If you find yourself confronted with an NFL postseason without a rooting interest and unmoved by Don Cheadle soliloquies, you must draw from the well of that most powerful of human emotions. Ok, well, lust probably won’t do here. But the second most powerful, hate, will serve as a fine proxy. This is one in a series of posts filled with bile, spleen, vitriol and all-around nastiness toward all the teams involved with the sordid roundelay we know as the NFL Playoffs.
Success comes to the Laserfaced! Douse me in Tentacle Grape, for I have just fucked the Cutlerfucker back to his dimly lit room for some good slicing-myself-while-listening-to-Deb-Talan.
Rivers: Wellie well well wellington, three gimme touchdowns against a porous Denver defense and all of a sudden LaToeInjury wants to pretend like he’s the blue-ribbon bitch again?
YOU HAVEN’T DONE FORDYCE’S-INFECTED DICK ALL SEASON, MR. LEAN MEAT PROTEIN!
Just to spite you, I bought four Philips brand flatscreens yesterday and kicked over the Vizio display with your visored vagina all over it. AND IT STILL GAINED MORE YARDS THAN YOU!
The only thing keeping us in contention all year was this God-graced football cannon and My Tiny Pocket Darren.
He’s useful because he’s portable AND HE DOESN’T SIT OUT AFC CHAMPIONSHIP GAMES IN HIS PUFFY COAT ON THE BENCH LIKE SOME DETACHED OVARIES I KNOW!
I can see it now: Early February in Tampa. All the nearby hometown Alabamians will have hitchhiked into town to see King Philip’s coronation against the Shelisha who was too good to play here.
I’ll use my bonus money to get me a giant floating zeppelin so I can cast disdainful glances on my subjects. “Please, please, regard us,” they’ll cry. AND THAT’S WHEN I’LL GOLDEN SHOWER THE LOT OF THEM! THEY’LL BE SO PROUD THEY’LL TELL THEIR GRANDKIDS AND MAIL CARRIERS ABOUT IT!
I’ll be champeen of the world. They will not need to ask somebodddaaaayyyyy because they will know. BUT I WILL TELL THEM ANWAY!
Jerry: FATASSSSSS! Where is that fatass?! JENNIFER!
Jennifer: Yes, Mr. Jones?
Jerry: Where is Tubby? Have you seen Tubby?
Jennifer: Tubby, sir?
Jerry: Yeah. Tubby. Fatass. Ol’ Puddin’ Tits. Fats Incredible. Chubby Pecker. Lardlubber. FUPA Fighter. Gigantoslob. Chunker. The USS Lusitania. THE FUCKING FAT FUCK THAT COST MY BOY ROMO A PLAYOFF SPOT! WHERE IS THAT FATASS?!
Jennifer: Oh, you mean Coach Phillips?
Jerry: YES! That guy! Where the fuck is he?!
Jennifer: I think he’s in the whirlpool, sir.
Jerry: The whirlpool?
Jennifer: Yes, sir. Said he was going to the whirlpool to relax.
Jerry: Oh, did he now? WHO SAID THAT FUCKING BLUE WHALE COULD BATHE ON MY DIME?! I WILL FUCKING GUT HIM LIKE A MULE! FATTTTTTY!!!!!
(meanwhile, at the whirlpool)
Wade: (in whirlpool, listening to iPod, eating sub sandwich, singing) Whoo-ee! Ride me high
Tomorrow’s the day
My bride’s gonna come
Oh, oh, are we gonna fly
Down in the easy chair!
(door flies open)
Jerry: WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING IN MY WHIRLPOOL, HUMPBACK WADE?
Wade: (takes off headphones) I’m sorry. I can’t hear you over the music there, Sir.
Jerry: You get outta that tub NOW, MR. BUBBLE! I don’t care if we need a towel the size of Indiana to cover your fat ass! WHO THE FUCK SAID YOU COULD RELAX?! AND GIT THAT GODDAMN SANDWICH OUTTA THERE!
Wade: Welp, season’s over. Thought I’d just chill out for a second.
Jerry: Oh, did you now! YOU FUCKING FATASS! My gorgeous team is going down the shitter AND IT’S ALL YOUR BIG FAT FAULT!
Wade: So fire me, then.
Jerry: What?
Wade: Fire me. Don’t matter to me. See, I learned something this year, Mr. Jones. And that, as head coaches go, I’m not very good. I’m just not. I make a damn fine defensive coordinator. But I’m just not head coaching material. And you know what? That’s all right. I’m fine with that. Not everyone is comfortable at the top. I tried my best, and darn it if it wasn’t good enough. But I’m not gonna beat myself up over it. It’s just another thing to learn in life. And there you have it. So go ahead. Fire me. There are gonna be eight new coaches out there looking for defensive help, maybe more, and I’ll be glad to hop on board with them. Now, if you’ll excuse me… (puts on headphones)
Whoo-ee! Ride me high
Tomorrow’s the day
My bride’s gonna come
Whoo-ee! Are we gonna fly
Down in the easy chair!
Jerry: YOU FAT DISGUSTING PIG! YOU’RE NOT GONNA RIDE HIGH, OR FLY, OR GO DOWN ON ANY FUCKING EASY CHAIR! I’m not gonna fire your fat ass, Frankenberry!
Wade: No?
Jerry: Oh, no. You got us into this mess, NOW YOU’RE GONNA GIT US OUT! I will keep you here FOREVER, Fatty! I’ll make sure they bake a fresh pan of cream cheese brownies in the kitchen every day. YOU’LL NEVER FIT OUT OUR DOOR, FATSTORM!
Wade: That’s another thing, Mr. Jones. You can all me all the names you like. But I don’t really care. I enjoy food. I enjoy life. And I CAN walk out that door. You watch me.
(gets out of pool)
Jerry: OH, JESUS CHRIST! IT’S LIKE THERE’S AN GIANT AVALANCHE OF COOL WHIP COMING AT ME WITH A LITTLE KIDDIE DICK ATTACHED TO IT!
(door flies open)
Pacman: Yo yo. Pacman hurr fo da pool pardee. Wat diz phat gurrl doin up in dis bizz? Pacman ain’t down wid it. Pacman ain’t go for dem eggplantz. DAT 2 MUCH PUSSY. Pacman gots da reel bubblez fo dat bath…
OH SHIT! Pacman git wid dat! Pacman gon shine. He gon mak hurr drank from dat luvhose. OH SHE GON DRANK. Pacman say ain’t no drank drank till dat bitch git wet. He gon mak dat azz cry. He gon BLOW DAT AZZ UP. 4rilly. HE GON DAYG DAT TUNNL. He gon turn dat fuk on.
And Pacman gon drank. Oh, he gon drank. U THANK HE AIN’T GON DRANK? HE GON DRANK. Pacman say seezon’s ovah, so he can go bust dat puzzy till da red meat showz. CHUH CHUH.
Jerry: You fucking fumbling piece of shit! I HIRED YOU TO SCORE DEION-STYLE TD’S, NOT FUMBLE THE BALL LIKE SOME KANSAS CITY FAGGOT!
Pacman: Pacman jus tryn ta shine.
Jerry: YOU DON’T SHINE FOR SHIT, ASSHOLE! YOU’RE ABOUT AS SHINY AS A DEAD WOMAN’S TIT! (turns to Wade) You better git this asshole BACK IN LINE, you big naked tub of shit!
(door flies open)
Garrett: Oh, Good Heavens! I’ve seen the Hideous Beast without his protective layering! Avert your eyes, all! Or he shall consume us all with his ghastly pseudopods!
Jerry: You fucking Ivy League cocksucker!
Garrett: What? Who? Me? Surely you jest! This is a good jesting, yes?
Jerry: NO! Didn’t I tell you my boy ROMO was a star?
Garrett: I believe you told Melville’s White Whale over there on more than one occ…
Jerry: HE’S A GODDAMN STAR! And you’re ruining him! We went up to Philly and got the tar beaten out of us by a bunch of SANDWICH-EATING YANKEE FAGGOTASSES!
Garrett: Oh, Mr. Jones. The problem is far more complex than you grasp, I fear! For we had the perfect game architecture in place for victory! A dazzling rainbow of swing passes to Tashard Choice, EACH MORE STUNNING THAN THE LAST! And then, almost clandestinely, A JUPITER-LIKE STRIKE TO WITTEN! And then, we were all going to sit down for a good, civilized EATING! It was a plan that would make even Churchill himself blush with envy! Alas, the execution…
Wade: Oh, quit blaming everyone but yourself, you ginger-faced asshole.
Garrett: Excuse me, good Sir? It’s difficult to hear you with YOUR NAKED, DRIBBLING MASS CONFRONTING US ALL!
Wade: He doesn’t even care, Mr. Jones. He’s going to Detroit.
Garrett: What? Why… Harumph! How dare you question my loyalty, sir! You, good sir, are a CRUMB BUM! There, I said it! YOU ARE NOTHING MORE THAN A CRUMB BUM!
Jerry: You’re not going to Detroit, you freckle-faced queerbait! Not after what I paid to keep your sorry ass here!
(door is weakly opened with least amount of possible effort)
Roy Williams: What? Huh? What’s going on? Why’s Coach all nude?
Jerry: YOU LAZY SACK OF SHIT! YOU’D SHORT ARM A BABY IF A GYPSY THREW IT TO YOU!
Roy Williams: Whatever, man. I got a text message.
(leaves)
Jerry: GAHHHHH! I’M SURROUNDED BY NOTHING BUT FUCKUPS! You’re all fucking ruining my gorgeous team! This is the fucking pride of TIXAS, and all of you have DISGRACED THE GODDAMN STAR! I will fucking kill you all! Starting with YOU, Fatty! (comes at Wade)
Wade: I don’t think so, Mr. Jones. MARION!
(door gets stiff-armed off its hinges)
MBIII: JERRY JONES! WHERE YOU AT, MOTHERFUCKER!
Jerry: I’m right here, Barber! I’m not scared of you one bit!
MBIII: No? (puts Jerry in a chicken wing hold) HOW ABOUT NOW, MOTHERFUCKER?!
Jerry: OW! FUCK!
MBIII: Jerry Jones, you conscious, MOTHERFUCKER?! Cause Marion Barber got something to say to YOUR ASS! CAN YOU HEAR ME, BITCH?
Jerry: I could hear you better if you let go there, buddy!
MBIII: I AIN’T LETTIN’ GO OF SHIT! You listen to me and you listen good, you motherfucking MOTHERFUCKER! I seen this team all year long, asshole. And the person who fucked this all up is YOUR SORRY RAZORBLACK ASS. Fuckin’ Jerry Jones. Has to bring in every goddamn big named motherfucker he can find off the street. JERRY’S GOTS TO HAVE HIS TOYS! MARION BARBER WANTS TEAMMATES THAT WANT TO PLAY FOOTBALL, BITCH!
Jerry: Fool! I gave you all Tank Williams!
MBIII: TANK WILLIAMS DON’T PLAY FOR SHIT! MOTHERFUCKER BRINGS GI JOE DOLLS INTO THE HUDDLE!
Wade: I was not aware of that.
MBIII: Shut up, naked Fat Ass!
Wade: You got it.
MBIII: You listen to me, Jerry Jones. Marion Barber says YOU THE MOTHERFUCKER who needs to clean this mess up. YOU are the problem. I am TIRED, Jerry Jones. I am tired of hearing every goddamn excuse from every goddamn player on this team. YOU WILL FUCKING FIND ME SOME BETTER TEAMMATES, OR MARION BARBER WILL FUCKING SHOVE A LEAFBLOWER UP YOUR REDNECK ASS AND TURN IT ON. YOU READ ME, ASSHOLE?
Jerry: Yes, Sir!
MBIII: And get Roy Williams out of here. HE DOES NOTHING, MOTHERFUCKER!
(leaves)
Jerry: Well, um… You heard the man! Get to work, ALL OF YOU!
Wade: All due respect, Mr. Jones, I think I’m gonna go home.
Jerry: Oh, really?
Wade: Yes. Really. I got an easy chair to fly into. And it sounds like you got a lot on your plate. Or would you like me to call Marion again?
If you find yourself confronted with an NFL postseason without a rooting interest and unmoved by Don Cheadle soliloquies, you must draw from the well of that most powerful of human emotions. Ok, well, lust probably won’t do here. But the second most powerful, hate, will serve as a fine proxy. This is one in a series of posts filled with bile, spleen, vitriol and all-around nastiness toward all the teams involved with the sordid roundelay we know as the NFL Playoffs.
Kurt Warner: We’ve got plenty to be thankful for this year. It’s true. We’ve been blessed. Those blessing include a successful season, bringing this franchise its first home playoff games more than 50 years. If nothing else happens, we can come away from it feeling good about ourselves. I know God has given me more than I can ever have hoped to receive.
Still, I worry for your everlasting soul, brother Anquan. Since that hit, when they put all that metal in you, it’s like you’re more machine than man now.
Anquan Boldin: All. is. well. Metal. is. fine. We. run. slant. and. go. pattern. now.
Kurt: See, it’s one thing to excel on the field, but the moral character of a team is just as important. We already got Fitzy whaling on his wife. I can’t let you go wayward on me. Who knows where you may end up.
Anquan: What. is. soul? Is. this. [Skrrrrt] dummy. audible?
Kurt: Your soul? That’s the essence of your being. The part of you that transcends to heaven after your mortal life is over.
Anquan: Irrelevant. to. wide. receiver.
Kurt: That’s just plain not true. The power of prayer, it sustains us in all facets of being.
We underserve many teams here at KSK, the Bills, Chiefs, and a handful of others among them. Included in that group are the Broncos. Best-selling author Stefan Fatsis spent a year with the Broncos for his book A Few Seconds Of Panic. So we asked him to give us his theories as to why Pat Bowlen finally decided to cut Mike “Leatherface” Shanahan loose after 13 years on the job (my theory: because he sucks). Here now is Fatsis’ take.
Drew and I exchanged emails on Monday.
DREW: No chance Shanny is in trouble, yes?
FORMER DENVER BRONCOS KICKER, INSIDER AND TEAM CHRONICLER WHO THINKS HE TOTALLY UNDERSTANDS THE MINDS OF BRONCOS OWNER PAT BOWLEN AND HEAD COACH MIKE SHANAHAN: No chance. Coach for life. Or at least til end of this contract in 2011.
Writer knows shit. What a surprise. But this really was one argument that seemed pointless. Shanahan was going nowhere. When the lunatics on the Broncos message boards would post their all-caps, multi-exclamation-pointed Shanny-must-go posts, I’d chuckle at the natives rattling the wrought-iron gates of the mansion. Didn’t they get it? Coach for life meant coach for life. Pat would no sooner fire Mike than he would spoon with Al Davis.
There was good reason for the confidence. I asked Bowlen once to describe his relationship with Shanahan. He stared contemplatively over my right shoulder for a good 30 seconds before finally talking. “I don’t want this to come out in the wrong way,” he said, “but it’s almost like a marriage. You know, you grow with that person and you develop a certain level of confidence and trust over a period of years. And so you know the right questions to ask, you know the right, the wrong buttons to push. It’s not like you put all your faith and trust in this person and then they’re not doing the job or cheating on you. That’s not happening.” (Ed. note: Bowlen then added, “Ya little fucker.”) The couple renewed its vows before the 2007 season with a contract extension through 2011 at more than $6 million a year.
Bowlen deferred to Shanahan on just about every internal decision, on and off the field, like sacking the GM who was with the team for 16 years, Ted Sundquist, after a 2007 season flop that could hardly have been blamed on the front office (especially since Shanahan ultimately made pretty much every call). Some people viewed the relationship as too one way, that Mike had Pat’s number. But Bowlen’s no pushover, and no fool. He’s the most reasonable owner I’ve ever met in sports; no pretense, no bullshit, lots of smarts. (He negotiated the NFL’s many-zeroed TV contracts.) Bowlen doesn’t make decisions to respond to public pressure; he’s justifiably proud of the competent operational systems he and Shanahan imposed over the years; and, rather amazingly, he understands that operating a professional sports franchise is a fickle endeavor, that success is cyclical, especially in a league like the NFL, and dependent on too many outside factors. (Look at how many injuries the Broncos suffered this season.)
I haven’t spoken to either Bowlen or Shanahan, but here’s my hunch: Something flipped in their relationship. Maybe Shanahan finally overestimated his power and immunity, had confused the authority Bowlen had vested in him with the ultimate authority over the franchise. Or maybe Bowlen just concluded that the franchise’s long-term business prospects were being damaged by Shanahan’s tenure—one playoff win in 10 years didn’t help—and, in a challenging economic climate, would be improved by a change. (Ed. Theory: Shanny boned Mrs. Bowlen. It’s a lock.)
But this isn’t your garden-variety firing. Shanahan may not be a Mastermind anymore, but he isn’t a Mangenius either, some young, disposable, overhyped coach. Love him or hate him, he was an institution in Denver who won a shitload of games, and as many Super Bowls as Landry, Shula and Parcells. Players and executives would gripe about Shanahan’s inflexible habits and routines, about his erratic and sometimes poorly grounded player-personnel decisions, and about the culture of paranoia his omnipotence created (I’ll never forget Shanahan’s former college roommate and offensive coordinator Mike Heimerdinger bolting out of his office so he wouldn’t be late for a coaches’ meeting). But I never once heard anyone question Shanahan’s abilities as an organizer and a coach.
There was a fundamental belief, even a cockiness, that the Broncos had figured out how to make an NFL organization operate efficiently and effectively, that the team wouldn’t win every year but it wouldn’t embarrass itself if it didn’t. But after three really bad seasons in a row—a run that I think began with the benching of Jake Plummer when Denver was 7-4 in 2006, but that’s just me—the Teflon may have worn off. Shanahan wasn’t exactly the great and powerful Oz, but he certainly stopped looking quite so invincible, maybe even to his boss.
I actually have a theory as to why Shanny was able to hold sway over Bowlen for so many years, and the answer lies in the above photo. MIKE SHANAHAN CAN DESTROY YOU WITH HIS GAZE. That makes him tough to bargain with.
Mike Tannenbaum: Hey, Brett, I totally understand. You’re looking for more of the natural amenities that you enjoyed in Green Bay. And the Jets organization is sensitive to that. So you tell me, what’s it going to take to keep Brett Favre in a Jets uniform for 2009?
Mike Tannenbaum: Brett, we’d really like to avoid that sort of attention this offseason. Now tell me. What does Brett Favre need from the Jets to play quarterback one more season.
BRETT FAVRE: Welluh…
Mike Tannenbaum: Come on, Brett, don’t be bashful.
BRETT FAVRE: Welluh…dat Mangeenee? Heddun thinkoll Britfarr ennuhthinkkit mybeeziur fwee din havoll puppytits assa big dog next year.
Mike Tannenbaum: So you want Mangini gone. That’s great, because I fired him like three days ago.
BRETT FAVRE: Yaddid? Aw dat jus dandy.
Mike Tannenbaum: Indeed. Now what else does Brett Favre want?
BRETT FAVRE: Well [reaches into back pocket], beenthinkinbowt dem yooni forms y’allad lasyeer? Ol’ Brittfarr haddenay deeuh boutdat. Now juslooky addis and telloll Brittwutyathink.
[Brett hands Mike a doctored photo]
Mike Tannenbaum: Wow, this is…this is something…I’ll have to get back to you on this, Brett. I notice that on this jersey, you don’t have a number.
BRETT FAVRE: Naw, seederr? Dassa bigoll possum.
Mike Tannenbaum: You want your jersey number…to be a possum?
LEATHERFACE IS GONE! After only having choked away playoff appearances the past three years, Mike Shanahan was let go by the Broncos today, leaving Cutlerfucker without a stringent taskmaster. Just another place for rumors to swirl about Bill Cowher and Scott Pioli.
If you find yourself confronted with an NFL postseason without a rooting interest and unmoved by Don Cheadle soliloquies, you must draw from the well of that most powerful of human emotions. Ok, well, lust probably won’t do here. But the second most powerful, hate, will serve as a fine proxy. This is one in a series of posts filled with bile, spleen, vitriol and all-around nastiness toward all the teams involved with the sordid roundelay we know as the NFL Playoffs.
Looks as through Lil’ Ronnie is all growed up. Not having ever been to Naptown and never having a reason to go, I can’t begin to speculate on what it is that makes it a hotbed for horrible amateur white boy rap. I’ll go ahead and guess the general despair. So, let’s review the latest hotness:
“Indy Colts, built like a fart. Ignore us now and we’re going to shart.” So when the Colts lose in January, we can say they shart the bed? I’m on board for that.
Is he running around in OR scrubs?
Rapping about the Colts in front of Mayflower Trucks? I hate me some Baltimore, but that’s some mega-douchey shit.
Based on what I know about people from Indiana, I don’t think the jorts are ironic. Though he could stand to put on another buck or two.
“Aaron Bailey, ‘95 – What I’m talking about!” Uh, you mean the guy who dropped the Hail Mary that would have sent Indy to the Super Bowl? Personally, I’d like to hear his thoughts on the Colts being 0-5 vs. the Steelers in the playoffs.
Okay. I made it about a minute and a half through that lyrically lyrical shart and, frankly, I feel like I deserve a medal for it. Let me wrap it up be saying Colts fans are cordially invited to shut the fuck up about Peyton being MVP. “Oh, he performed pretty well at times after holding off on getting surgeries he should have had earlier in the off-season!” Die. I know you love the guy, because you didn’t follow the team until he showed up, but, seriously, no one but you and elite fliers like Peter King buy it.
Speaking of Pey-Pey, expect yet another chastising of the O-line should Indy fall to San Diego Saturday night. Peyton long ago joined the Favraro Club of getting a free pass from the media to act as much a sniveling dicksmack as he likes and never get called out on it (fitting as he and Favre will each retire with one ring). Could you imagine what the reaction would be if, say, McNabb did that? He’d be reamed by every sportswriter in America.
Hopefully the Colts can make a swift exit as usual from the postseason (2006 was, as Emmitt Smiff would call, an “amorition“) Tony Dungy can retire to write pamphlets for PFOX and MarHar can go gun-running with Plaxico.
You would think the football public would immediate gravitate to liking the Pats’ biggest rival but we can’t. Because you’re just that fucking annoying. Luckily you got rid of a home field that was actually difficult to play in, not that you have any home games this postseason.
It’s over. After 17 weeks of bliss and horror the regular season has gone dark like the deepest recesses of Peter King’s capacious colon. For some, like the tortured soul seen above, the end is a welcome one. Of course for others, let’s say those living in New England, the end is unbearable. Then there are those like me whose teams finished somewhere in the neighborhood of .500. Sure we’ll miss watching our favorite team week after week, but frankly we could probably use a break from one another. At least until they draft somewhere in the middle of the first round come April.
In the meantime those of us not fortunate enough to have a rooting interest in the playoffs can just sit back and watch as other fanbases come crashing back down to our level like so many of Tarvaris Jackson’s ill-fated heaves. But before we get too excited over the playoffs we have to take care of some lingering business. So continue after the jump for the regular season’s final Sean Taylor Memorial Meast of the Week.
Morten Andersen will likely be remembered as the most prolific kicker in NFL history and not, thankfully for him, his 1994 talk show. In this segment, Andersen comes off as patronizing and a tad lecherous as he interviews some NFL cheerleaders. Sure, I could just sit back and let you watch it without my uproarious, yet insightful, commentary– but that’s no fun for me. Let’s break it down, shall we:
0:05 Mr. Andersen’s wardrobe furnished by “Antoine’s”, Bourbon Street’s finest t-shirt stand. Check out their selection of Mardi Gras beads and alligator skulls.
0:35 I buy my shelf-paper by the waguespack, it’s more economical that way.
0:41 The Sainstsations have evolved, they have three boobs now.
1:15 “Hot chicks running in slow motion. It worked for ‘Baywatch’ and it will work for Morten Andersen.”
1:30 “No, my mother has not killed anyone on my behalf” WTF, Morty?
1:56 Right off the bat he asks Kristi if she can date players. Those European guys, always with the smooth-talk. “But you can date players from teams besides the Falcons, right?”
2:25 It’s just a coincidence Andersen went to Atlanta the following season, right?
2:48 Wow, the budget for the show’s set must have been in the tens.
3:09 Psssst, go to camera two.
3:12 “I can’t remember if I’ve seen you at road games. You are insignificant. I want to talk to the blonde some more.”
4:21 There’s no more bitter rivalry than the Falcons and Saints??? Egad, he must have eaten some tainted eel.
4:30 “No really… scratch and claw a little bit for me. Please.”
4:58 C’mon Angie, no one wants to be like Morten. Not even Morten wants to be like Morten.
5:15 Aw, hell no.
5:20 You can tell Morten is dying to ask if the trading cards also list “measurements” and “turn-ons”.
5:55 “Seriously, have you heard anything? The guys won’t talk to me because I’m just a kicker. The last time I even made eye-contact with Pat Swilling, he gave me a wedgie”
6:19“GAWDAMMIT SAY SOMETHING BAD ABOUT DEION!!!”
6:40 Wow, that’s a lot of forced laughter.
6:50 This is a pretty complex series of maneuvers, that must be why Kristi is sitting this one out. Not because she is creeped out by Morten or anything.
