A Texans fan unironically (and therefore tragically) went to the trouble of creating a Hope poster of Matt Leinart and put it up on Twitter. That would be the saddest thing ever, but then I noticed that seeing how the real Matty Ice is going to fare against a ravaged Jaguars team might be the most compelling thing about the set of early games this Sunday. That’ll happen when you squander all your seemingly good match-ups on Thursday, then actually have an interesting Monday night game for once.

Oh, and let me go ahead and fix that poster.

PATENTED KSK SHERMOMETER OF STARS

Purple Jesus-less Vikings @ Falcons ★
Battle of Urban Meyerville ★★
Panthers @ Fat Humps ★
Texans @ Jags ★★★
Fitzmagic/Nacho Bad Contract Showdown ★★
Buzzsaw @ Rams ★
Buccaneers @ Titans ★★
Five million inane discussions of how Ndamukong Suh is the greatest threat to modern civilization ZERO GODDAMN STARS

KSK’s favorite nutmeg evangelist, Peter King, spent yesterday tooling around Texans camp in search of the type of Munchakian nuggets that made this week’s MMQB column so devastatingly depressing to Titans fans. And what was PK able to deliver to his adoring public? That Wade Phillips awards raisin roundies (his special no-raisin recipe!) for each pass deflection? Not even! Instead, we got a bratty quote from Cole Cameron Leinart, son of quarterbacking virtuoso Matt, that fully illustrates that the apple doesn’t fall far from the apple-scented Axe body spray tree.

Ignoring the sad fact that it might be PK’s best piece of original reportage all year, we were left to wonder what other kinds of things Lil’ Leinart is saying. Follow us on a thought experiment in which we use a small child as a vehicle to make cruel jokes about his father. You won’t feel scummy at all!

“Saw Suri Cruise in People. Threre’s a chick that needs a dickin’.”

Matt Leinart: BRAH! Yo brah. I just made, like, the most epic discovery since man found text message technology. You gotta peep this.

Darnell Dockett: What?

Matt Leinart: Brah, they’re gonna call me the new Sir Issac Newman, that’s how epic this is.

Dockett: What is it?

Leinart: [Pulls out beer] ICED, BRAH!

Dockett: … You discovered Smirnoff Ice?

Leinart: Nah, don’t get silly on me. I mean, c’mon. I didn’t discover Ice, brah. Mr. Smirnoff did that. I discovered icing brahs.

Dockett: What’s the difference?

Leinart: Braahhh, brah, brah. Lemme help you out. All right – an unsuspecting brah is out in public just doing his thang, right? Maybe trying to get his mack on. Maybe just handling his shit.

Dockett: Okay?

Leinart: Then, completely out of nowhere, another brah drops an Ice on him with the quickness. Totally puts him on the spot with the Ice.

Dockett: And?

Leinart: AND!? The brah that got iced has to drop to one knee and chug that bitch on the spot. Brah got no choice. Brah just got iced. See, the point is to Ice a brah at the most inopportune and embarrassing moment. Preferably with the most fruity flavor of the Ice.

Dockett: That’s gay as fuck.

Leinart: Ya brah, that’s the point. Brah gotta some chug some fruity girly brew in front of his friends and associates. It’s the ultimate in brahmiliation. But – and here’s the thing – there’s a catch.

Dockett: All right?

Leinart: If the brah getting iced whips out an Ice of his own when getting Iced, the brah doing the initial icing has to chug both Ices. TURNIN’ THE TABLES ON A BRAH!

Dockett: So you faggots are carrying around Smirnoff Ices on the off chance that one of your stupid-ass friends might try to “Ice” you? I will never understand white people.

Leinart: ‘Course, brah. That’s how the game is played.

Dockett: Dumbest fucking shit I ever heard.

Leinart: That may be true, brah. But I believe I just pulled out an Ice on you. Assume the position.

Dockett: I ain’t doing that shit.

Leinart: You have to, brah. That’s the rules.

Dockett: Yeah, that’s the rules of your retarded little frat boy bullshit that I ain’t never agreed to. I subscribe to the Darnell-Dockett-Does-The-Fuck-He-Wants game. According to those rules, I ain’t gotta do shit I don’t wanna. And I don’t wanna do that shit.

Leinart: Still the rules, brah. No brah ever said life was fair.

Dockett: And what happens if someone don’t chug the Ice?

Leinart: Bad form, brah. A complete loss of brahspect.

Dockett: That’s it? No ass whooping? Kind of weak shit is that?

Leinart: You say it like it’s nothing.

Dockett: [Swipes Ice from Leinart's hand and shoves it back in his face] ICED, BRO!

Leinart: What? Nah brah, naaaaahhh, you can’t do that. Illegal icing procedure.

Dockett: The fuck I can’t. So, now what? You gonna have bad bro form? How we supposed to respect a quarterback who got bad bro form? Shit, I bet Kurt Warner would’ve already been finished chugging it by now. Would’ve added a little prayer after it too.

Leinart: Low blow, brah, low blow.

Dockett: I’mma tell Coach Whisenhunt if you don’t. You think he wants to hear how you don’t display leadership qualities?

Leinart: Sigh.

[to himself] Climb the ladder, Matt, climb the ladder.

Brah

Jay

Brahhhh

Jay

Brah, thanks for teaching me to be a badass.

You totally don’t even know how much people give me stress for losing my starting job. I don’t why they can’t let me be a chill brah and handle my biz and mack some 17-year-olds. I gotta be the best brah at everything now?

It’s like John Mayer says, brah, “live and let live,” y’know, brah?

When you told me at the Super Bowl that everyone thinks I’m a bitch, that hit right here, brah. [Pounds fist on his chest] From now on, when, like, people laugh at me for being the number two QB behind some old religious brah, that’s when I’m gonna MMA them in the face.

Yo, brah, I just realized something. Now because I’m a badass, I can rock all the Tapout and Affliction shirts. Brah! That, like, broadcasts that I’m a badass brah. Pussymagnet city! I bet even Gina Carano will let me hit it. Or her 17-year-old sister, if she has one.

You are the wisest brah I know, Jay Glazer. Even wiser than McConaughey. I’m so glad you decided to drop this knowledge on a brah. I mean, not only are you a kickass reporter, but get poon even when you obviously don’t care about your looks and get to kick it with Strahan, who seems like an okay brah himself. One day, when I totally let myself go, I hope to be just like you, brah.

So now that our brahmance has bloomed, can I stop doing push-ups?

Someone dipped into the deux-deux-deuxs pretty heavily this morning. It’s like his hair was going to stay in place and then WOP!

Maj said Boomer has obviously been drinking his TrimSpa brand fortified wine. I say he is only the latest victim of the array of diseases Leinart is spreading around Tampa.

UPDATE: “Why you intelview the knee? It go tark funny!”

Scene i: The Tub. Fitty is in the hottub at his house, reading the latest treatment of the new Lassie movie he is executive-producing for Miramax, when he starts to get hungry.

Larry Fitzgerald: Lupé!

Lupé Môřãléŝ: [runs in from the other room] ¿Si?

Fitty: Baby, did you order me that Buffalo Chicken pizza for me like I told you?

Lupé: ¡Si, shood bee heer soon, weet da pang crost! [runs out of the room]

Fitty: Baby, I told you! No. Pan. Crust on that shit! Pan crusts are forever at odds with my tender palette, never mind the bombardment of that square shape upon my psyche. You must call them back and tell them that the contents of my order have been compromised.

Lupé: [runs back in] ¡ Boot dee pang crost peetza eez olreedy caw-meeng !

Fitty: Just get me a damn towel, my shit’s starting to wrinkle up in this mug. [she leaves as he shakes his head in disappointment]

Fitty: [continuing, to himself] Why the fuck am I payin’ that bitch a whole dollar-twenty-five an hour? [reaches back for his cell phone and hits “7” on his speed dial; it rings three times]

High School Kid Who Has Just About Had it With Life: [answers phone in monotone] Thank you for calling Papa John’s Pizza can you hold please…

Fitty: No, good sir, there’s no time! I’m afraid that a delivery approaching my domicile at this very instant may be tainted!

High School Kid Who Has Just About Had it With Life: [pauses] …Fitty?

Fitty: …Todd?

Todd: Yeah. You calling about…that one medium Buffalo Chicken pan pizza with the five orders of breadsticks?

Fitty: Yes! You must understand! The pan crust and I—

Todd: Yeah, we just assumed that part was a mistake, so we changed it to regular crust. It should be there any minute.

Fitty: Oh, thank goodness. [hears the call waiting beep] Thank you, o pimply one. Farewell [clicks over] Mr. Fitzgerald’s office?

Anquan Boldin: Fitty! It’s Quan!

Fitty: Aw, shit.

Quan: Don’t you ‘Aw, shit’ The Quan, man. Mr. Leinart told me about your expedition without me!

Fitty: Man, why you keep callin’ his ass Mr. Leinart?

Quan: He said you makin’ a new dogfightin’ movie! How you gonna make a dogfightin’ movie without The Quan?

Fitty: It’s just a dog, yo. Ain’t no dog-fightin’ in this shit. This dog ain’t doin’ nothing but chillin’ on this shit-ass farm and savin’ a bunch of crazy-assed rednecks when they doin’ stupid shit.

Quan: Check it out, The Quan is enjoying this latest issue of Sky Mall catalogue! And they got some shit!

Fitty: What mall catalogue?

Quan: Check this shit out! The Quan can purchase a statue of a sumo wrestler lookin’ like he’s takin a shit for just 95 bucks!

Fitty: [feigning disinterest] Man, I got like, five of those.

Quan: You should see this little bitch, man! He’s a big fat yellow motherfuckah and he got titty for days!

Fitty: Sounds like Lupé.

Quan: Yeah, but check this shit out: For $225, I can get dude squattin’ in a four-point stance with a glass table stacked up on his shit. But if I get this motherfucka, which way do I point dude’s ass?

Fitty: Well if you still have that couch with the love seat you’ve gotta—

Quan: [to somebody else] Look here, baby! The Quan will use six pillows if it pleases him!

Fitty: Quan, where are you?

Quan: [to somebody else] Hey, Fitty, check this shit out! The Quan is comin’ to ya tonight! I called to getcha to pick me up from the airport?

Fitty: [confused] Quan, man, did you call me from your cell phone…while you’re on the plane?

Quan: And guess who on da plane wit me! Jimmy Seinfeld!

Fitty: Quan, you can’t use a cell phone on a passenger jet. You’re gonna fuck up the guidance systems and crash that shit.

Quan: They ain’t gonna crash this motherfucka wit this rich white boy on here!

Fitty: Quan, I can’t pick you up. I got pizza comin’

Quan: Are you shittin’ The Quan, man? You gonna deprive the needs of The Quan…for a pizza? It’s not like you eatin’ crackers, man!

Fitty: I interpret the pizza as one larger, delicious, saucy, cracker.

Quan: Damn, man! you know how much a cab in DC is?

Fitty: DC? You’re flying to DC?

Quan: Yeah, man. Wanted to see my boy Fitty, man!

Fitty: Quan…I’m in Phoenix.

Quan: [long pause]

Fitty: …I can’t pick you up if you’re landing in DC.

Quan: [long pause]

Fitty: …because I’m in another city…about 2,500 miles away.

Quan: [muffled screaming of women's voices, then the call drops out]

Fitty: [puts the phone down behind him] That might not have been good. Maybe I should—

Lupé: [running in the room] ¡ Peetza Heer ! [runs around the hottub and then back out]

Fitty: That’s what I’m talkin’ about…[Gets out of the hottub and starts drying off, then suddenly stops]

Fitty: Lupé! What the fuck is all over this towel?

Scene i: The Meeting
Setting: Miramax regional office building.

Fitty: [Walking through the lobby with Matt to the reception desk] Damn, this place is tight.

Matt: Yeah, it’s alright.

Fitty: Why do people need a water fountain inside an office building? And look, there’s not even any change in there.

Matt: [to receptionist] Hey there baby. I’m Matt. What’s your—[realizes the receptionist is not female, but actually a gay male bearing a striking resemblance to Doug from Trading Spaces] uh, we have a meeting with—

Receptionist: [somewhat annoyed that it's Matt Leinart in front of him and not Brady Quinn] My name is Geoffrey.

Matt: Oh.

Fitty: [yelling] Can I throw change in this fountain?

Geoffrey: They’re expecting you. Room F, down [points limply, as if making a swan-like gesture with his arm, hand, and finger] that hall.

Matt: Thanks. [Heads down the hall] C’mon, Fitty.

Fitty: Damn, man I think he liked you. Maybe he could—

Matt: Shut up. Now, remember, don’t say shit. We’re just gonna listen, and then we’ll leave.

Fitty: And my free crackers are waiting for me on the other side of that conference room door?

Matt: For fuck’s sake, you’ll get your damn crackers. Just be cool, okay?

Fitty: Alright. So who the fuck is Lassie, anyway?

Matt: [stunned] Lassie? You don’t know Lassie?

Fitty: [stares blankly]

Matt: Lassie the dog? Lassie Come Home, all that shit?

Fitty: Like one of Mike Vick’s dogs? That one that Quan was betting on that last time we were over there?

Matt: No, man. He’s…she’s like a real dog. A collie. Climbs down wells and shit.

Fitty: A dog that can climb down a well? That’s some bullshit right there.

Matt: Look, never mind, just don’t ruin this for me [They walk in the room] Hey Harvey, sorry we’re late.

Miramax Guy: Thanks for coming, guys. We started without you, hope you don’t mind.

Matt: Nah, that’s cool.

Miramax Guy: Have a seat. We’re just brainstorming for concepts. Okay, people, let’s get some more ideas flowing.

[Fitty slowly looks around the room as he sits down]

Guy with Goatee: What if Lassie was coked up on heroin?

Token Quasi-Lesbian Writer Who Is Neither Attractive Nor Asian: How about Lassie in high school, and the other girls are just bitches to her. But then maybe she has a friend that she meets, like that girl from Terribithia or some shit.

46-Year-Old Guy With Earring: And then Queen Latifah drives them around in a cab!

Fitty: [whispering to Matt] There are no crackers in this room.

Matt: [whispering back] There’s some vegetables on that tray in the corner over there.

Fitty: I see the tray of vegetables, Matt. I also see some oatmeal raisin cookies that I’m sure are delicious.

Matt: I’m sure they are.

Fitty: And I will enjoy them momentarily, because I know that those items will kickstart my bowels in preparation for your punishment of welshing on one promise of free crackers to Mr. Fitzgerald.

Washed-Up Comedian: Maybe the dog finds out that it’s gay and starts humping other dogs in the neighborhood and, um, you know, making them gay or something. Then they all learn how to ride motorcycles and, I don’t know, start their own little doggie faggot biker gang or something.

Miramax Guy: [staring at the floor, shaking his head] Louie, we do not use that word in this room.

Washed-Up Comedian: Sorry.

Miramax Guy: They’re a club, not a gang.

Emo Guy: I don’t see how that sends a good message about the environment.

Token Quasi-Lesbian Writer Who Is Neither Attractive Nor Asian: Or the homeless!

Washed-Up Comedian: Your mom’s homeless!

[room erupts into shouting]

Joe Mantegna: Fellas, fellas. [Room quiets down] I am hearing some great ideas here! But also, I am hearing some ideas that couldn’t outlast a piece of dog shit on a popsicle stick on a sunny day. This is not a Hilary Swank vehicle. This is Lassie. Lassie is a female collie, a dog. Okay? It’s a dog. It’s not Queer Eye for the Terminator. Are we clear on this, everyone?

Fitty: [whispering angrily to Matt] When we get outta here, I am gonna open the sunroof of your vehicle and let the warm air from the interior dissipate into the atmosphere. I will then climb onto the roof of your ride and drop the trousers of justice and unleash a methane-laced helping of truth onto your seats, emergency brake, and cup holders. Such is the penance for–

Matt: [whispering back] You are not shitting through the sunroof of my Hummer!

Fitty: It will be a cacophony of dank chocolate pyrotechnics, all beyond your control. And then after my bowels are empty, I will then close the sunroof and let nature do its thing.

Matt: That’s it. Gimme my keys back.

Emo Guy: Maybe Lassie could be the first female president?

Washed-Up Comedian: Yeah, the Taco Bell dog could be her running mate.

Token Quasi-Lesbian Writer Who Is Neither Attractive Nor Asian: How about Lassie in high school, and the other girls are just bitches to her. But then maybe she has a friend that she meets, like that girl from Teribithia or some shit.

Guy With Goatee: And then Queen Latifah drives them around in a cab!

Joe Mantegna: So what if Lassie winds up in China and she has to break into the restaurants there and save the other dogs. And they learn Kung-Fu. David Carridine might be interested.

Emo Guy: Instead of just getting spayed, could we have the dog get a sex change operation and then she has to rediscover himself through a series of personal trials?

Fitty: [stands up] Hang on, what about this? Suppose Lassie could be living in the northern United States, where she held a small but prestigious position as ballboy for the Minnesota Vikings, after which she makes the cover of a popular video game and then heads out on a summer-long quest for crispy, grain-based treats.

Guy With Goatee: …and then what?

Fitty: Uh…and then she flies into wells to collect change…and then, uh…into outer space! And there she merges with four other dogs of different colors to create a colossal superdog that fights paramilitary mutants, witches, and non-biodegradable litter in order to restore peace and harmony to the universe and shit.

[stunned silence for, like, 30 seconds]

Guy With Goatee: Wow.

Joe Mantegna: Wow.

Washed-Up Comedian: Wow.

Token Quasi-Lesbian Writer Who Is Neither Attractive Nor Asian: Fine, as long as the superdog doesn’t vote Republican.

Miramax Guy: This is the best concept we’ve had in three weeks.

46-Year-Old Guy With Earring: We could have Dudley Moore narrate–

Washed-Up Comedian: And Kenny Loggins could write the soundtrack!

Miramax Guy: He can’t narrate the film; he’s dead.

Washed-Up Comedian: Kenny Loggins is dead?

Miramax Guy: Larry, who would you pick to direct this sure-to-be epic picture?

Fitty: I dunno.

Miramax Guy: Well, let’s get some more of your thoughts now then. Let’s get some snacks, everyone. [Speaking into the intercom] Geoffrey, can we get some crackers in Room F, please?

Fitty: That’s what I’m talkin’ about!

Matt Leinart: Yeah, so thanks for coming out with me, Fitty. Are you enjoying the interior of my new Hummer?

Larry Fitzgerald: S’all good, Matt. Thanks for inviting me along for the free crackers. Holy shit, I love crackers. ‘Specially free crackers.

Matt: Heh, yeah.

Fitty: …There are gonna be some free crackers where we goin, right?

Matt: Yeah, man. Free crackers, it’s a done deal.

Fitty: The uneasiness in your voice disturbs me. And where are we going?

Matt: I told you where we were going.

Fitty: No, you didn’t. You just drove up my driveway with the words FREE CRACKERS painted on the side of your new Hummer, knowing full well that I would jump into your well-upholstered vehicle to accompany you without hesitation, which I did.

Matt: Right.

Fitty: But I should have you know, good sir, I consider any insinuation of free crackers to be sincere, and therefore binding. Should you fail to deliver on your promise in a timely fashion, you shall draw the wrath of Mr. Fitzgerald.

Matt: Lemme just call my agent on the hands-free and, uh, make sure the crackers are there. [dials, phone rings]

Fitty: There where? Where the fuck are we going?

Tom: [on the phone] This is Tom.

Matt: Tom, it’s Matt, I’m on my way to that meeting with the Miramax people, but…

Tom: Spit it out, Matt. I got a couple-a Venezualan broads armwrestling over here to see who’s gonna blow me first, and they are not a patient people. Out with it.

Matt: I gotta be honest man, this fucking movie bullshit, I’m not really feeling it.

Tom [Matt's agent]: Then I’m glad you called. I know you’re concerned, it’s a significant potential investment, but you don’t need to sweat it, Miramax and I have talked it over, this new movie is gonna reignite the whole shitlovin’ franchise. Wait, listen, you hear that? That’s the sound of 20-dollar bills being printed for you to wipe your ass with. It’s a win-win, Matty. Guaranteed.

Fitty: Miramax? What the—

Matt: Tom, I don’t want to be a Negative Nancy about this, but, a new Lassie movie? Really?

Tom: Matty, simmer down, my man. Put on your ballroom dancing cap and think about the economics of the thing.

Matt: Uh, okay.

Tom: Family movie. The whole family’s going to see this thing. Kids wanna see Lassie, so mom and dad gotta see Lassie. But those spoiled little shits don’t stop there, they gotta pester the parents at Wal-Mart to buy all these shitty toys that get released along with the movie. But they gotta get the ball rolling, they need money to film the shit. Some of the usual guys haven’t come through, and, uh, they’re gonna share the pie with the new backers, you know, with you guys.

Fitty: This is about money?

Tom: Whadya say, Matty?

Matt: I said…if the movie’s gonna be so tits, how come they’re still looking for money?

Tom: Matty, c’mon baby, who ya talkin’ to? Have I ever given you bad advice?

Matt: Maybe that flight attendant you set me up with at the Madden party last year?

Tom: Hey, she didn’t have chlamydia when I fucked her.

Matt: Oh, that’s great.

Tom: Matty, c’mon baby. Listen, these Miramax guys, they don’t forget the people that come through for them. So maybe down the road when your career goes all Kurt Warner and whatnot, we get Jeff over in media to ghostwrite a couple of your books, we go back to Miramax, they’re looking at a new movie, all about you, and you’re getting all this just for cashing in on this Lassie business. Matty, with these guys, one hand—

Matt: Look, I got Fitty in the car with me, so I gotta go.

Tom: Alright. I’ll be in Cayman tomorrow through next week, so reach me there. Tell Fitty he can reach me there, too.

Matt: Cool, man. [click] What a douche.

Fitty: I did not hear the topic of Mr. Fitzgerald’s crackers addressed during that conversation. Matty.

Matt: Look, dude. Let’s just go to this—

Fitty: Nah nah nah man, FUCK THAT SHIT. What the fuck does he mean “back it,” like giving them money, in lieu of the crackers that were promised to me? Like those crazy bitches are getting Dime One of my shit for some Lassie movie. That’s my stash, man. I repeat: fuck that shit. Matty. I just came for the free crackers. Matty.

Matt: C’mon man, be cool. You heard him, this could be a big deal for me. Let’s just hear them out.

Fitty: Where the fuck are my free crackers? Matty?

Matt: Stop calling me Matty, you cock!

Fitty: Yeah, you just missed the turn right there.

Matt: What? This printout says another point-three miles.

Fitty: The fucking sign was right there! You’ve got that shitass Google Maps, ain’t no fuckin point-three miles you stupid fucking—

Matt: ALRIGHT I’M FUCKING TURNING AROUND! Fucking shit! And stop calling me Matty or I’m gonna tell Anquan that we went someplace without him!

Fitty: …Nah, we straight.

Matt: Okay [Matt parks, gets out of the car] So we just go in and listen, and if we like the ideas they have for the movie, then we can offer to back it, or we can—are you getting out of the car?

Fitty: [muffled through the window] I ain’t givin’ no money, man. I just came for the free crackers.

Matt: Look, we’re just going in to listen, okay? You don’t even have to say anything. I know some of these people, they’re counting on me and–let’s just do this. I am sure they have some crackers in there.

Fitty: [gets out of the car] Gimme your keys [Matt gives him his keys]. If they don’t have crackers in there, I’m gonna pour grape juice on your new upholstery. And then I’m gonna shit on it.

Tomorrow: Act II