Marcus: LaDainian, LaDainain, LaDainian, do sit for me a moment. I hope the day finds you well. Please, have a profiterole. They’re as good as original sin.

I have taken your specifications and implemented them into the Air Force 1s. I think you will agree it is a masterstroke on par with the Dancing House and that new chicken sandwich at McDonalds.

LaDainian Tomlinson: Yeahyeahyeah, but is it fresh?

Marcus: In a minute you will have the chance to take them into your own hands. First you must know that despite the spare schematics you gave me, this was no small challenge for me. I toiled for hours while I could have been to the Gossip Girls DVD. The kids at the maquiladora, in particular, had a devil of a team sewing your initials in the heel. Many lost fingers. They’re a pain to clear off the floor, you know?

Anyway, te presento!

Tomlinson: They look nicest when you hold them like a waiter holds a salver.

Marcus: Oh yes, I agree. The pastel. The white croc upper accent. Very gustatory. The alimentary system is practically engaged through your feet.

Tomlinson:
Which part of the alimentary system gets the girls wet?

[Door flies open]

Philip Rivers: Ya betta ask someboddddaaaayyyyyyy!

Rivers: “Oh, loogit me: I’m an injury prone running back with fancy shoes and fitted hats that still have the label on them.” GET BACK TO PRACTICING YOU LIMPDICK HOBBLEBACK!

Tomlinson: So you like the shoe?

[Rivers grabs the pair and hurls them out of a window, they hang in the air for four and a half minutes before coming to rest draped over a phone line]

Rivers: NO, I DON’T LIKE YOUR COCKDAMNED SWISHY NIKE SWOOSH SHIT! AND FUCK THAT EXTRA POWDERY BLUE ACCENT! It looks like the 18 rooms in my house my high school sweetheart wife had painted for my kids. Those fuckers are supposed to be confined to the servant’s quarters until they’re 12 and she knows it.

Tomlinson: Doesn’t mean you need to be barging in on my private shoe unveiling. This was reserved for me, Marcus, and 34 of the freakiest underaged girls he could find.

[34 underaged freaks cower in the corner]

Tomlinson: See what you did?

Rivers: Unless one of those overpriced moon boots can cure a torn knee ligament we got ourselves a bit of an issue, Mr. Backfield Receiver.

Tomlinson: I thought you rehabbed those. Like, you had Nate Kaeding scrapbook the whole thing.

Rivers: Not mine, Scroter Rooter. We got a raping, ‘roiding linebacker with a loose wheel that stands to jeopardize our whole season of redemption. Where you are during all this? Farting around with a bunch of faggy sneakerhead bottom twirlers.

Marcus: Actually we have a number of styles that can be of some assistance to those ailed by such infirmities.

Rivers: WHO ASKED YOU TO SPEAK, BUMFORD? HUH? WHAT? HUH? FUCK YOU!

Tomlinson: I think he just tried to give you some useful information.

Rivers: An easier way to hit Antonio Gates in triple coverage? Ways to yell at the crowd without attracting media scorn?

Marcus: Not exactly. But these shoes may help your rapacious friend.

[River snatches the box away and charges out of the door]

Tomlinson: Can those shoes actually do that? Cause you might need to slide a few my way.

Marcus:
Oh heavens no. Though I imagine this Merriman fellow will a touch displeased when the shoe doesn’t deliver on its promised properties.

Tomlinson: A touch displeased? The only way Shawne’s displeased is if it’s just one touch.