86300603JM021_NEW_YORK_JETS

Mark Sanchez: Who we got this week, Thomas? The Chargers?

Thomas Jones: Yup.

Sanchez: Oh, man. They’ve won twelve in a row. They’re no joke.

Jones: Nope.

Sanchez: But I feel good, man. I know a lot of people doubted me, but I helped the team on Saturday. Just gotta keep at it.

Jones: Yup.

Sanchez: Where’s Coach Ryan?

Jones: I dunno, but my water glass is shakin’, so he can’t be far.

Sanchez: Oh man, here he comes.

(door flies open)

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Ryan: HOW THE FUCK YOU DOIN’, BOYS?

Sanchez: Good, coach.

Ryan: Let me tell you something, men. I feel fucking GREAT. Look out that window. PERFECT FUCKING DAY FOR GETTING READY TO KILLLLLLLLLLLL!

Sanchez: Yes, sir.

Ryan: You know what I did this morning, Paunch? There was this raccoon going through our garbage. Big raccoon. Bigger than Dustin Keller. So I said to the raccoon, “Raccoon, you’d best clear the fuck out. THAT’S A REX RYAN GARBAGE CAN, AND YOU DON’T WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU FUCK WITH A REX RYAN GARBAGE CAN.” Well, that raccoon stayed right there, not budging an inch. And you know what I did next? I shot him. With a shotgun. BLEW HIS FUCKING HEAD CLEAR OFF! He won’t be going through my old T-bones any time soon!

Sanchez: Yes. sir.

Ryan: Can you feel my intensity, Paunch! GOD DAMN, WE ARE FUCKING DEEP IN THESE PLAYOFFS LIKE A CHEERLEADER’S SNATCH! You see how I’m ready to killllllllll at all times?

Sanchez: I am, sir.

Ryan: You had a helluva fucking game last week, Paunch. I bet you got yourself a SHITLOAD of teenage pussy after that game, didn’t you? Didn’t you, boy?

Sanchez: Well, I…

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Ryan: Oh! Oh! Ol’ Paunch here punched himself into some teen tang! THAT’S GREAT HUSTLE!

(slaps Sanchez on the ass, hard)

Sanchez: Ouch!

Ryan: Paunch, from now on, your new name The Matador. CAUSE YOU TAMED THE PUSSYBULL!

Sanchez: Yes, sir.

Ryan: And Braylon Edwards, your new nickname is Roy Williams! BECAUSE YOU FUCKING SUCK! Now, men. MEN. We have a big game on Sunday. BIG FUCKING GAME. We’re going to San Diego and we ain’t going to surf and cruise for tuna tacos. We are going there to fucking killlllll, and I brought someone in today to help get that message across to you.

(door flies open)

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Buddy Ryan: HOW THE FUCK YOU BOYS DOIN’?

Ryan: They’re doin’ fucking GREAT, Dad. They’ve got their eyes open and their cocks up.

Buddy Ryan: Good, good. Now, I wanna tell you boys somethin’. Bring it in.

(everyone brings it in)

Buddy Ryan: Back in my day, there wasn’t no spread offenses or any of that chuck and duck shit. You read me? Football wasn’t some queerass throwing game. Football was fucking WAR. You take on your man, you beat him, and you stomp on his bloody fucking corpse. That’s the football I was raised on, and that’s the kind of football I want you to play on Sunday.

Sanchez: Yes, sir.

Buddy Ryan: I tell you to talk, boy? Son, who the fuck is that?

Ryan: That’s The Matador. He’s our QB.

Buddy Ryan: Quarterback? Yeah, he looks like a QB. Lock him in the icebox, will ya?

Ryan: That’s not legal anymore, Pop.

Buddy Ryan: Goddamn government fairies.

Ryan: Matador’s okay. HE’S A FUCKING KILLER! AREN’T YOU, MATADOR?!

Sanchez: Very much so.

Buddy Ryan: That boy is from Cali. I can smell the gay on his skin. Probably ain’t even killed a daisy. Now, I wanna teach you boys about how to properly gouge an eye. You listening? When you take one of those fucker’s eyes out, you do it WHEN THE OTHER MAN HAS LOWERED HIS HEAD. That way, you can get under there, and the refs can’t see it. Next order of business: breaking fingers. Always go for the pinky. If you’re lucky, the o-lineman across from you was too dumb to tape his pinky to his ring finger. You fucking pull that shit until you hear the pop. That way, you know you got him. You made your bounties yet? In Oklahoma, we don’t take the field without making our goddamn bounties.

Ryan: We sure have, Dad. Surf and Turf dinner to the first man to take a testicle away from that asshole Philip Rivers.

Buddy Ryan: Oh, good! I don’t like that boy. QB. Red ass. You take that fucker out, other team don’t stand a chance.

(door flies open)

Marmalard: YAAAAA BETTTAAA NOT PUT A BOUNTY ON SOMEBODAYYYYYYYYY!

Ryan: How’d you get in here?

Marmalard: AHAHAHAHA! I could storm Hannibal’s Army thru any door your fat ass can walk through, COCKWALLET!

Buddy Ryan: You’d best scram there, boy. Before you get hurt.

Marmalard: OOOH, I’M SO SCARED. “Loogit me, I’m Buddy Ryan and I punched Kevin Gilbride! THEN I GO HOME AND FUCK MY CATTLE!” You Ryans don’t scare KING LASERFACE! He is here to repel your bounties with the protection of the Almighty’s force field, granted to him through years and years of floaty abstinence! I’VE TURNED DOWN PUSSY THAT WOULD MAKE YOUR DICK POKE OUT OF ITS FATTY MOUSECAVE, ASSCUNT!

Ryan: You keep talkin’, Rivers. These boys here hear every word you’re saying.

Marmalard: You’ll never get me to stop talking! You Ryans think you have a patent on talking big shit. LOOGIT US! WE’RE THE SUPER BOWL FAVORITES! WE’RE SO FEARSOME! Well, guess what, fuckshelf? YOU CAN’T COACH TALL. I HAVE MALCOLM FLOYD AND HE’S 6’23” AND HE WILL SLAP YOU ON THE TOP OF HIS HEAD WITH HIS MASSIVE BLACK COCKLARIAT. FUCKING BELIEVE IT! I’m taking a ferry to Revis Island, and I’m going to tame every Godless savage on it! Soon, they will be swathed in the long underwear of our Lord! I’LL SEE YOUR ASS ON SUNDAY! THE DAY OF OUR MARMALARD!

(door shuts)

Buddy Ryan: He don’t scare me.

Ryan: ARE YOU MEN GONNA TAKE THAT ASSHOLE’S SHIT LYING DOWN?

Everyone: No!

Ryan: Bring it in tighter, men.

(everyone brings it in tighter)

Ryan: Men, no one is picking us to win on Sunday. They think we’re happy just to have won one game. They think we’ve had our fun, and now it’s time to lay down and fucking die. They think the Chargers are taller, and faster and stronger than you. But there’s one thing those fuckers aren’t counting on: HATE. Men, this is a game of hate. You have to hate that man across from you. You have to want to fucking murder him. Because he’s the scum of the fucking Earth who deserved it. You need that hate to sit inside you. Seethe. Fester. Make you do ugly, horrible things you didn’t think you were capable of doing. You have to want to kill the man across from you. You have to shed your civilized urges and think only of evil, terrible things. BLOOD. GUTS. WAR. You have to become heartless psychopaths. ARE YOU FUCKING READY TO BECOME PSYCHOPATHS?!

Everyone: Yes!

Ryan: I am fucking psychopathic right now, men. If that fucking Marmalard walks in here again, I will fucking sit on his head until it squashes like a grape. I WILL SHOOT HIM LIKE A VARMINT GOING THROUGH MY GARBAGE. Then I’ll dance on his fucking skull. And that’s what I want out of you. I want DEATH. I want MAIMING. You men are fucking WINNERS. You are fucking MURDERERS. YOU ARE THE FUCKING PARTY OF WAR AND THOSE WHO SEE YOU COMING KNOW THERE IS NO LONGER NEITHER TIME NOR HOPE. I want you to ATTACK. To INFLICT. To HURT. I want you to fucking killllllllll!!! Are you fucking ready to kill?!

Everyone: Yes!

Ryan: Are we gonna fucking win!

Everyone: Yes!

Ryan: And are we all gonna go out for tacos and dog sex afterwards?

Everyone: Yes!

Ryan: FUCKING KILL ON THREE! ONE TWO THREE!

Everyone: KILLLLLLLLL!

Ryan: Fuck! I need fresh boxers! Got the swampass again!

Sanchez: We are so winning on Sunday.