[Morton's Steakhouse. Lance Briggs sits at a table, scrolling through his BlackBerry]

Briggs: Hmm… Lessee. Google “Lance Briggs.” Nice! Check out all these results! Lance Briggs Wikipedia page… Lance Briggs personal website… Lance Briggs re-signs with Bears… WHAT? “Lance Briggs, Certifiably Insane, Is Unhappy with the Contract He Signed Last Month“? Man, that is some BULLSHIT.

Waiter: Your iced tea, sir.

Briggs: Thank you.

[takes a sip]

Whoa whoa whoa, this tea is far too cold. We need to renegotiate some sort of de-icing deal.

Waiter: I’m sorry?

Briggs: Damn right you’re sorry. I wanted ICED tea, not frozen-ass tea.

Waiter: Oh, well I can pour some of that ice out. I’ll be right back.

Briggs: NO. You will give me an entirely new glass of iced tea with 50% less ice. No more, no less. Brian Urlacher assured me that I would get the glass of iced tea that I deserved. Did you not read that in the newspaper?

Waiter: I must have missed that, sir. I’ll be right back.

Briggs: Fucking IMPOSSIBLE to get decent service in this town.

[two minutes later]

Waiter: And here we — sir, did you switch tables?

Briggs: I gotta be able to see out the window. I can’t believe you’d insult me with a booth in the back. Who am I, Rosa Parks? And where’s my food? This engine burns a lot of fuel, knowwhamsayin’?

Waiter: Your entree will be out shortly.

[five minutes pass]

Briggs: [on phone] …you would NOT believe how cold it was. Like, what were they thinking? Who serves iced tea that cold? Oh hey, gotta go. Retard McFuckup’s coming back.

Waiter: The porterhouse, sir.

Briggs: STEAK?!? Who told you to bring me steak?

Waiter: You did, sir.

Briggs: Oh. Well yeah, but that was BEFORE I saw what the special looked like. Why didn’t you tell me the special looked that fucking delicious? I just got off the phone with my lawyer. This injustice will not be taken lightly.

Waiter: Sigh… which special do you want, sir?

Briggs: I want what that man’s having.

Waiter: The chicken. Very well. I’ll have it brought out.

Briggs: No, no. I want HIS chicken.

[twenty minutes later]

Waiter: Your dessert will be right out, sir. How was the Chicken purloin f’you?

Briggs: Not nearly as good as the chicken the 49ers would have gotten me.

Waiter: Very good, sir. And here comes your dessert.

Briggs: Man, what is this shit? I ordered crème brûlée!

Waiter: Sir, this is crème brûlée [points at menu] See, “liqueur infused custard, topped with caramelized sugar.”

Briggs: Well, what’s the one that comes in different flavors with jokes on the inside of the wrapper?

Waiter: Laffy Taffy?

Briggs: Motherfucker, you should have known that’s what I meant.