[Royal Meeting Chambers, Buckingham Palace]

Prince Charles: My WHURD. What a positively de-LIGHT-ful blend of tea that was! And I do believe Geoffry has alas perfected his rhubarb tarts. Don’t you agree, mummy?

Queen Elizabeth: Splendid, my boy. Just splendid. I do hate to be peckish when we’re having CUMP-ny. Tell me, who a-GAIN are we expecting this afternoon?

Charles: Why, it’s the proprietor of an American footie club! They’re still longing with desire to bring their brand of sport across the pond. Anywho, we’ve tentatively agreed in principle to allow them to host another of their matches on an English pitch. I believe there are some clerical items to attend to, plus this fellow was positively INSISTENT on meeting you, mummy dearest.

Elizabeth: Very well. Do I know this chap you speak of?

Charles: Methinks not. You see, he’s never set foot on English soil before. In fact, it was a bit of a quarrel just to convince the Ministry of Defense to even grant him access. A gobby bloke, he his. Bit of a tosspot from what I hear…

(Door flies open)

Jerry: YEEEEEHAW! YEEEEEHAW! COME-A-DEE-FUCKIN-YEEEEEHAW!

Elizabeth: Oh my…

Charles: SIR! I’ll have you know there is a LADY present. And that LADY is my MUM!

Jerry: Well tickle my taint and call me Pappy! If you two don’t have the cutest little accents I’ve heard since that three-way back in Little Rock.

Charles: SILENCE! I won’t allow you to speak ill of us in these chambers!

Jerry: Now, now, hoss. Don’t get your knickers in a bunch. Back home in Texas we just tell it like it is. No bullshit.

Charles: Bollocks!

Jerry: Sorry Gandalf, no BOLLOCKS is what I meant. You Brits are just so damn POLITE!

(Scratches crotch)

Jerry: Well, well, well. Lookie what we have here. A Cowboy and a Queen. Pleasure darlin’. Name’s Jerry, but you can call me Double J.

(Blows out finger pistol, offers Queen his hand)

Elizabeth: A JERRY! Charles, you told me he was an American. You KNOW how I feel about those wankers from Berlin!

Charles: Mother, please…

Jerry: I’m 100% American ma’am. Born there, raised there, and good Lord willin’ I’ll die there…on my ranch, in a hail of gunfire and peyote smoke. The only German I have in me is something I picked up at a rave in Munich back when me and Hasselhoff were still speaking. YEEEEHAW!

(Slaps Royal Guard member on the ass)

Charles: Enough, you meandering pleb. Let’s just get this over with.

Jerry: All business. I like that, Señor Carlos. Can I call you Señor Carlos?

Charles: You most certainly may not.

Jerry: Alright, alright. I just sign these here papers and we’re all set then, hey Chuck? My boys will play one game in London, in exchange for a suitcase full of American greenbacks. None of that Euro bullshit. The gals down at Big Bob’s Boobie Bungalow don’t really comprende exchange rates.

Charles: First off, we owe you bugger all, old chap. Second, we use the pound system here in grand ole England.

Jerry: Pound system? That why your mom’s been eyeballin’ me since I got here? DO I MAKE YOU RANDY MUM?!?!

Elizabeth: Well, I never! Sir, if I may speak frankly, you’re acting like a bit of an ARSE! Not to mention you positively REEK of petrol and fag ends.

Jerry: THE FUCK YOU CALL ME?

(Door flies open)

Roger Goodell: My apologies, your majesty. Jerry, I knew this was a bad idea. Should have just had Boehner deny your passport application. Listen, as much as I hate to say it, the Dallas Cowboys are my…I mean, OUR…most marketable franchise. They’re known the world round.

Jerry: Damn straight.

Goodell: And we’ll never get a NFL team up and running in London without generating some real buzz over here.

Jerry: Amen, kimosabe.

(Pulls flask of Old Crow whiskey from his boot)

Goodell: Put that away, Jerry. Listen, you’re contractually obligated to play a game in London. These fine people owe you nothing. I’ve got you wrapped around my little finger, whether you want to believe it or not. You don’t want, oh, I don’t know, the DEA showing up in the locker room unannounced, do you?

Jerry: Woah, hey, let’s not go talkin’ crazy here. We’ll play. Who we got?

Goodell: Jacksonville will be the home team. The Cowboys will be visitors.

Jerry: Hell yeah we are. Cowboys home is the good ol’ U.S. of A.

(Fires revolver into the air)

Charles: This all sounds jolly good gents. But alas, I have my druthers about how you and your men will behave during your stay in Mother England. Is there a lad of, shall we say, less dodgy repute under your employ? Someone with interests other than shagging all the help?

(Door flies open)

Jason Garrett: Greetings. Queen Elizabeth, Prince Charles, my name is Jason Garrett, of the Bridgeport Garretts. Son of Jim, man of Princeton, “gaffer” of the Dallas Cowboys (chuckles), and dutiful employee of both of these fine gentlemen standing in front of you this delightful London afternoon.

Jerry: Shove it, kissass.

Garrett: Oh, Jerrald. You devil, you. Listen, you have my word, hand to heart, that my men will be on their best behavior next fall. Curfew at 8, in bed by 8:15, “Downton Abbey” reruns on the picture box — no more than two, it’ll be a game night after all — and it’s lights out.

Charles: So nary a pint will be drank, nor a lass bedded?

Garrett: Correct, sir.

Jerry: SONUVABITCH!

(Chokes Garrett out with his mink coat)

Goodell: Jerry…

Jerry: Fine, fine. No funny business.

(Crosses fingers)

Jerry: But I’m gonna go on record as saying this is FECKING BOLLOCKS.

Goodell: (Fines Jerry $7 million)

Charles: Very well then, we have an agreement. Gentlemen, if you’ll go ahead and sign here I’ll have my attorney fax over copies of the paperwork in the morning. We very much look forward to your visit in 2014.

(Extends hand)

Jerry: I BET YOU DO SEÑOR CARLOS!

(Goes for the shake, pulls back, kisses the Queen on the lips)

Jerry: YEEEEEEHAW! DOUBLE J’S GETTING SOME BRITISH STRANGE TONIGHT! POWPOWPOW!