Now with bolding for new material! This way, you always know exactly what additions you have yet to read! Terribly exciting, I know!
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In real life, I’m a Pats fan. Haters gonna hate, bros.
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So apparently the Smokin’ Jay Cutler Tumblr linked this, which is hilarious and wonderful. Just think – this all started with a joke about Jay Cutler and Carson Palmer on Twitter. SOCIAL MEDIA, BROS – SOCIAL MEDIA.
I feel as though I should assure folks, though, that this was written entirely for shits and giggles… although that hasn’t stopped me from adding to it…
By the way, bros, that Smokin’ Jay Cutler Tumblr is dangerous for one’s health; if you look at it long enough, Jay Cutler starts looking attractive. So be careful, bros.
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Bet you were thinking, “Wow, this couldn’t possibly get any better!” But, bros, then I ran this through Gizoogle, and it became fucking amazing.
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The madness continues, as now another WordPress blog has linked to this, that of a Green Bay Packers fan… and not even the one who has been goading this whole thing along! Although I think some of the other writers may’ve had an issue had that particular GB fan decided to link from there.
And, yes, I linked back only since the phrase “I linked it without their permission but just like the Chicago Bears, they won’t notice anything.” is unclear as to whom the “they” is.
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Tony Romo was a jaded young man with bad confidence. Jay Cutler didn’t give a fuck. What happened between them in the NFL one season is the subject of SMOKIN’ JAY CUTLER X TONY MOEMO.
A great bestseller for almost five minutes – one of the most starkly moving parables ever about the dark forces that brood over the tortured world of NFL quarterbacks.
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In an alternate universe approximating our own (but with ESPN and CSPAN combined as one unit), Jay Cutler and Tony Romo’s internet meme alter egos are drawn together by an unmistakable attraction. Also, Randy Moss joins the Dallas Cowboys.
* * *
“Man the fuck up, kid. T.O.’s not here to wipe your fucking tears anymore.” Jay Cutler idly flicked ashes onto the turf, seemingly ignorant of the screaming member of the grounds-crew who was tired of burns on the field, “Cut the crying shit.”
Tony Romo looked up at him through a veil of tears, angered; it was a low blow, reminding him that T.O. was hundreds of miles away, written off by even Arena Football. It hurt to recall the betrayal of his own sports team in sending his best bro on the team packing – it was a lie when folks said that time heals all wounds. Jessica, T.O… was there anyone they wouldn’t take from him?
“You even listening to me, you fucking retard?”
Tony was snapped from his reverie, and scowled at the other man, “Would you just leave me the fuck alone? I didn’t ask for your opinion, asshole. And stop flicking ash on the damn field!”
Smokin’ Jay smirked, dropping the butt of his cigarette on the field before he crushed it under his heel, “Your house, your rules.” But Tony refused to bite, turning away, bitterness in his voice, “You have no idea what it’s like, anyway… getting everything taken away, being relentlessly mocked…”
“I have no idea what it’s like? Sure, they might jeer you, but I was run right out of the entire fucking town! But, you know what, kid? That’s the difference between you and me - you care. Whereas, me?” He chuckled, “I know I’m hot shit, and if the fucktards can’t figure that out, then too fucking bad for them.”
His hand went to his pocket, and he pulled out a pack of cigarettes, but the box was empty and he frowned before shrugging, chucking it into the stands, “I’ll see you in Chicago, kid. Assuming you last that long, that is.” He smirked again, and then he was gone, leaving Tony by himself, sitting on the bench, surrounded by the debris his so-called fans had flung at him in the aftermath of the game. Even the ball boy hadn’t bothered to wait for him, and the cleaning crew hadn’t set foot within fifty feet of him to clear the trash away. But if they’d cleared the trash, they probably would’ve carried him out to the dumpsters, too, he was sure. It’s where he belonged, after all – either there, or maybe someplace like Jacksonville. Some place where he’d just be another anonymous, blurred face in front of a crowd of 4,000, all of them tweeting pictures of cats, where he could slink off into eternity.
He wondered if T.O.’s arena team needed a new football player. Even if T.O. wasn’t playing on the squad anymore, it could be like old times, right?
* * *
“Tony, we got you a new receiver – we really think you’ll like him.” He’d been brought into the office for the news; he’d known something was up, because the staff looked a little too gleeful, as if they were about to introduce a mall Santa to a group of orphans. He sighed inwardly, but pasted on a smile, “Oh?”
“This’ll be a big upgrade for us, he’s exactly what we need to up our game.” The computer monitor was swiveled to where he could see it from his seat, and a man in a jersey labeled “81″ beamed at him. His heart leaped at the sight of the digits, before everything crashed – he was wearing a New England Patriots jersey, and he knew in an instant for whom he was grinning. Randy Moss. They had signed Randy Moss.
His mood sagged, but he kept calm. They babbled at him about when the team was going to make the announcement, about how Moss had already been watching tapes of practice to get ready for his debut, about when his first practice would be…
Randy Moss. Randy Moss. Taking that number 81, as if he could fill the void T.O. had left. Tony was positive that it would be pure torture to work with him; all Moss would ever talk about, surely, was Tom Brady. They’d been a dream combo, the two of them, shattering Peyton Manning’s TD reception record. They hadn’t won it all, true, but he wasn’t a fool – his play-off moments were of flubbing it all, while clock management was the death knell for the Patriots in that Super Bowl.
Brady and Moss, Brady and Moss…
They didn’t seem to notice his wandering attention. He recalled Cutler’s words to him – was it true that his problem was that he actually cared? But he was angry with himself for thinking of it; Cutler was a jerk with a bad attitude who’d never done anything, really, anyway. He couldn’t possibly have anything useful to say! But as the meeting moved to its conclusion, he found it impossible to dismiss him from mind…
* * *
He’d been wrong; Moss didn’t just babble about Brady. He also talked about Bill Belichick. A lot. And he said “homie” a lot, too. And he complained about laws and regulations governing driving a lot as well. In fact, Moss talked a ton, period. Tony grudgingly admitted that he had impressive range on the field, but it was also easier to admire him on the field since he was frequently much too far from him to prattle in his ear. Off the field, he did his best to avoid him, which Moss didn’t seem to mind – he didn’t need anyone specific to chatter to, any person would do, so long as they had a pulse… although Tony wondered if even the pulse was necessary.
* * *
He was already sick of the media chatter, and Randy Moss had been with the team barely more than a week. Sure, he’d reeled in a couple of tricky balls, but the media was practically blowing him. Already there was gushing about future possibilities, the sorts of future possibilities which involved college kids who had yet to go pro, with the current QB, well, elsewhere. He gritted his teeth at the memory of a particular story that had come on CSPN when he’d been in the team gym that morning, suggesting the five best college QBs for the Cowboys to draft, with the idea that they’d all work well with Randy Moss. He knew he should be used to it, but with all the myriad betrayals by his own team, he couldn’t help but suspect they were tracking these suggestions avidly. Was this what Ryan Fitzpatrick’s life was like? Although he was pretty sure no one had cheered on the chance of him breaking his own neck…
Meanwhile, Moss was gabbing away to anything approximating a microphone. Of course.
Worse, Jay Cutler’s words kept coming back to him, as did… well, all of Jay Cutler. His insolent attitude. The cocky grin. The cigarette butts littering the visitor’s side of Cowboys Stadium. He was obnoxious, but it was hard to deny that he seemed completely pleased with himself, professional success or no. If Tony was being honest, he, well, envied him, he supposed, envied the devil-may-care approach he could take to the vitriol spat forth by the fans, other players, the media… but he was unconvinced that such an attitude could possibly bring about things like Super Bowl rings. The proof was in the pudding; successful QBs who won titles and awards cared, and those who didn’t… well, didn’t. The Mannings, Tom Brady, Brett Favre, Kurt Warner… they’d all cared a lot. And while they’d had their own flubs (he truly wished he’d never clicked on that link about Favre and Crocs…), no one could argue that they weren’t legendary. He didn’t want to be like the Jay Cutlers of the world – he wanted to be like the Kurt Warners.
But, oh, sometimes how he wished he didn’t care quite so much! To be able to go out, play a good game, and not feel stabs of displeasure when the TV morons nitpicked his every move! Even for just a day he’d like to know that feeling.
* * *
They were headed to Chicago. Tony felt a twinge, but he wasn’t sure of what. A reporter asked him a question, and Moss answered for him, “Straight cash, homies!” The reporter turned to him for confirmation, and he managed a smile, agreeing, “Straight cash, homies.” The woman looked mildly perplexed, as if she’d expected him to make some sense of Moss’s words. But he wasn’t going to bother this time, was he?
His smile widened, became real, and he repeated himself, “Straight cash, homies.”
The news reports said he was nuts. Moss approved.
* * *
“Well, here you are, kid, and you’ve still got that dumb attitude. How’s that working out for you?” Cutler took a step closer, and Tony stepped back, nervously. His heel hit the wall, and it only made matters worse – he was cornered, Cutler blowing smoke in his face. His heart spasmed at the proximity, and he looked away, mumbling, “And you’re still smoking like Jim Leyland…”
“What was that, kid? Were you trying to insult me?” The smirk was clear in his tone.
“I’m not ‘kid’, I’m older than you!” Tony snapped, peevishly, looking at him again. Wrong move, he thought. Cutler practically loomed over him now. He could feel his own face slowly reddening, and felt frustrated. His timing was terrible; it always had been, both on and off the field.
A derisive laugh, “Something wrong, kid? You sure seem upset.”
Tony set his shoulders, looking at him coolly, “I’ve had enough of this. I’ve got a game to play, and I don’t need pointers from someone whose claim to fame is being a quarterback at Vanderbilt.”
He started to move to slip away, but Cutler blocked him, pressing a leg firmly between his, practically pinning him to the wall. The nervous fluttering returned.
“So, that’s how you really feel, kid, huh?”
Tony vaguely noticed ash falling at the periphery of his vision, Cutler’s smoking hand on the wall next to his head, the smoke curling between himself and the Bears QB. And, then, it happened. He instinctively closed his eyes as he was kissed, as he was pressed forcefully against the flat, cinderblock surface. He had, to his horror, begun to reach for the front of Cutler’s shirt for support, his legs jellylike, when Cutler broke contact, the incessant smirk instantly in place, “Win one for the fans, Mr. Hotshot. I’ll see you on the field.”
* * *
They lost the game.
He was crouched in the tunnel, staring toward the field, away from the flashbulbs and his team-mates, away from Cutler. He saw himself before the game, reaching out to cling like a lovestruck high schooler. It’d been a dirty trick… but it had worked.
As he sat quietly on the team bus to the airport, he was disgusted to smell tobacco on his clothes. And when he fell asleep on the plane, finally, he dreamt of the man who had smoked the cigarettes, and woke up angry. But, even here, Cutler had been telling the truth – he cared too much. Otherwise, he could’ve kept his cool, shrugged it off. Instead, he’d caved, and they’d lost the game. A bitter Monday was sure to follow.
* * *
“Tony, we’ve got great news!”
Back in the office again, supposedly great news again. They seemed genuinely convinced that it was not he, in fact, who was the issue at hand; new receivers would solve it! Or new routes! Or… whatever this new announcement was about.
“So, we’ve been thinking a lot, and we think that maybe Samuel L. Jackson isn’t the best fit as the QB coach. He was pretty helpful during that snake incident, but he doesn’t have much familiarity with the game… and it really did show at Chicago, you know? So we fired him.”
He felt like he’d been punched. Another one bites the dust. Jessica, T.O., Samuel L. Jackson… there was no way they’d ever manage to get someone as good as Samuel L. Jackson. Samuel L. Jackson had even offered to come read him bedtime stories when he’d noticed that Tony seemed disappointed after the Bears game earlier in the season. It was true that his football knowledge was a touch lacking, but he’d carved a steep curve. It wasn’t fair to kick him to the curb after all his hard work…
“Anyway, we’ve got someone else, Tony. We really think he’ll be a great addition, and he’s got the necessary know-how to catalyze some progress on the field.”
Who could it be? He considered out-of-work QB coaches, but came up blank… maybe one of the coordinators? He blanched as the possibilities trotted by his mind. Anyone good was already with a team this late in the season; would they stick him with some college guy?
He heard the door open behind him, and began to turn.
“Oh, Brett, glad to see you made it in alright!”
Tony wished he hadn’t turned as his eyes darted away, to find something, anything else to look at. Brett Favre squeaked across the floor in his trademark Crocs, and nothing else. He shook hands with the other coach, before focusing his attention on Tony, beaming, “Tough game the other day!”
He looked at his face, then away again, “Um. Where are… your clothes?”
Brett continued to grin, “My clothes? Oh,” And here, he smirked slightly, “I know, it can be a little,” He thrusted his hips forward, “intimidating sometimes! But I’m just enjoying this lovely Dallas weather, bit less brisk than what Green Bay and Eden Prairie were!”
“Now, Tony, Brett enjoys a good breeze, hell, he was famous for his nude runs back in Green Bay! We want him to feel perfectly at home. You’ll get used to it! Now, Brett, about Tony…”
He slumped in his chair, dismayed, staring at the acid green Crocs on the floor. What was the name of that Arena League team again? T.O.’s team. Their coaches probably wore clothes.