[Vince turns off TV]

Vince McMahon: Now I wanted to thank you again Shawne for taking part in our pay-per-view One Night Stand. As you know, the world sports entertainment can be a great opportunity for athletes of your caliber during offseason, suspensions, even retirement. Just look at that Adam “Pacman” Jones character. Possibly even a gateway to film acting, as Dwayne Johnson has demonst-

Shawne Merriman: Yeah. Super. Pay me.

Vince: Hey, hey, hey, Shawne. Let’s hold on a minute here. We have a contract drawn up. A contract that obligates you to more than one smacking with a Singapore cane.

Merriman: Contract nothing. We settled on one appearance for an agreed-upon fee.

Vince: Maybe we entered into a verbal agreement, but your agent had you sign a form saying you’d take part in at least one match.

Merriman: I will rape him to the point of deepest human agony. Then rape him in a seriocomic manner. Hipsters will enjoy it.

Vince: Be that as it may, you have an obligation to fulfill, Shawne. I’ve already booked you in a tag team match.

Before you get all bent out of your hulking shape, you should know that I wouldn’t pair you with just anyone. In fact, I’ve already found someone you share a history with.

[Door flies open]

Philip Rivers: Ya betta ask somebodddaaaaayyyyyy!

Merriman: Fuck. I suddenly feel that my rape stick is losing its potency.

Rivers: FUCK IS RIGHT TINY EPILEPTIC DANCER! I’ve gone through an off-season of recouping a ticker tape ACL and I’m ready to get out there and flay some NEIGHBORFUCKING ball sacks! You ready to join me? ARE YOU? HUH? WHAT? HUH? FUCK YOU!

We don’t even need a contract. When it comes to killin’, Shawne and I are ready and willin’, right you sweaty monster-sized steroid negroid mongaloid? If Antonio Cromartie can beat up valets for me, you can at least give me one wrass-a-lin’ match. Don’t pay this huckster any mind. I wanna see your commitment. You should want to do this like a passed out sorority girl.

Merriman: Well, when you put it that way. Still, I don’t like the way he did me with the contract business.

[Rivers holds out the contract Merriman signed, which he crumples it into a ball that he winds up and throws furiously in the direction of McMahon. It floats in the air for the entirety of their meeting]

Vince: Fellas, fellas. lot of animosity here, I must say. If we can curtail the outbursts for a moment, I’d like to introduce you fine gentleman to the combatants you will be facing in the squared circle come next month.

Rivers: What in the name of the great big shimmery cock in the sky…

Road Dogg Jesse James: LLLLLLadies and gentleman, boys and girls, children of all ages, D-Generation X proudly presents THE TAG TEAM CHAMPIONS OF THE WWWWWWWOOOOORRRRLLLDDD, the Road Dog Jesse James, the Bad Ass Billy Gunn, The! New! Age! Outlaws!

Rivers: This cockfragment stole my intro.

James: Stole what? I started using that line back in 1997!

Rivers: But I feel like I could have invented it.

James: You stole that line from The Squid and the Whale!

Rivers: Yeah, well, you stole my DNA from the seed I shot into your mom.

James: Son of a bitch!

[Rivers shrieks and runs behind Merriman]

Rivers: Spring forth my burly protector and save me!

Merriman: You know this shit is fake, right?

Vince: We don’t even try to pretend it’s real anymore.

Rivers: Of course, of course. I knew that. I was…getting into character. I’m gonna be one of those…those heels. They’re the BIG SWINGING DICKS, right? That’s me all the way and twice on gameday.

I already went ahead picked our entrance music. Now we just gotta come up with some cool wrass-a-lin’ names. Laserface is a natural fit for me. You? Hmm. Yooooouuuu… Lessee… The Big Shit? The Hymenbreak Kid? Ah! Here we go: Billy the Rapeasaurus.

Merriman: I think we can just go with our real names.

Rivers: Sure thing, Billy, whatever you say. Next thing: finishing move. You cool with pummeling the guy while I yell at the crowd? I think we can make this work.

Merriman: I knew I shouldn’t've done this shit in the first place.

Rivers: Hey Vince, any chance at of a multi-year contract?

In an interview with San Diego Union-Tribune, besides giving the photographer the laserface, Philip Rivers claims that his recuperation from his ACL injury is going swimmingly. Photoshop wunderkind LSUfreek has the lost footage of the one hiccup in the process. Hey, a Charlie Steiner sighting!

Shawne Merriman: Aw, fuck, again!? This is the second one that’s been torched in the last few weeks. Can’t be having this shit.

Dexter, man, you gotta help me out with this.

Dexter Morgan: Well, usually I only handle murders. This scene here, though, it’s remarkably clean. Expertly done. Almost as though they’re trying to send a message? But to whom?

Oh my God. There seems to be some sort of inscription here.

“Get hence, the hearse is at your door—the grim black stallions wait—
“They bear your clay to place to-day. Speed, lest ye come too late!
“Go back to Earth with lip unsealed—go back with open eye,
“And carry my word to the Sons of Men or ever ye come to die:
“That the sin they do by two and two they must pay for one by one,
“And . . . the God you took from a printed book be with you, Tomlinson!”

Okay. Okay. Before we jump to a quick conclusion here, I’d…

[Merriman charges off in a rage]

[Sigh] Just like my dad.

[Chargers training facility]

Tomlinson: What up, Shawne?

[Merriman slams him against locker]

Tomlinson: Aw, man, my threads, baby!

Merriman: Why make car go boom? Why make car two go boom?

Tomlinson: Your car? Shit. You think I did that? The fuck gave you that idea?

[Door flies open]

Philip Rivers: Ya betta ask somebodddddaaaaayyyyy!

LaKneeInjury, what’ve you done!? First you sabotage our team by being Gimpy Longstocking at the end of the year, now you go all Ralph Wiggum on our personal property? I have half an ACL to take this boot up your ass.

Is this how you thank one of our defensive stalwarts? Huh? Is it? Huh? FUCK YOU

And, hey, loogit what I found here in LaArsonist’s locker:

Oh, howdy there, Professor Gas Can. What’s that, teach? Holding a lecture on a practicums of SUV explosivity?

Think you’re so secure now that Michael Turner’s gone, you can go what you want, Viceroy Vizio? WELL YOU CAN’T, COCKBAG! I WON’T HAVE YOUR POWER GRAB!

Tomlinson: No, no, that’s that mine. I’ve never seen that. I couldn’t!

Rivers: Je accuse, LT! Je buttfucking accuse! Your visor can’t hide your guilt, dammit!

Merriman: CRUSH KILL DESTROY

Norv Turner: [Entering] Hey, Phil, what’d you say you needed this vehicle registry for team members for?

Rivers: …

Uhhhh

I

Ummm

[Throws down smoke bomb. It suspends in the air for about 25 seconds, taking a few loops, before gently touching down]

Rivers: Bwahahahaha!

Tomlinson: You wanna just go to his house and bang his wife?

Merriman: Sure, why not?

Jeweler: Oh, hiiiiiiiiiii! Anything I can interest you in today? We’ve got a great selection of pieces in for the holiday. Some lovely diamond pendants, diamond solitaire earrings and an assortment of gleaming shiny rocks that women would do unspeakable things for. Let me know if you need to look at something.

Husband: Yeah, you know, trying to pick out the Valentine’s gift. Gotta say: I’m looking for something a little away from the tried-and-true ordinary diamond and gold thing.

Jeweler: All right. Okay. So you’re cheap. We have just the thing.

Jeweler: We call this “The Tesoro.” It’s a garnet pedant with superb detailing of the ventricles and the ateries. Me? I would to get one of these from my boyfriend. The symbolic connection with the heart and Valentine’s Day is, like, so strong, y’know. And for a mere $849.99, it’s practically a steal.

Husband: Hmmm. I don’t know.

[Door flies open]

Philip Rivers: Ya betta ask someboddddaaaaaayyyyy!

Jeweler: Oh, hiiiiiiii! Did I hear you correctly? Are you looking to pop the question to that certain somebody? Well, I can -

[Rivers throws shopping bag, which wafts in the air for 30 seconds then falls two feet in front of him, spilling the contents onto the floor]

Rivers: NO GODDAMIT! LIKE FELLOW HENPECKED HUBBY OVER HERE [slaps him on back], I’M LOOKING FOR A GLEAMING FUCKING BLOW JOB BAUBLE THAT’LL MAKE MY NORMALLY PRUDISH WIFE BREAK OUT THE FREAK NASTY SAUCE! SEE FOR YOURSELF!

[Takes photo out of wallet, shoves it in her face]

That’s Jerri Blank, I mean, my non-football playing half, Tiffany. Think her libido belies her dead-eyed Laura Bush gaze? Helllllllll no. Sure, she looks like my slutty Persian nanny, but she’s only as loose as an old British nanny. That’s what I get for getting hitched with my high school sweetheart. Why else do you think I keep up this public celibacy stuff. There can’t be no fun if Laserface don’t get none.

Of course, if LaKneeInjury hadn’t bailed on me in the conference title game, I’d be swimming in wifey poon right now with a Super Bowl ring. You see how beatable those Patriots were? DID YOU? THEY WERE! I HAD THEM! FUCK YOU!

If I had half a ligament and some willing teammates, it could’ve been the real superstar QB pulling the upset of the century, instead of Eli going back to his hotel room to suck face with his Pillow Pal in celebration.

Now I have to make the golden sacrifice to the pussy gods.

Jeweler: Oooookay. Well. We do have some fine pieces for your wife. Let’s start with the “Perno dei Vestiti.”

Here we’ve got twin 14 carat gold pin earrings with an inlaid diamond at the center, perfect for reminding your special someone of her wifely, distaff, domestic duties. Women love that! I know if my boyfriend bought me one, I’d totally fall for him all over again. What a considerable return for a small fifteen hundred dollar outlay.

Rivers: Yeah, uh-huh, she’s married to an NFL quarterback. That bitch don’t do laundry, or cook, or stay off the phone with her stupid friends or keep her weight down or GIVE THE ME THE PROPER RELEASE I REQUIRE!

Jeweler: Not so hot on the Perno, huh? Okay, let’s move onto the “Dolore.”

Look at the craftsmanship on those tiny embedded spikes. You’re sure to get a reaction from her from you slip that on her finger. And I want to point out that the spikes are diamond-tipped, to ensure greater sharpness. As a woman, that’s something I’d like to know. And, of course, we only accept non-conflict diamonds due to the -

Rivers: Are you fucking kidding me? What’s the point, then? I wanna know that some African kid suffered to get that shit! If Tiffany can’t wear it knowing that someone endured unspeakable hardship and possible physical mutilation for her material gain, I might as well slip an onion ring on her fattening digits. That’s why we only go to places that only sell Shaq Trade Coffee. We need to constantly reaffirm our dominant status.

Jeweler: Well, I can see you’re a tough sell. Or should I say your wife is! [forced laughter] Now, I’m not supposed to show this to aaaaall our customers, but for you, I’m willing to make an exception.

It’s the championship ring for the 1979 Pittsburgh Steelers, in pristine condition after being ripped from the lifeless, homeless corpse of former center-turned-trainwreck Mike Webster. The four diamonds symbolize the fourth world championship that the team had won. Now, I know what you don’t play for Pittsburgh…

[Rivers swipes it from her hand, slams money clip on counter]

Rivers: WWWWWOOOOOO! LIKE SHE CAN TELL THE FUCKING DIFFERENCE! SHE THINKS FOOTBALL INVOLVES JETSKIS! YAAAAAAA! I FINALLY GOT ONE! THINK YOU’RE SO HOT, BEN AND ELI? CLASS OF ‘04 DRAFT, MY HAIRY, THROBBING COCK! I GOT ONE NOW TOO, ASSHOLES! TIME TO SIRE A FEW MORE DAUGHTERS!

[Logan International Airport]

Public address: Now boarding United Airlines Flight 1274 to San Diego at Gate B32. Now boarding Flight 1274 at Gate B32.

Ticket agent: Please pay attention to the assigned section on your ticket. We’ll begin by seating first and executive classes. Please have your boarding passes ready.

Mhmm. Okay. Thank you. Enjoy your flight.

Mhmm. Okay. Thank you. Enjoy your flight.

And you sir?

[Luggage flies open]

Philip Rivers: Ya betta ask somebodddddaaaayyyyyy

Where’s the section for throbbing pulsar QBs who throw fewer picks than Golden Boy Brady? All that dirty, awful sex outside the bonds of marriage done clouded his mind with sin. The mind should be clouded with unreleased sexual energy, dammit!

There’s gotta be some sort of football-shaped superstructure for me attached to the plane with shelves of the latest leather bound books on abstainance and items to throw slowly at the wall to ease my animalistic urges.

Agent: I’ll have to check on that.

Rivers: In the meantime, I’ve got a technical question: where can I stow these cumbersome knee braces? If I may, I’d like to keep them lodged in my useless running back’s duodenum. I hope you painstakingly searched his bags for unlawful containers of pussy juice.

[slaps Tomlinson on the back, kicks his suitcase]

90 PERCENT READY!? THAT’S WHAT YOU SAID ALL FUCKING WEEK, YOU SMOLDERING SACK OF GOAT LEAVINGS! MY ACL IS SLICED TO MEXICAN RIBBONS AND I PLAYED THE ENTIRE FUCKING GAME! AND YOU! 90 PERCENT GETS YOU TWO FUCKING CARRIES!? WHAT DOES THAT EXTRA 10 PERCENT GET YOU? ANOTHER BLOCK ON A PASSING DOWN? ANOTHER THREE MINUTES OF ANAL, YOU BASELESS FORNICATOR! MAYBE THE ENERGY IT TAKES TO REMOVE YOUR HELMET WHILE SITTING IN YOUR PUFFY COAT ALL GAME ON THE SIDELINES?! BUT YOU COULDN’T EVEN DO THAT!

Tomlinson: coldcoldcoldcoldcoldcoldcoldcoldcoldcoldcoldcold

Rivers: You know what? I’ve found a new seatmate on the plane!

[Pulls over Michael Turner]

Now let’s see you finish the Sudoku without my help, asshole! Hope they give you extra blankets you can swaddle yourself in when the puzzle turns tough. And if you even try to play my Nintendo DS without asking, I’ll hang you from the wing by your silly facemask and dangle your vagina dry at 40,000 feet.

[Plane cabin]

Rivers: What the fuck, Turner? What’re you doing sitting with Tomlinson? We were supposed to watch Into the Wild together and rethink our life choices!

Turner: I dunno. I was reading the book version and he just flumped down.

Tomlinson: (yawning) Aaaahhh, yeah, Phil. In so much pain, can’t move nowzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Rivers: Coddammit. Now I know I’m gonna get stuck sitting next to Merriman. Just wait ’til the ‘roid tremors start and he tries to pick clean my head with the plastic dinner cutlery again. And he chews so loud, we use it in practice to simulate crowd noise.

If I have to put up with that, I gotta take a piss first.

Flight attendant: No, you must take your seat, sir. We’re initiating take-off procedure. You may go to the bathroom once the pilot has indicated that passengers may move throughout the cabin.

Rivers: YOU ARE BRINGER OF PILLOWS AND DRINKS, NOT THE IMPEDER OF TINKLE TRIPS! You want me to have to wait until we’re in the air? What if the runway is backed up and we have to sit in line for 30 minutes? What, then? I clench my fists for lack of sexual AND bodily waste release? Got something on your airline safety card for that? Huh? With clenched fists and soiled seats? Huh? FUCK YOU

[Walks to bathroom door, opens it, revealing Shawne Merriman]

Merriman: RRRGGRRAARRRR! Finally, mobile rape chamber is complete!

[Pulls in Rivers, slams door shut]

Rivers: NONONONONO I’M CELIBATE! I’M CELIBATE!

AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Well, who else can I root for?

What’s this you’re showing me?

Sharp stick in the what? Eye?

Ouf. Hmm. Does look kinda painful. Awful pointy, too. And my eye? Really? Sounds like that might hurt. Couldn’t just jam it under my shoulder blade, huh? Okay, I suppose those are the rules. I do have two eyes, after all. And fuck pulling for Brady, Welkaaaaah, HGHarrison, Belicheat and Kool Aid. And fuck Marmalard, Norval, The Gigantosaur and whiny ass LT. Cromartie’s kinda cool, but whatever.

[Piercing screams]

Whooo. Ahhhh. Omigodomigodomigod. That hurts like shit. But, y’know: It’s not so bad, all things considered. Much better than that Chargers-Patriots shit.

Update: I was thrown out of the Patriots bar because I was the only one rooting against the Patriots. What sorry pathetic bitches you Pats fans are.

The game may not be all that competitive on the field but there’ll be plenty of grist for the douche mill in this pitched battle of the obnoxious, with the bandwagon, pink hatted, fairweather, occasionally violent, racist and retaaaaaaahded fans of the Paytreeuts square off with Marmalard himself. The combined forces of douche converging could make the universe collapse on itself, which is a preferable eventuality than the Patriots winning it all. Anyway, WHO YA GOT?

For those in the D.C. area who care to join, I’ll be watching the game at Murphy’s in Alexandria, home of “the largest Patriots fan club in the mid-Atlantic region.” Sure, the team will almost certainly win, but all that C4 I plant might put the kibosh on their celebration. I’m kidding, of course. Grenades will work fine. Thanks for those, Ufford!

[Sunday]

[Ext. Gillette Stadium]

Tom Brady: La la la, getting off my private helicopter. Time to go to another Super Bowl. (whistles merry tune)

Mornin’, Joe. How’s the wife?

Security Guard: I’m sorry, Mr. Brady, but you can’t come in.

Tom Brady: What do you mean? I have a game to play.

Security Guard: (holds up piece of paper) Restraining order here says you’re not allowed within 500 yards of the San Diego Chargers defense.

Brady: WHAT? That’s preposterous.

Security Guard: Something about (reads) “…offensive nature inhibits San Diego Chargers from peacefully and successfully running business operations.”

Brady: “Offensive nature”?!? I’m the QUARTERBACK.

Security Guard: So then you see the logic.

Brady: NO! I don’t see the logic! Who would do such a thing?!?

[door flies open]

Philip Rivers: Ya betta ask somebodddaaaaaayyyyyyyy!!!

[Joe's Diner]

Matt: Evah notice ha’ cawnfurunce title games ah often bettah than the Sooper Bowl? Is it because a’ the familiarity within tha cawnfurunces? ‘Cass the cowmpetition knows each other sah well? Maybe ‘cass there’s nat two weeks to lose ya mind abaat the game?

Joe Montana: Eh. I don’t know about that. In ‘88, we blew out the Bears in the NFC Title Game then had to come from behind to edge the Bengals in Super Bowl XXIII. In ‘81, the conference title game was classic and the Super Bowl was tight. In ‘84 and ‘89, we won by blowouts in the conference championships, then won by blowouts two weeks later.

Matt: Ha abaat ya just say samthing ta sapport mah fackin aggyament, ’stead a’ making me look like a jerk, Haaaannuh Maaantanah? Lemme tell ya ‘nother thing: Auld Billie Walsh a’ been damn ashamed a’ these eggs flaaarentine ya made today. Taste like ya fried up a lil’ baby Brady meconium and cooked it with ya mah’s discaaarded yeast. Least ya coulda done was addad sahm fresh spinach.

Montana: Real cute. You are free to leave whenever, you know? Been hanging around here, what? Like three, four solid months now? Don’t you have a job or something? A girlfriend? A car getting towed?

Matt: Far as you’re concerned, Maaantanah, my jab is tah hang around this fine estaaablishment and dispense my wry observations on tha game. Ya jab is ta sling that hash and keep tha Irish caaaffees comin’. Says right there on tha windaa “We never close.” Kinda showt yaself in tha dick with that one, huh? Who’s gonna make me go, Ronnie Lott? I dan’t see tha four-fingahed daaarkie hereuh, do ya?

[Door flies open]

Philip Rivers: Ya betta ask somebodddaaaaaayyyyyyyy

AH HELP EVERYBODY’S FREAKING OUT THERE’S A LITE BRITE BOMB IN BOSTON!

Ahahaha. Fuck this lame-ass city.

Nice little coffee klatsch we got going on here, chatty Cathys. It’s like the white people equivalent of a barbershop, without the ethnic yukyuks and the low-grade despair. So, what’s going on? Gabbing about the current events of the day? Airing your dim insights confidently about things way beyond your ken? That’s cool. My masturbation technique usually involves yelling at my dick after playoff victories, but to each their own and all that.

[Slaps Matt on back, laughs in his face]

Might be mistaken, but I reckon I heard you spouting a little racism as I was coming in.

Heh. [shakes head] Yankees.

I’M FROM COUSINFUCKING ALABAMA! WE INVENTED THAT SHIT! WE COULD HANG YOUR MEALY-MOUTHED BEHIND-CLOSED-DOORS RACISM FROM A COLD SASSY TREE AND GIVE IT A NEW LAST NAME! WE COULD BURN CROSSES ON YOUR RACISM’S FRONT LAWN! WE COULD MAKE YOUR RACISM SO INSECURE THAT IT WOULD ONLY BE ATTRACTED TO OUR RACISM’S WOMEN AND THEN WE’D KILL YOUR RACISM FOR ACTING ON THAT BRAINWASHING, YOU DUMB FUCKING POTATO-HUMPING MICK!

Matt: Hey, you’re-er-ah that Philip Rivahs, ain’t ya? Ya gawt abaat a queer’s chance in Quincy this weekend against the Pahfect Paytree-uts, shitbawx.

[Rivers smacks Matt across the face with a metal coffee pot then pours the remaining boiling liquid on his collapsed body with laughing maniacally. He lofts in the pot toward the wall. It floats for 30 seconds and falls at his feet.]

Rivers: It’s you I came for, Montana. You’re the original Brady. You, and you alone, hold the keys to helping me beat him.

Montana: I don’t know what you’re talking about. He’s just another in a line of generation defining quarterbacks. Sure, we’ve both seen our share of success, but he’s his own man. I don’t really even know the guy.

Rivers: Oh. Well. Teehee. Guess I’ll be screwing off, then, huh? Joe? Huh? FUCK YOU

TELL ME HOW I CAN SUCCEED WHERE SO MANY OTHERS HAVE FAILED! LET YOUR MIND AND MINE BE AS ONE

Montana: All right. It’s like this: You remember all Joe Cool stuff I was heaped with back in the day? Do you know why that is?

Rivers: ‘Cause you was calmer than a roofied-up girl after an ACC game?

Montana: No. Nonono. I was a dithering disaster. Always a bundle of nerves before every game. Beset with insecurity. But it was the ’80s, so it was socially acceptable in certain circles to wear Garfield and Snoopy shirts. Man, I rode that scene hard. I loved that beagle and I embraced his alter ego, Joe Cool, until it became my own. Almost ate me up in the end. But I drew strength from that Joe Cool shirt.

It’s still seared into my memory to this day. I mean, he had sunglasses on! And a shirt with his name on the front! He was changing the way we thought about a rakish indifference to the opinions of others. Perched on his left leg and leaning to the right; the laws of physics say he should topple over, but he was held upright by the sheer force of his own coolness.

Rivers: WHAT IN THE NAME OF JUMBLY FUCK? You’ve lost it, old-timer. You’ve gone the way of Namath: punchdrunk, fucked in the head and tickled in the balls by dotage and unfortunate endorsements. Snoopy couldn’t sell me Met-Life, how is he supposed to help me win a game?

Montana: That’s just the thing. Every great quarterback has that certain something, seemingly juvenile, that serves as a calming influence. For Starr, it was the Buck Rogers watch. For Staubach, it was his chalice of children’s blood. For Bradshaw, it was the coloring book he never finished reading. Brady has something. I’m sure of it. Finding that is the key to unraveling him.

[stares down over counter]

You’re a fucking Olympic-sized swimming pool of douchejuice, Rivers, doomed to being a footnote in hissy fit history. But I’ve had to deal with this Masshole since he showed up as soon as the Red Sox season was over. And I can’t have Brady joining me in the four title club. Sharing that shit with Bradshaw is bad enough. So you’re all I got, Marmatard.

[Patriots locker room, Sunday]

Brady: Guys! Guys! Where is it? Where’s my buddy? Guys!

Rodney HGHarrison: Your buddy, who? The fuck you going on about, man? It’s game time, baby! WWWOOOOOO! Best get your ass out to the tunnel before I hit you with the lateness.

Brady: But…but…?

…Where?

My Buddy…

[Brady stares panic-striken at his trembling hands]

Brady: Shit!

Shit! Shit! Shit!

I guess you’ll have to do.

[End of 3rd quarter in RCA Dome]

Greg Gumbel: Now we take a moment to acknowledge the winners of the 2007 NFL Punt, Pass and Kick Program. Each year, more than 4 million take part in the competition, making it one of the largest youth sports programs in the world.

From the 8-9-year-old division, Laleilei Ma’falaa, from Oahu, Hawaii, representing the Tampa Bay Buccaneers.

[Faint clapping]

From the 10-11-year-old division, Andrew Beck, from King of Prussia, Pennsylvania, representing the Baltimore Ravens.

[Faint clapping]

From the 12-13-year-old division, Rebecca Plaster, from Newton, Massachusetts, representing the New England Patriots.

Colts fans: BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
DIE YOU STUPID FUCKING KIDLET DIE DIE DIE AND BLEED OUT YOUR RANK FUCKING PATRIOT BLOOD BEFORE YOU GROW UP AND LAUGH YOUR BELLY LAUGH AT US. LIL’ RONNIE WILL RAPE YOU DEAD! DEAD AND GONE!

[Beginning 4th quarter]

Dan Dierdorf: I’m telling you: Philip Rivers is a BIG TIME QUARTERBACK. This young man, who has been given ample time to learn this offense since being drafted in 2004, has now become an unflappable presence in the pocket.

Oh my!

If I were to tell you that Philip Rivers were somehow to have sired me, to have been my father, there would be no greater joy in my life. And I say now without qualm that I would have shown him the fealty only possible by an obedient son and would have brought him the morning paper without complaint every single day without slobber marks on the front page or on Get Fuzzy. He could beat me when I was insolent and I’d be all the better for it.

Look. At. That.

Darren. Sproles. Taking that throw from Rivers and giving it the result that only a Philip Rivers pass deserves. Way to go, Phil. YOU. ARE. A. STUD.

It looks like Philip Rivers, solely through the force of his own awesomeness, has injured himself on that play. I feel as though I should go provide succor to his wounds. Looks like Rivers is having a few words with the Indianapolis crowd as he’s being helped off. I’m telling you, Indianapolis: I don’t think under any circumstance can you intimidate Philip Rivers. Not even if you ask him in a darkened hotel room if he knows the pleasure of a hefty former lineman doing a 3-point stance on his manhood.

[Stadium concourse]

NFL rep: You kids have a lot to be proud about. We painstakingly winnowed down the field and you showed through grit and determination that you were the best at each of your age groups. There isn’t a person alive that can take that away from you.

[Door flies open]

Rivers: Ya betta ask somebodddaaaaaaaaayyyyyy!

The fuck is this shit? I’ve already thrown for three buttfucking touchdowns and you’re slobbering over a bunch of snotnosed, afterbirth moisted droplings? A bunch of pre-pubescent globs of hardened amniotic fluid? Oh, punt and pass AND kick, can you, you anklebiting little shits? I wanna know if you can LIE, CHEAT and STEAL, you lil’ savage nugs. Maybe then, and only then, you can help me beat the Pats next week.

Nice dog and pony show you’ve got going here. Way to take valuable time away from the big boy playoff football game to honor all the future dykes and the one of you who looks like a Hispanic Winnie Cooper.

Hey, let’s see this trophy you got here. Wow. It’s a honey-glazed football on a wood stand. Ain’t that a beaut. Ya’ll got this from punting?

Kid: Uh-huh.

Rivers: That’s gay. What about passing?

Kid: Yeah.

Rivers: How about KICKING?!

[Rivers attempts to drop kick trophy]

Rivers: OWWWW! MOTHER OF FUCK! What the shit are these things made out of, adamantium? There’s no way I can come back now.

Kid: You know what? While you’re back here ridiculing us, the Chargers, the team you’re supposed to be leading, is raging against insurmountable odds, against a squad of referees bent on handing this game to the Colts. They’re fighting for their very lives. And here you are, nursing an injury you incurred from poor passing mechanics, taunting a group of kids guilty of nothing but striving for a dream. Is that who you are? Is that the most you can make of yourself?

[Rivers slugs kid in the face. Wipes fist off on white towel. Throws towel callously on kid's downed body]

Rivers: Yeah, whatever. Clean your ass up. I’ve got a game to win.

[Jogs back to the field]

Norv Turner: mmmmuuueeeyyGlad you could make it back. We’re in okay shape and I can’t have that. Now, I’m gonna try to undermine what we’ve got going here. I’d say sabotage, but that implies that I have some idea what’s going on. Okay, here we go. Quick and dirty-like. Let’s try to run a fade route to Jackson on this next play, but instead you’re gonna shortarm it to Bob Sanders in the flat.

Rivers: I’ve got a better idea: Let’s try to do a fuck you route to the bench, crater face. I think I can see traces where water used to exist on your mug. Maybe civilization used to exist there. Maybe Ray Bradbury wrote a book about it. Future colonization of human life depends on whether there can be Earth-like conditions on your craggy countenance.

[Laughs in his face]

If LT gets to rest his dead ass on the bench then so do I.

Tomlinson: bikebikebikebikebikebikebikebikebikebikebikebikebikebikebike

Rivers: LaDainian, you cheap slut! Thought you could duck me, did you? Can you duck a QB rating of over 120? You know what? I DON’T NEED YOU! FUCK YOU AND YOUR FLATSCREEN TVS! I DON’T CARE HOW CHEAP THEY ARE AT COSTCO! I’M TIRED OF GOING THERE AND GETTING CARDED! OF COURSE I’M A FUCKING MEMBER! YOU DON’T THINK AN NFL QB CAN AFFORD A $50 ANNUAL MEMBERSHIP FEE? FUCK YOU!

I can handle this situation on my own. That’s it. Time to pull out the sideline eyes. You and me, Colts. Staredown city. You ready for the laserface? Here comes the laserface! No time to back down. Aaaaaaaaaaaand GO!

Dierdorf: This here is really something. Would you look at the courageous decision being made by Philip Rivers? To see such phenomenal team leadership at that age is astounding. The Colts are absolutely wilting under the stony gaze of this young man. I know I would.

Billy Volek: [engineers winning drive]

Rivers: [To crowd] YEAH! I TOLD HIM TO DO THAT SHIT! FEEL THE VOLEKTRICITY! I WILLED IT INTO BEING WITH MY FUCKING MIND! ANY WEE WEE NEWJACK SLUT CAN WIN GAMES WITH THEIR ARM! MATCH THAT! I’M THE CEREBRAL MOTHERFUCKING ASSASSIN! BRING ON NEW ENGLAND! I’LL USE MY TELEKINESIS TO WET THEY ASS! I’LL WET IT AND WIPE IT DOWN AND MAKE IT SHINE! CAUSE I’M HOTHOTHOTHOTHOT!