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AARON RODGERS AARON RODGERS!

Aaron Rodgers aaron rodgers, aaron rodgers aaron rodgers (AARON RODGERS!) aaron rodgers! Aaron Rodgers?

Aaron. Rodgers.

By one sports network’s count, there are exactly eight NFL teams that have not publicly declared “no interest” in signing Michael Vick, one of which happens to be the Green Bay Packers. They’re seriously considering picking up Vick, and I think such a signing would be a good move–for them. Read the rest of this entry »

FAT GUY IN TRACK SUIT [in booth eating pizza]: You Jimmy?

JIMMY: Yeah.

FAT GUY: Yeah, that’s some hat, kid. Ah, what the hey. Siddown, why doncha?

JIMMY: Thanks. [sits down]

FAT GUY: Here, have a slice. Four cheeses on this pie. Best in the state. Fuggetaboutit. Hey, Jimmy. Jimmy, don’t look so nervous, eh? Come on, Jimmy, have a slice.

JIMMY: I’m alright. Thanks.

FAT GUY: So, uh, you need some taking care of someone in your organization? That’s what our mutual friend said to me. So who we lookin’ at here?

JIMMY: So you guys? You, uh, k–

FAT GUY: Shhhshhh, Jimmy. Do me a favor and shuddafuggup, okay? We don’t use that word. We take care of people. You know, like an escort service. ONLY THEY’RE THE ONES THAT GET BLASTED!!! [slaps table] HAHAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHA!

JIMMY: Haha, yeah, that wasn’t really funny…

FAT GUY: I can see you’re really nervous, Jimmy. And let me tell you somethin, okay? Some people…they just deserve it. We don’t ask questions, we just make your life easier…for a price. Now come on, eat some pie.

JIMMY: No, really. I’m good.

FAT GUY: It’s delicious. Four cheeses.

JIMMY: No.

FAT GUY: [cocks gun under the table] Eat it.

[Jimmy takes a slice and eats it]

Alright, alright, no more funny stuff. Down to business. So what’s the occasion? The UPS man fuckin’ your wife? Somebody makin’ trouble near yo’ residence? Who’s the man o’ the hour?

JIMMY: [pulls out photo] This guy…

FAT GUY: I see. Well, a person of this high profile is going to cost a little extra.

JIMMY: I don’t care. This might be the only way I, uh, I mean Aaron gets to play.

FAT GUY: Alright, the final price tag is gonna be–

[door flies open]

T. J. HOUSHMANZADEH: Hey.

FAT GUY: What the fuck do you want?

JIMMY: Get out of here!

T. J. HOUSHMANZADEH: Aaron Rodgers. You play for the Red Wings, right?

AARON RODGERS: No, I’m Jimmy. I’m–

T. J. HOUSHMANZADEH: Do you have anything to drink?

FAT GUY: I’m gettin’ outta here. [gets up and leaves]

AARON: Thanks a lot, you Persian fuck. I just went through all of this for nothing.

T. J. HOUSHMANZADEH: Okay, bye.

Dear Scrotal Seam,

Since you won’t return my phone calls, and you refuse to use a computer for anything other than acquiring Canadian pharmaceuticals, I figured my only recourse is to send you this letter. They do have postal service in Bumfuck, Mississippi, don’t they?

Listen, I understand that you love the game and all of the media fellating you reap as a result of your play, but if you have this “itch” to come back you could have at least dropped me a line. I don’t even care if you play this year, in fact, I think it would be pretty fucking great. With all this football crap going on I’ve fallen way behind in my regimen of naps and vacations over the past two off-seasons. All I’m asking is that you stop dicking me around like this year after year.

If you need me for any reason I’ll be doing the same thing I do during every training camp, sneaking over to your house during film study and butt-fucking Deanna on your freshly mown lawn.

Yours In Christ,
Aaron Rodgers