Is the camera on me? Is it on? Did you check? I don’t see the red light. Well, check it AGAIN. Why is the camera man so far away? Zoom in. No, I wanna be in more of the shot, you fucking zombies. Bring it in on me. Do you know where I got these glasses? Marc Jacobs. They cost more than your household’s income for a year. So get a good fucking shot, or I’ll just make you do it again.
Is it my turn to talk yet? Albom’s still fucking talking. He’s been talking for 30 seconds now. I’ve been timing it. It’s my fucking turn to talk. Are you looking at me? I’m sitting all the way at the front of my seat. That should indicate to you that I am READY TO CHIME IN. In fact, my ass isn’t even touching the chair, that’s how far forward I am. I am the goddamn crouching tiger. Look at Ryan. He’s sitting all the way back in his chair. Does he have anything to say? No. Lazy shit. Read my fucking body cues, people.
Pffffffffftttttt!!!! Who gave me this tea? Who?! That girl? Come here, Guadalupe, or whatever your name is. Let me let you in on a little secret, my dear. You remember Mr. Schaap? The nice old man who used to be here? Remember how he died due to malpractice? Yeah, well that wasn’t malpractice. That was Lupica. I am the star here now, and you better fucking get used to it. So when I tell you that I want Earl Grey, I don’t expect you to bring me fucking sawdust in a Tetley bag. Okay, sweetheart? Tazo. T-A-Z-O. See if you can get that into that teeny tiny itsy bitsy wittle brain of yours. Stupid bitch.
And while we’re at it, honey, who told you I drink Deer Park? Deer Park is for the poor saps in payroll. Everyone at Valerio Productions knows Lupica drinks Voss, chilled to exactly 38 degrees Fahrenheit. So why don’t you do your homework before giving me this prison sludge? Frankly, I’m amazed you managed to get out of Nicaragua, or Costa Rica, or wherever the fuck it is you’re from. Oh, you’re crying? You thought I was a nice man, didn’t you? Sorry, sweetie. My heart only bleeds for the camera.
Is Albom done? Yes, he’s done. About fucking time. That was a nice parting shot, Albom. But you’re the undercard, pussy. The people aren’t here to see you. Always remember that. I’m about to blow you out of the fucking water. When I’m done, no one will remember whatever hockey bullshit it was you were talking about. Go write another book about people dying, douchebag. I’m about to school you. Take notes and maybe you’ll be able to earn enough money to fix whatever the fuck is going on with the tops of your ears.
I’m ready now. My voice is feeling supple. What I’m gonna do is start off with a killer joke. Okay? Here it is:
You know, maybe it’s me, but I think Roger Goodell must be taking commissioning lessons from Bud Selig.
Okay, I’m going to half-snicker at my own killer joke now, which is the cue for you three bozos to start guffawing like the idiots that you are. Then, when you’re done laughing at my comedic majesty, I’m gonna turn deadly serious. It’s gonna show off my range. Watch.
But seriously. If Goodell thinks he can just sweep steroids under the rug, then he is doomed to repeat baseball’s history. Because there’s a story about steroids and the NFL that has yet to be written. And rest assured, someone will write it. And, when they do, the same bloodhounds that picked at baseball’s decade-old scabs will pick up a fresh scent… the scent of pigskin.
BOOM! Fucking nailed it. You see how literary that was? It’s almost like I’m outside of my own body when I’m doing it. That’s how special it feels. That’s the kind of sportswriting that wins you awards, gentlemen. The kind that gets you on Letterman. How many of you assholes have been on Letterman? That’s right. Zero. Check and mate. Live with the pain.
Okay, what I’m gonna do now is wrap it all up with one killer fucking line. Something for the kids to think about the rest of the day.
So Goodell better hurry, or else he’ll find out the hard way, as baseball did, that ignorance is a miss.
See how I took the phrase “ignorance is bliss” and just gave it that little twist? God, what a dagger. It makes you laugh. It makes you ponder. It makes you wistfully nostalgic. It makes me cream my Brooks Brothers suit pants. You know what? I think I want to shoot it again.
Did you hear me? I said I want to shoot it again. Matter of fact, I don’t see my book on the coffee table here. WHERE THE FUCK IS MY BOOK?! You think I come here as a gift?! I want to do it again, and I want my book in the shot. And, if we have to do it 36 times over, we will. What I say, goes. I fucking own you people.
Just ask Whitlock.