Drew Brees: How’s your ciabatta chicken sandwich, Peter?

Peter King: Oh, it’s delicious. So, Drew, you have to be upset with all of the concern after another hurricane in the gulf.

Drew Brees: Yeah, I really wish we could just move the team to LA and get it over with. I mean, what if the damage to Gustav would have been more severe? Are we going to be rebuilding that shithole every three years?

PK: Drew, that’s not very sensitive.

Drew Brees: What do you mean? It’s true.

PK: I suppose that’s true, but people live there.

Drew Brees: Well, people are stupid, Peter. We’re putting all this money into disaster relief when we should be fighting terrorism here at home.

PK: Oh, come on, Drew.

Brees: I’m serious. Some Arab terrorist could walk through that door and kill us all. The government should be doing something to protect us!

PK: Drew, I can’t believe what I’m hearing from you.

Drew Brees: It’s time to be aware of our role in the world, Peter. People want to do bad things to us, for reasons we don’t fully understand. Wrap your head around that for a…

PK: Drew, do you really want to live in a country where we’re expected to police the rest of the world? I mean, give me one reason why we should assume that role.

Drew Brees: Peter…is that your dad behind you?

PK: Actually, my father’s been…Oh, Christ, no!

BIFF KING: Wow, this is a relief. I made it just in time for the 12:30 showing of The Berenstein Bears Learn To Buttfuck. Usually I’m not a fan of such a departure from the source material, but I could see this heading in the right direction. You’ve really captured the pathos here.

PK: HOW IN GOD’S NAME DID YOU FIND ME? I didn’t drive a rental car. I didn’t bring my cell phone. I took a cab from the airport and WALKED FIFTEEN BLOCKS to this restaurant so I didn’t leave any trail whatsoever. For the love of God, PLEASE TELL ME HOW YOU KNEW I WAS HERE?!?!

BIFF KING: Stevie, I’m in here all the time. This is the official ciabatta stop for El Segundo.

PK: LIAR!

Drew Brees: Hey, if you don’t mind, this is a private conversation.

BIFF KING: Oh, I gathered that, visor boy. Don’t think I’m too eager to jump between the Stevie Bear and his meal. That’s how limbs are lost, my friend.

Drew Brees: I’m not your friend, pal.

BIFF KING: That’s an expression, cockface. You need to stop into CVS and get your valium refilled.

PK: FOR ALL THAT IS HOLY JUST GET OUT OF MY LIFE!

BIFF KING: Did you know one time Stevie invited a girl over to his house just to watch him eat?

PK: We were going to a study group and I hadn’t eaten lunch that day!

BIFF KING: You couldn’t have been that hungry, Stevie. Not if you could pass up such a hot little piece of pink vanilla pie. That’s when Mom started taking him to therapy.

Drew Brees: Hey, sometimes therapy can be very helpful for people. It’s really a healthy way to deal with the difficult things in life.

BIFF KING: …I’m sorry, was that you talking, Drew Brees? Or was that the Hershey squirt on the side of your face? All that money you’re making and your cheek still looks like the ass-end of Stevie’s tighty whiteys.

Drew Brees: [gets up to leave] That’s it, I don’t have to take this.

BIFF KING: You sure don’t, Gorbachev. You’re too big time to hang out with common folk like Stevie here. Just don’t come crying to me when you’re 55 and you can’t remember you’re kids’ names. Unless you’ve tattooed their names on their faces.

Drew Brees: Kiss me ass, you fucking creep.

BIFF KING: Is that what that thing on your face is? Is that a memory mark from your father? Was he a champion of the loci method?

Drew Brees: [grabs a knife from off the table] I’m gonna stab you right in the fucking eyes. You think you can just show up unannounced and treat people like dirt, you fat freak? Somebody has to take a stand against your wandering brand of bullshit. And that somebody is me!

BIFF KING: Come get some, Pony Boy. El Segundo knows no fear.

Drew Brees: Say goodbye to that yellow tooth, you fuckfaced piece of –

T.J. Houshmanzadeh: Hey.

BIFF KING: Hey, Touraj. How goes it.

Drew Brees: Oh my God! It’s a fucking terrorist! Al Qaeda’s come to kill me during my lunch interview! [throws chair through window and smashes it, jumps out the window and sprints away]

PK: How do you guys know each other?

BIFF KING: We, uh, we’re former associates.

T.J. Houshmanzadeh: Do you have anything to drink?

BIFF KING: Take a look around, chocolate cock. We’re in a fucking coffee shop. The world is your oyster.

T.J. Houshmanzadeh: I think I just want water today.

BIFF KING: Jesus, you Iranian-African-Americans are something else.

PK: I hate my life.

FAT GUY IN TRACK SUIT [in booth eating pizza]: You Jimmy?

JIMMY: Yeah.

FAT GUY: Yeah, that’s some hat, kid. Ah, what the hey. Siddown, why doncha?

JIMMY: Thanks. [sits down]

FAT GUY: Here, have a slice. Four cheeses on this pie. Best in the state. Fuggetaboutit. Hey, Jimmy. Jimmy, don’t look so nervous, eh? Come on, Jimmy, have a slice.

JIMMY: I’m alright. Thanks.

FAT GUY: So, uh, you need some taking care of someone in your organization? That’s what our mutual friend said to me. So who we lookin’ at here?

JIMMY: So you guys? You, uh, k–

FAT GUY: Shhhshhh, Jimmy. Do me a favor and shuddafuggup, okay? We don’t use that word. We take care of people. You know, like an escort service. ONLY THEY’RE THE ONES THAT GET BLASTED!!! [slaps table] HAHAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHA!

JIMMY: Haha, yeah, that wasn’t really funny…

FAT GUY: I can see you’re really nervous, Jimmy. And let me tell you somethin, okay? Some people…they just deserve it. We don’t ask questions, we just make your life easier…for a price. Now come on, eat some pie.

JIMMY: No, really. I’m good.

FAT GUY: It’s delicious. Four cheeses.

JIMMY: No.

FAT GUY: [cocks gun under the table] Eat it.

[Jimmy takes a slice and eats it]

Alright, alright, no more funny stuff. Down to business. So what’s the occasion? The UPS man fuckin’ your wife? Somebody makin’ trouble near yo’ residence? Who’s the man o’ the hour?

JIMMY: [pulls out photo] This guy…

FAT GUY: I see. Well, a person of this high profile is going to cost a little extra.

JIMMY: I don’t care. This might be the only way I, uh, I mean Aaron gets to play.

FAT GUY: Alright, the final price tag is gonna be–

[door flies open]

T. J. HOUSHMANZADEH: Hey.

FAT GUY: What the fuck do you want?

JIMMY: Get out of here!

T. J. HOUSHMANZADEH: Aaron Rodgers. You play for the Red Wings, right?

AARON RODGERS: No, I’m Jimmy. I’m–

T. J. HOUSHMANZADEH: Do you have anything to drink?

FAT GUY: I’m gettin’ outta here. [gets up and leaves]

AARON: Thanks a lot, you Persian fuck. I just went through all of this for nothing.

T. J. HOUSHMANZADEH: Okay, bye.

Look, I know it’s not everyday that you get a lecture from a seven-week old embryo, but I need to get this off my chest. That’s especially because my chest is like one-sixteenth of an inch right now. So just hear me out. And please bear with me as I ramble through this. I don’t have any slides or anything.

I realize I’m not even a fetus yet, but I already hate the Kansas City Chiefs. I realized it right off the bat; there’s no chance I’ll ever think two shits of this organization. Their team is boring, their uniforms are boring, and their city might as well be named Bordopolis. Did you like that? I came up with that yesterday.

I heard someone ask how the Chiefs did in the draft, and not only did I have no clue, I didn’t care. I just don’t understand how…hey, gimme just a sec. There’s something going on over here.

[womb flies open]

T. J. Houshmanzadeh: Hey.

Fetus: Wow, you’re T.J. Houshmanzadeh, aren’t you?

I mean, I think you’re T.J. Houshmanzadeh. You know, I’m not even a fetus yet, but I know a lot about football. A lot about the NFL, really. I’m not really into the college game.

So, what’s up? Did you just get lost on your way to the Pro Bowl? Did they have the Pro Bowl yet? I don’t know these things. I’m not even a fetus yet.

T. J. Houshmanzadeh: …you’re little.

Embryo: Well, yeah, I’m little. I’m a fetus. Well, I’m not a fetus yet. I’m still waiting on some paperwork. But yeah, plus one for you, my friend. You know, I’ve heard that football players aren’t very smart, but you, you seem to have some actual brainpower in that ugly rat-tail holder you call a head.

My word, you’re dark-skinned and ugly. I could literally hear the property value of my womb plummeting the second you popped in here.

T. J. Houshmanzadeh: Oh.

Embryo: Yeah. And thanks for that. I’m really self-conscious about my height, for future reference. Even though I’m not quite a fetus.

[awkward silence]

T. J. Houshmanzadeh: Do you have anything to drink?

Embryo: What?

T. J. Houshmanzadeh: It’s polite to offer your guests something–

Embryo: No, dude, I heard you. Uh, don’t look at this as a racial thing, but all the fluid in here is mine. It’s vital to my development as a human being, something you could use a little tutelage with, apparently. So, I’m afraid I got nothing.

Did you hear me?

Hello?

T. J. Houshmanzadeh: Okay, bye.

[T. J. leaves the womb]

Embryo: What the fuck was that?