[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!

It’s game one of Manning Sunday featuring that older accomplished pitchman brother, Pey-Pey. He can sell you the coat off your own back at twice value. In fact, he keeps a collection of knockoff Rolexes under his jersey if you’re looking for one.

The Chargers have won their last two against Indy, including the Nov. 11 regular season contest, in which Pey-Pey famously sold the defense a whopping six beachfront interceptions and Adam Vinatieri botched a chip shot that cost them the game. What will take to get that guy to stop choking?

Not having to rely this time on Craphonso Thorpe at wideout, the Colts will have certainly more reliable, if less hilariously named, receivers this time around. Meanwhile, the roof of the RCA Dome may be opened because no one enclosure can contain the doucheiness that is Marmalard.

[Strip mall in Indianapolis]

Hostess: Hi. How many?

Fat white woman: Three.

Hostess: Would you like a table or booth?

Fat white woman: Booth, please.

Hostess: Right this way.

[door flies open]

Philip Rivers: Ya betta ask someboddddddaaaaaayyyyyyy!

Doesn’t this fucking pennyante Brigadoon of a town have anything other than chain restaurants? Plus, you got all these chains and not one goddamn Bojangles? Steak ‘N’ Shake’s not good enough! Fuck, I wish I was back in the South.

Hostess: Hi. How many?

Rivers: How many what, you stupid underemployed bitch? How many seconds you got to tell me where L.T. is sitting? Can you do that? Can you point me there? Arm too tired from creatively flipping signs around apartment buildings for extra cash to raise your litter right? Make sure they get the good doctor at the methadone clinic? WHERE THE FUCK IS HE?

Hostess: What’s the party name?

Rivers: Tomlinson. Y’know. Black dude. There are only, like, six in this state. Find the one you haven’t blown for rocks.

[laughs in her face]

Anyway. I’m ’supposed to meet him here. Why’s he keep ducking me? I even bought a Vizio like he told me to.

Hostess: Well, I’m not seeing him on the list. I can seat you until he arrives. What section would you like?

Rivers: Pfft. I don’t know. How about the one for quarterbacks who win when it counts!? BIGTIME PLAYOFF FOOTBALL, THAT’S MY SECTION, WHERE THE RUBBER MEETS THE ROAD. YEAH!

Rivers: Hey. All right. TVs at every table. So I don’t have to pay attention to anybody.

Sweet! Highlights from Sunday!

Look how fucking intense I am! I’m livin’ large and taking charge! You like that? How I totally Supermanned that defense in the second half?

Huh? Lady? Huh? FUCK YOU!

Waitress: [handing him menu] Get you something to drink, sir?

Rivers: ‘Kind of beer you got?

Waitress: [by rote] BudBudLightMillerLightHeinekenCoronaSierraNevadaSamAdams

Rivers: Got any Hoegaarden?

Waitress: What?

Rivers: BELGIAN WHITE ALE YOU RUSTY FUCKING CUNT! Fuck, just bring me your highest quality Indiana ’shine, you backwater wench.

Waitress: I’ll have that right out for ya

[Rivers focuses back on the TV]

Boy: Hehwoah, Mistaw Wivers. Could you pwease sign my napkin fo’ me? It woo mean veawee much.

Rivers: What? Shit. Made me miss hearing about how much of a bitch Antonio Gates is. Hope my steak is half as tender as his leg.

Sign the napkin? How about the deed to your parents’ shack? Okay. Whatever. [writing] F-U-C-K-O-F-F. There’s the ol’ sig. Add a little a frownie. A middle finger right there aaaaaand voila!

[Balls up the paper and throws in a high arch that suspends in the air for 40 seconds then falls two feet from the table.]

Boy: Waaaahhhhhh [walks off]

Rivers: Fuck. This isn’t worth it.

[Gets up. Grabs drink from arriving waitress. Gulps it down. Drops glass on floor and walks out without paying]

[Tomlinson, Chris Chambers and Antonio Gates come out from kitchen]

Chambers: [slipping waitress a C-note] Thank fuck. Can we get a refill on the poppers, when you get a chance?

AFC 3rd Seed — San Diego Chargers (11-5)

[A quiet dinner party]

Sarah: This one time, when I was little, my family was on a road trip and me and my brother were acting up. So my parents just pulled over to the side off the road and let us out.

Dan: Whhhhhaaaaaaaaaaat?

Sarah: I mean, they did come back, like, five minutes later. They just went to the next exit then doubled back and got us. But we were terrified. Just sitting alone at this rest stop.

Lori: You totally should have just told somebody. You could have gotten your parents in a shitload of trouble. “Hi, our parents abandoned us!”

Sarah: I know, but I…

[A knock at the door]

Lori: I’ll get that.

[door busts open]

Philip Rivers: Hey hey, betta ask someboddaaayyyy! What’s with all the long faces, lookie fucking loos? Heh. Heh. Heh. Funny fucking anecdote the famous athlete must’ve interrupted, huh? I’m sure it’s everyday a starting NFL quarterback barges in your place. Whoa, where’s the goddamn party at?! I don’t wanna blow my fucking Wednesday night for shit.

[Someone emerges from the kitchen]

Rivers: What’s this cheap shit you got here?

[quaffs entire bottle, spits half on the floor]

Rivers: God, that fucking sucked.

[Throws bottle in high arch toward wall. Bottle doesn't hit wall for a full minute]

Rivers: What? You got a problem with an NFL QB trashing your place? I might as well sign the shards of fucking glass. YEAH, THE FUCKING GLASS! What’s this you got on the wall? A Degas print? Aren’t you such a sophisto?

Rivers: Me? I don’t get art. Art is for fags. Even people named Art are incredibly fucking gay, y’know. RIGHT!? This one’s okay though ’cause it’s got Mr. Miyagi in it. God, that’s so fucking funny. MR. MIYAGI!!! Teach those dancing bitches!

[slaps nearest person on back, laughs in their face]

Rivers: I fucking love Karate Kid. That’s why I love Bill Simmons so much. Because he devotes column themes to old fucking movies like Rocky III like it’s fresh material. The divisional round column will be about the crappiness of airline food or the quality of computer porn.

[slaps nearest guy on back]

Rivers: This guy likes porn. Huh? Buddy? Huh? FUCK YOU.

Rivers: I don’t need this shit.

[Whips out cell phone. Holds it to his ear impatiently for 20 seconds]

Rivers: Fuck you, LT. Pick up your fucking phone. Why is it ringing through? Dick.

[Rivers surveys the increasingly impatient crowd]

Rivers: But, yeah. I gotta get going. It’s been fun and shit.

Aren’t you gonna offer me some food to get me on my way? Isn’t that what considerate hosts do for professional athletes who grace their lame parties? Or is this just a get-together, so the rules don’t apply? HUH? WHAT KIND OF SHIT IS THIS? WHY YOU CAN GET-TOGETHER MY BALLS.

[Storms out]

[LaDainian Tomlinson emerges from behind couch]

LT: Is he gone?

Rivers pic sent by reader Roger R.

The top two seeds in the AFC last season are barely hanging onto faint playoff hopes with only a few weeks remaining in the regular season. When heads eventually roll, they’ll probably bear the visages of these two clowns. Likely, incompetence will emerge Hydra-like from the stumps. In the meantime, we can find out who’ll be king of the unemployment line in the offseason. WHO YA GOT?