charges unless you suspend him and start Jesus Fag, er… that nice Tebow boy this week!
Josh McDaniels: Well, we’ll need to do our due diligence.
Ryan: (girly voice) I just… I just don’t want to see any more Maroneys anymore, sir. The black ones were very dark and intimidating. They don’t even look like they’d fit inside a concert hall!
Josh McDaniels: We will handle this matter internally, I assure you.
Ryan: (girly voice) Yes, well… see that you do! I assume you got the copies of the pictures that I made. If Orton is starting on Sunday, those pictures will be hand delivered to AJ Daulerio, who promised me free Vicodin in exchange for the shots. Rexita Hornsmuggler wants justice served!
Josh McDaniels: You have my word, ma’am.
Ryan: (girly voice) Thank you, sir. And remember, I AM A GIRL.
Ryan: Oh, men. OH MEN. Oh, that was fantastic. Who would have thought that old limp dick Favre would give us such an AWESOME FUCKING IDEA? He’s the gift that keeps on throwing backbreaking interceptions! GOD, WHAT A RUSH. Having Ferguson dead lift my FUPA to get the shot of Little Rex was well worth it! What did you think, Minero? You enjoy flashing your little tailpipe to Coach Asperger’s?
Sanchez: It’s not the first time I’ve actually done that, sir.
Ryan: WATCHOO TALKIN’ ‘BOUT, MINERO?!
Sanchez: Well, something like that… Under the right circumstances, it’s actually a smooth move. If you’ve known the girl for a long time and she’s already sent you pictures of her…
Ryan: Oh! Oh! Oh, ol’ Minero has gotten a little iPoon tossed his way on occasion! THAT IS FUCKING GREAT HUSTLE!
(slaps Sanchez on ass, HARD)
Ryan: Men, I dunno if you’ve seen the standings lately, but I have. FOUR AND FUCKING ONE. TOP OF THE FUCKING DIVISION. You know how every coach you ever had told you not to get too wrapped in your own record? Well, fuck THAT. Get wrapped up in it. Look at what the fuck you’ve accomplished after five weeks. You beat New England. You sent that old cocktographer back to Fat Alaska with his dick between his legs. Didn’t I tell you that, if you played the best you could, you’d beat the fuck out of anyone? FUCKING PROOF. You men are fucking WINNERS. Believe your own fucking hype. Get cocky. Get arrogant. Get fucking drunk in a bar and coldcock a bouncer. Look at D.U. Fly. Gets a DUI and then goes out and scores three touchdowns. THAT IS WHAT IT FUCKING MEANS TO BE A NEW YORK JET. Are you feeling me?
Ryan: I want to pound that piece of shit McDaniels into sand. I want to go to Denver and lay down fucking railroad tracks on his ass. I want you men to become MACHINES OF FUCKING DEATH. They aren’t 4-1. Are they?
Ryan: They can’t make 41-year-old queerbaits fill up their Depends with an overload blitz, can they?
Ryan: They can’t FUCK, can they?
Ryan: FUCKING BRING IT IN.
(everyone brings it in)
Ryan: Men, this is fucking WAR. This is what you were built for. I want you to take a look at that sign over there on the wall.
Sign: “BEFORE MAN WAS, WAR WAITED FOR HIM. THE ULTIMATE TRADE AWAITING ITS ULTIMATE PRACTITIONER.”
Ryan: That’s from a Cormac McCarthy book. I read that shit at night specifically to find sentences that will send your fucking dick to the moon. YOU WERE BORN FOR WAR. GOD MADE YOU SO THAT YOU COULD KILL AND WIN AND FUCKING TAKE WHAT’S YOURS.
Sanchez: Did McCarthy say that, too?
Ryan: No, I fucking said it! BECAUSE YOU ARE MY SOLDIERS AND WE WILL MAKE DEATH! WE WILL TAKE OUR HUGE COCKS AND BLAST AWAY EVERYTHING THAT GETS IN OUR WAY! ARE YOU WITH ME?
Everyone: Yes, sir!
Ryan: We are going to win. And then we’re all going out for Rocky Mountain Oysters and snow bunny hot tub pussy! ARE YOU WITH ME?!
Everyone: Yes, sir!
Ryan: FUCKING HANDS IN!
(all hands in)
Ryan: FUCK WAR ON THREE! ONE TWO THREE!!
Ryan: Someone get the Polaroid! I have better semi than when I did the first McDaniels shoot!
Sanchez: Yeah, but who will you send it to?
Ryan: Me, because I fucking RULE.