Matt Leinart: BRAH! Yo brah. I just made, like, the most epic discovery since man found text message technology. You gotta peep this.

Darnell Dockett: What?

Matt Leinart: Brah, they’re gonna call me the new Sir Issac Newman, that’s how epic this is.

Dockett: What is it?

Leinart: [Pulls out beer] ICED, BRAH!

Dockett: … You discovered Smirnoff Ice?

Leinart: Nah, don’t get silly on me. I mean, c’mon. I didn’t discover Ice, brah. Mr. Smirnoff did that. I discovered icing brahs.

Dockett: What’s the difference?

Leinart: Braahhh, brah, brah. Lemme help you out. All right – an unsuspecting brah is out in public just doing his thang, right? Maybe trying to get his mack on. Maybe just handling his shit.

Dockett: Okay?

Leinart: Then, completely out of nowhere, another brah drops an Ice on him with the quickness. Totally puts him on the spot with the Ice.

Dockett: And?

Leinart: AND!? The brah that got iced has to drop to one knee and chug that bitch on the spot. Brah got no choice. Brah just got iced. See, the point is to Ice a brah at the most inopportune and embarrassing moment. Preferably with the most fruity flavor of the Ice.

Dockett: That’s gay as fuck.

Leinart: Ya brah, that’s the point. Brah gotta some chug some fruity girly brew in front of his friends and associates. It’s the ultimate in brahmiliation. But – and here’s the thing – there’s a catch.

Dockett: All right?

Leinart: If the brah getting iced whips out an Ice of his own when getting Iced, the brah doing the initial icing has to chug both Ices. TURNIN’ THE TABLES ON A BRAH!

Dockett: So you faggots are carrying around Smirnoff Ices on the off chance that one of your stupid-ass friends might try to “Ice” you? I will never understand white people.

Leinart: ‘Course, brah. That’s how the game is played.

Dockett: Dumbest fucking shit I ever heard.

Leinart: That may be true, brah. But I believe I just pulled out an Ice on you. Assume the position.

Dockett: I ain’t doing that shit.

Leinart: You have to, brah. That’s the rules.

Dockett: Yeah, that’s the rules of your retarded little frat boy bullshit that I ain’t never agreed to. I subscribe to the Darnell-Dockett-Does-The-Fuck-He-Wants game. According to those rules, I ain’t gotta do shit I don’t wanna. And I don’t wanna do that shit.

Leinart: Still the rules, brah. No brah ever said life was fair.

Dockett: And what happens if someone don’t chug the Ice?

Leinart: Bad form, brah. A complete loss of brahspect.

Dockett: That’s it? No ass whooping? Kind of weak shit is that?

Leinart: You say it like it’s nothing.

Dockett: [Swipes Ice from Leinart's hand and shoves it back in his face] ICED, BRO!

Leinart: What? Nah brah, naaaaahhh, you can’t do that. Illegal icing procedure.

Dockett: The fuck I can’t. So, now what? You gonna have bad bro form? How we supposed to respect a quarterback who got bad bro form? Shit, I bet Kurt Warner would’ve already been finished chugging it by now. Would’ve added a little prayer after it too.

Leinart: Low blow, brah, low blow.

Dockett: I’mma tell Coach Whisenhunt if you don’t. You think he wants to hear how you don’t display leadership qualities?

Leinart: Sigh.

[to himself] Climb the ladder, Matt, climb the ladder.