Mastermind: Ah, at long last! MY EVIL PLAN HAS COME TO FRUITION. Those same people who told me that Kyle and I were FOOLS for believing in John Beck are now the ones begging on their hands and knees for Beck to bring them salvation! MWAHAHAHAHA. Oh, Mastermind. Oh, you’ve outdone yourself this time. Purposely starting Rex Grossman for five games has paid off most handsomely. Now Beck can never be benched! Soon, I shall have “Mister” (snickers) Snyder hand over a $30 million guaranteed contract to our prize pupil, and then the WORLD IS OURS.
(door flies open)
Sex Cannon: Oh, sorry boss. Didn’t mean to interrupt you. It’s just that the HARD-CUMMING, FUCK-STRUTTING QB FOR THE SECOND-PLACE-WITH-A-FROZEN-ROPE-OF-JIZZ WASHINGTON REDSKINS wanted to stop by and thank you for having faith in him. I know a lot of folks out there think the Sex Cannon has lost his touch. And sure, maybe I fired a stray bullet or two last week. That happens. Sometimes, you pull out too early and you end up skeeting in a police officer’s eye. Not an optimal situation, BUT STILL DEAD SEXY NO MATTER HOW YOU SLICE IT.
Mastermind: Oh. Oh, dear. Haven’t you heard the news? You may want to sit down.
Sex Cannon: No can do. I don’t sit. I choose to remain in a Buffalo Stance at all times. That way, if a secretary crosses my path and gives that “take me in the supply closet and plaster the walls with my tits” look, I’m prepared.
Mastermind: Yes well, that’s fine. I need to let you know that we’re going with Beck on Sunday, and for the rest of the season.
Sex Cannon: What? Are you fucking joking? You’re replacing me with SHITT ROMNEY?! Has that guy even touched his tongue to an ovary yet?
Mastermind: We think you’re turning the ball over too much.
Sex Cannon: But don’t you get how fucking hot that is? No one wants a safe, missionary offense. That’s what you’re getting with a fucking Osmond twin starting for you. He’s not gonna give you the DANGER. He’s not gonna be out there living on the edge of a spanking paddle. WATCH THIS.
(grabs ball, throws ball down the hall, where it’s intercepted by six different co-workers simultaneously.)
UNNNNGH! NA NA NAAAAAA!
Mastermind: We’d like to install a more conservative game plan.
Sex Cannon: Oh my God, WAKE UP MAN! You’re stuck in the 50’s with your “conservative” offense. Why not just ask your old lady to give you a handjob while you eat a TV dinner? BORING. The Sexual Football Revolution is upon us! Look out there and what do you see? LONG, DEEP, HARD PASSES, EACH ONE STIFFER THAN THE NEXT. No helmet-to-helmet contact, just HARDCORE BALLS-TO-HANDS CLOSEUPS. That’s what’s getting this league off. You want to roll with Napoleon Dynamite out there? Fine. Go right ahead. I’m sure he’ll be “flippin’ sweet,” handing out postgame tater tots and drying out vaginas faster than DSK walking into a hotel bar.
While you’re at it, why not just throw a fucking burka over the head of every foxy chick in the stands? And why not broadcast the game in black and white, eh? YOU COULD RENAME THE TEAM THE PLEASANTVILLE REDSKINS. The team from the town where everyone is a-ok, and no one enjoys a good fisting. You want to try and repress all the progress we’ve made? FINE. But don’t expect me to be part of it. No, no, no. YOU CAN’T CLIP THIS DRAGON’S WINGS.
(throws ball and hits nearby window washer, who plummets five stories to his death)
You see that? FUCKING FLIRTATIOUS.
Mastermind: You’re fired.
Sex Cannon: Oh, I’m on fire, all right!
(throws ball that literally bursts into flames and causes a nearby child to suffer severe burns)
See how far you get with your blue-balled offense. I’m hauling ass to the UFL, bitch. I’m joining the Vegas Locomotives and I’m gonna throw it 70 times a game. DeDe Dorsey won’t get a single fucking carry. It’s gonna be one cum-stuffed bomb after another, each one exploding with sensuous pleasure upon impact. I’M GONNA CHARGE AN HOURLY RATE JUST SO PEOPLE CAN WATCH ME THROW. So good luck to you and Jon Cuntsman. I’M OUT TO FUCK.
(leaves, goes to parking lot, accidentally stick car keys inside girlfriend)