Romo: Hey, I think I can see my car in the parking lot from here. Wait…yeah–no, that’s not my car. Well, it looks just like mine. Oh wait, my car isn’t blue. Is it?

Peter King: Excuse me, Tony. Do you have time for an interview while you stretch.

Romo: Oh, hey Peter what’s up?

Peter King: You–you remembered my name!

Romo: Well, yeah. You’ve interviewed me every day for the past week, since mini-camp started. Hey, is my car blue?

Peter King: Wow. You have got to start spending less time with Jessica, Tony.

Romo: What do you mean? Why do you keep saying that to me?

Peter King: Well…um…be…because you’ve been so forgetful and I just–

Romo: Peter do you have a brother?

Peter King: Oh, no way I’d set her up with anyone in my family, especially after–

Romo: No, Peter. [looking over Peter's shoulder] Do you have a brother?

Peter King: Just one, but he’s in…Oh fuck.

[turns around slowly]

BIFF KING: Peter! I called your wife on a pay phone! She told me where you were. My, my, that lady has such a lovely voice. It reminds me of cold beer beading up on a baby’s ass. 

Romo: How did you get in here?

Peter King: What are you doing here? I am WORKING!

Romo: Hey, did you see any blue cars in the lot out there?

BIFF KING: Relax, Stevie, don’t get your panties in a bunch. Just came to see my little brother is all, and slowly ruin his life.  

Peter King: Stop calling me Stevie! I’m trying to do an interview here!

BIFF KING: Just like old times, ain’t it Stevie? You’re chatting up this one girl, but then she starts talking to me and before you know it, instead of hanging out with you, she’s driven her station wagon right into a bridge impediment.

Peter King: That was our mom! You jumped up from the back seat and covered her eyes! I missed my baseball game that day because of you!

BIFF KING: There you go again, Stevie, making shit up about Super Biff again. Just like the state of New Jersey made shit up about me robbing a liquor store with a chainsaw while I was high on Liquid Plumr.   

Peter King: They had you on video!

BIFF KING: That wasn’t me.

Romo: Hey, if you guys are going to have a conversation, you should probably get off the field.

[BIFF stares at Romo]

BIFF KING: Hey, Tony Romo. What’s happening?

Romo: Hi.

BIFF KING: Tony Romo, huh? More like Tony Shitbag. The third.

Romo: What?

BIFF KING: Fist any assholes lately? You’ve got such slick hands you could probably get elbow-deep in Andre Gurode’s anus if you’re not paying attention. Which you aren’t. Because you suck. Awwwww [spins finger around and points it at Romo] How did that taste, pussy boy?

Romo: Peter, we’ll pick this up later. [walks off]

BIFF KING: Yeah, better get going, Dorothy. That yeast infection isn’t going to treat itself. Heh heh heh. Believe me, I know.

Peter King: You’re unbelievable. You just chased away my interview! I’m trying to do a job!

BIFF KING: Just take another NyQuil, Stevie. This isn’t the first time you’ve been cockblocked by ol’ El Segundo here. A little composure is in order, along with a little breakfast. Stevie, I think you and the big dog need to mosey on down to the awful Waffle House and settle this over some Texas Toast.

Peter King: You don’t have any money, do you?

BIFF KING: I’ll pay you back. I’ll drive. I’m the blue 2008 Range Rover in the lot over there, in the back.

Peter King: Where did you get that?

BIFF KING: Whoo, listen to you, Mister Up In My Business. Why, do you want one? Can you afford a machine like this writing for your little magazine?

Peter King: Mmmmmaybe I can!

[they head to the parking lot]

BIFF KING:  So how’s that little girl of yours doing?

Peter King: Don’t ask.

Trent Green
Jake Delhomme
David Carr
Kurt Warner
Matt Leinart
JP Losman
Steve McNair
Marc Bulger
Chad Pennington
Tarvaris Jackson
Vince Young

What’s the point of injuring David Carr? That’s like robbing the Take-a-penny tray at the Mobilmart. Look at him. He was fucking begging for you to injure him. Oooh, are you planning to take out John Fourcade next? Diabolical!

Fuckheads.

Stop wasting your time with these slapdicks and go after the big prize, you bastards. I’m talking the Bradys, and Favres, and Mannings of the world: the guys who like to rest a sandwich on Kornheiser’s head while he works their shafts. THOSE are the fuckers I would enjoy seeing writhing on the ground in agony. Instead, I get some piddly-shit VY quad injury. Fuck that. Stop wasting your time with these jayvee bitches. Use your head. There’s a helmet on top of it that is very hard and can break a fibula just *snap* like that.

And you call yourselves crazed dogs. You ain’t crazed SHIT.