These Are Our Heroes

The Bears promote Mike Tice to offensive coordinator. 

Jay Cutler likens a successful offense to driving a car. A REAL one, not one of those hybrid pussy-repellents.

Mike Tice cannot think of a more apt comparison, and plans to incorporate this knowledge into his pregame "Light a Fire Under Their Asses" talks.

Caleb Hanie fell asleep in Driver's Ed classroom because he just wanted to drive, man. And when is he ever going to use this stuff in the real world anyway?

Mike Martz enjoys a white wine spritzer. He's working on that screenplay he's put off for far too long.

Lovie Smith locks himself in the office in preparation for next season. Then he discovers Xvideos. Nice little website they have there. He dials home, "I'm going to be in late tonight, honey! Don't wait up!"

The Packers are still the best team in football.

Ballin' Like Jordan

JAY CUTLER and AARON RODGERS walk the streets of downtown Green Bay. CUTLER wears sunglasses despite it being 6:30 at night and a black hoodie over his head. RODGERS wears a black ski mask as to appear inconspicuous. After much good-natured debate, the two finally settle on Angelina Restaurant, a fine Italian eatery. They take their seats in the back, isolated from the other patrons. Their host flips CUTLER the bird as he returns to the front desk. CUTLER does not notice.


RODGERS: Friend, it is an honor to have you here with me in this beautiful city to enjoy a bountiful meal.

CUTLER: 25 bucks for the veal?!?! You're paying, right?

RODGERS: Of course. What kind of host would I be? Besides, I've always wanted to thank you for the way you've taken my brother Jordan under your wing. You wouldn't know it, but he was pretty scared to go out to Vanderbilt. His heart was in California.

CUTLER: It was nothing, really. Good kid. Can't quarterback for SHIT, but not everyone is meant to succeed at Vanderbilt. In fact, NO ONE is meant to succeed at Vanderbilt. He caught Florida at a good time. He caught Tennessee at a good time -- AND STILL LOST.

RODGERS: I've also been concerned with his performance of late. Believe me, I've watched the tape. Cincinnati is sure to pose a serious threat. I worry about his preparation. I worry about his focus.

CUTLER: "Preparation." "Focus." What do those words even mean? That's a bunch of coachspeak. You don't need to worry about those things.

RODGERS: I AM worried. I haven't spoken to him in months. I phoned him just a week ago and someone picked up and didn't say anything. All I heard was fart noises and hip-hop playing in the background.

CUTLER: Sounds like a fucking blast. Too bad I was cooped up in that shitty Denver hotel.

RODGERS: Has he reached out to you? It's driving me crazy. When did it become a burden to give his big brother a call back?

CUTLER: This is a busy time of the year for him. He's probably studying for final exams. And by 'studying for final exams,' I mean hitting the books. And by 'hitting the books' I mean stroking the intellect. And by 'stroking the intellect' I mean having sex with 18-year-old coeds.

RODGERS: GAAAA. My suspicions have been confirmed. I realize college is a time for fun and experimentation, but this is his FUTURE we're talking about. I've typed his name into Google Images and have discovered some absolutely repugnant photographs.

CUTLER: Let's see 'em.

RODGERS: Here is the first one I came across:

    

CUTLER: [Laughing obnoxiously] That's JUST a Halloween costume.

RODGERS: What kind of self-respecting, heterosexual man dresses up as a cheerleader for Halloween?

CUTLER: The kind who is trying to get a little novelty pussy. That's who.

RODGERS: What about this one:

CUTLER: [Suddenly very stern] Photoshopped.

RODGERS: Oh, thank God. This one was almost too much to bear.

CUTLER: No, I mean the Shake Weight is photoshopped. There was something else ENTIRELY in his hands.

RODGERS: OH Dear Me! I....I can't. All of this monkey business ENDS NOW.

CUTLER: Give him a break, friend. I know this is hard for you to believe, but some of us quarterbacks are perfectly capable of living happy and productive lives without mercilessly dissecting a defense. We're flawed. We laugh at our shortcomings. We get by the best we can.

RODGERS: Jordan is not your average run-of-the-mill quarterback. He has it in him to be GREAT. I know it.  

CUTLER: Far be it from me to judge your kid brother. I've only worked out with him. What do I know?

RODGERS: I have a plan. A TOP SECRET PLAN. Can you keep a secret?

CUTLER: Why all the secrets? Just last week Tim Tebow told me.....

RODGERS: Told you what?

CUTLER: Nothing.

RODGERS: Anyway, I've devised a plan to ensure that Jordan gets his head on straight. He's going to be visiting me in Green Bay for Christmas. I'm going to sneak him into the locker room hours before game time. We look enough alike. He'll dress in my jersey and pads and play quarterback for the Green Bay Packers this  Sunday night. Christmas Day. Bears-Packers. Best rivalry in football.

CUTLER: That sounds like a fantastic idea.

RODGERS: What better way to inoculate him into the pro game than against Julius Peppers with no right tackle and the number one seed in the NFC on the line?

CUTLER: I've played three years in Chicago without a right tackle. It's not easy.

CUTLER: We also have Luc McNabb or whatever his name is starting, so Jordan should have no problem winning the game.

RODGERS: EXACTLY. I want him to play poorly and still win. I want to show him the embarrassment that comes with your team winning despite you. Hopefully this will be the necessary first step in getting him to take his position and the game of football seriously.

CUTLER: I see no holes in this plan whatsoever, even if I do think you're being a bit harsh on him. Now tell me, where are the hot spots in Green Bay? I'M DYING TO WHIP MY DICK OUT.

RODGERS: You're at one of them.

CUTLER: This veal IS delicious.

Tebow Confides In Cutler

TIM TEBOW and JAY CUTLER meet in the tunnel to exchange pleasantries. CUTLER is sullen and dejected. He is trying to think of a loophole in his contract which will allow him to stay home for the games he is not playing in. Who is this Tim Tebow? He has to know. Why do his Denver teammates believe in such an inferior talent? CUTLER aims to find out.


TEBOW: Jay!!!! All praise be unto God!!!


CUTLER: God works in mysterious ways and what he giveth he taketh away and all that. Hell of a performance, kid. You played like shit for a sixth consecutive game and still managed to win. I play good and I'm STILL the reason we lose.


TEBOW: Enough with the BULLSHIT, Jay.


CUTLER: Huh?


TEBOW: You're the only NFL quarterback I can entrust with my secret. I've always admired you from afar -- the way you give absolutely ZERO FUCKS in everything you do. This picture says it all. This is my favorite picture. I've never seen a better picture. I printed out this picture at home, blew it up at Kinko's and it is now framed, sitting on my desk. Creepy, I know.

    


TEBOW: Your absolute contempt for everything and everyone around you -- it's so -- human. You carry yourself the way I've always wanted to. But I am not allowed to.

CUTLER: I don't follow.

TEBOW: Don't you see? My whole life is a facade. I'm nothing more than an image -- a figure manufactured for public consumption. I'm not really a virgin.

CUTLER: Well, OBVIOUSLY.

TEBOW: I don't even believe in God.

CUTLER: Whoa.

TEBOW: That anti-abortion commercial? All lies. That wasn't even my real mother. I was created in a laboratory, unaware to this day of where my DNA came from.

CUTLER: Wait a minute, now just HOLD ON. That wasn't your real mother?

TEBOW: Sadly, no.

CUTLER: Do you have her number?

TEBOW: I'm trying to tell you that my image and my entire being were conceived from the start. The NFL needed a handsome and polarizing figure. A WHITE one. Twenty years ago they studied religious trends in America and realized less and less people were identifying as 'Religious' each year. By 2011 they knew a segment of the population would be absolutely disgusted by the idea of a visibly successful athlete crediting all of his success to the supernatural. Especially when he didn't deserve that success to begin with.

They also knew another segment of the population would still be deeply entrenched in their religious beliefs. They would start to feel like the minority and the fools for continuing to believe in something the general population was shifting away from. They needed a reason to believe. And what better way than to give them a shitty NFL quarterback whose team continued to pull off improbable overtime victories?

CUTLER: But why? WHY?

TEBOW: The ratings, Jay. It isn't enough to suck and still win in the NFL nowadays. There has to be something controversial about you, and not controversial in the "he killed some pitbulls" sense. Almost everyone agrees drowning and electrocuting dogs is deplorable. Not everyone agrees on expressing your religious beliefs so openly. Thanks to myself, there are people watching and discussing the NFL that didn't give two shits about football three years ago.

CUTLER: So you're saying you were made from the start to be an NFL quarterback. I get that. But how are you still winning all these games? You've said yourself religion is just a front.

TEBOW: My games are fixed. All of them. First game against Miami, overtime win. Second game, a blowout at the hands of the Lions. My time looked to be over -- now we're unleashing the fury on everyone. My mediocre team is must see television. You're going to watch every fourth quarter I play in, regardless of the score.

CUTLER: How are you fixing the games? I caught no wind of this.

TEBOW: Sure, you caught no wind of this. Marion Barber was in on it, and a couple of your teammates too. The refs also knew. Like I said, the NFL is smart, they've been planning this for years. When Barber ran out of bounds it was one of the stupidest NFL plays imaginable. That is a play that seems fishy. But not with Barber. The NFL made sure he played like a dumb fuck in Dallas too so something like this was not beyond the realm of possibility. It also didn't hurt the NFL slipped him a cool 15 million under the table.

CUTLER: 15 MILLION?!?! I would have gotten out there and threw the fucking game for THAT.

TEBOW: Of course you would have, and so would many of your colleagues. Comparatively, NFL athletes are not paid much. They need the money and the post-career health insurance.

CUTLER: This is all so depressing.

TEBOW: All the more reason why I admire you. You aren't about to risk permanent injury for this game. Laugh at those who scream "PUSSY" loudest and storm the tower with sharpened pickaxes.

CUTLER: [thinking to himself] Am I dreaming? This guy is so fucking weird. We've been talking a long time. Way too long for a simple post-game handshake. Did I leave the oven on?

TEBOW: Hey Jay, would you like to do some coke?

CUTLER: Coke?!?!

TEBOW: Yeah!! I do a couple lines before every game AND a couple more at halftime. It certainly makes the interviews more bearable.

CUTLER: Uh....I think I'm good.

[Men with cameras descend. TEBOW notices]

TEBOW: God Bless, Jay! Best of luck with your treatment and the rest of the season! [whispering now] And remember, don't tell a soul what we discussed!

TEBOW exits into the locker room, leaving a stunned CUTLER to fend off the reporters. 

JERK-OFF REPORTER NO. 1: What did you and Tebow have to say to each other?

CUTLER: I uh.....I wished him luck for the rest of the season. I just told him....I just told him to keep doing what he's doing. I guess. I think I'm going to give it a go next week. Standing on the sidelines is really messing with me.

JERK-OFF REPORTER NO. 2: Jay, how much of this game do you think can be chalked up to divine intervention?       

A Special Christmas Gift

CALEB HANIE is seated in a dimly lit room. He is dejected, head buried in his hands and runs his fingers through his hair. JAY CUTLER overlooks him and rummages behind a mini refrigerator. The room smells like a mixture of gasoline and cleaning solvent. Both men are keenly aware of this, though neither seems to mind. CUTLER finds what he is looking for -- a bottle of Old Grand-Dad, 114 Barrel Proof. CUTLER produces two whiskey tumblers with ice. He pours the drinks.


CUTLER: Here, drink this.


HANIE: I really shouldn't.


CUTLER: DRINK.


HANIE: If you say so.


CUTLER: It will help you deal with that prick Shane Day.


HANIE: [Finishes glass, Cutler fills him up] I hate that prick. Did you know he wasn't even a quarterback in college. He was a fucking wide receiver. How is he qualified to be a quarterbacks coach?

CUTLER: I did know that. Believe me -- I do my homework. I remind the weasel of his past everyday. I also put Super Glue on the temple covers of his glasses.

HANIE: I feel like I cost us the game.

CUTLER: You did cost us the game. But it's OK. The important thing is to never admit you cost your team the game. Talk about how Oakland is a hostile environment and you can't help but feel dragged down by the protests and year-long Halloween parties. Talk about how you and your receivers are not yet on the same page. Mention how Johnny Knox seems to be playing on a fucking Slip-N-Slide every week. It's not hard, Caleb. It really isn't think. Think of what they want you to say and then say the opposite. Or rely on the one-word response. Whichever.

HANIE: I've placed so much pressure on myself. I just....

CUTLER: I understand. Your family, your beautiful wife, were in attendance. You embarrassed them. They were too afraid to even show up in Bears gear. You dad wanted desperately to cheer when we got back within 5 and he couldn't. He knew you weren't driving the team down the field to win the game.

HANIE: [tears forming] I just wanted to prove....to prove to everyone I could play quarterback in this league. My whole life....I've waited....for this moment. And I couldn't come through.

CUTLER: You can't be so hard on yourself. You'll never succeed in this league with that kind of mentality. Putting all this pressure on yourself -- it's leads to some crazy things. Do you want multiple neck surgeries? Do you want to knock up two women concurrently? Take a look in the mirror. This is where your life is heading.

HANIE: [sobbing loudly now] I've always been....I've always been taught....that winning....winning is everything. You should....you should always do your best....but sometimes your best is not good enough. And then....then it's OK to hate yourself.

CUTLER: CHRIST ALMIGHTY! It's a football game. I emphasize the "game" part for a reason. Play them. Not just on the field, but off. Blame Martz. He didn't put you in position to succeed. End of the second quarter, 2nd and 1 on Oakland's 7-yard line, and what does the asshole do? He calls a misdirection pass across the field. That was one of the STUPIDEST FUCKING THINGS I've seen in my life. Pound the rock, goddamnit....

HANIE: But if I would have made a better throw....

CUTLER: Bullshit! That's the type of play where you call timeout and tell Martz to "Fuck Off." I'm serious. If he pulls that shit next week, I expect you to call timeout and tell him to "Fuck Off." Make sure to tell Shane Day to fuck off too, for good measure.

HANIE: What about when I overshot Forte by a good 10 yards?

CUTLER: [fills Hanie's glass back up] It was you FIRST CAREER START. These things happen. Remember your first fuck? We've all fucked a kneecap for a couple minutes before realizing....

HANIE: I just want it to get better. I want my teammates to look me in the eye and say....

CUTLER: You NEVER want your teammates looking you in the eye -- for any reason. Take my word. Let them do their jobs and yours if need be. Our defense is fucking maniacal. You were giving Oakland plenty of good starting field and the D was just clamping the fuck down. That's what they do. They like the challenge. They're used to having to win games by themselves. Let them do it. If an alcoholic wants a drink, the best thing you can do is give him one.

HANIE: So you're saying....what are you saying?

CUTLER: I'm saying that you don't have to live within your means. Look -- you're never going to have my talent. The throws I make look easy -- you can't make those throws. But that shouldn't stop you from trying. You have people you can blame and other people to bail you out when you fuck up. Use them. Play each game like it's your last. This will be your only chance to ever start in the NFL. Don't let your inhibitions hold you back. 'Let It Fly' -- this is my motto, and a damn good one to live by.

HANIE puts his face down to the table. He remains silent, struggling between CUTLER's advice, and his own, which demands perfection and accountability. He's torn. He feels like vomiting and even dry heaves multiple times. CUTLER notices and feels now is a better time than ever.


CUTLER: Hey Caleb -- I know you've had a really rough go of it lately. So -- well -- I wanted to get you a little something. Just to let you know I'm in your corner.


HANIE: [taken aback] A gift? You didn't have to do that.


CUTLER: I know, but it's Christmas time, and well, here.


CUTLER hands HANIE a greeting card, sealed in a navy blue envelope. HANIE pulls out the card and three Trojan Large condoms.


CUTLER: Ahh, shit. Those weren't supposed to be in there.


HANIE hands CUTLER the condoms and takes the card out of the envelope. On the front is a picture of a smiling Jay Cutler with the heading, 'Who Treats his Back-Up Well?' The inside says, '#CuttyDoesIt.' Suddenly the card begins to play music. The tune is one HANIE recognizes but cannot place. This is the jingle.

HANIE: [Begins to recognize where he has heard this music before] Whaaa.......Whaaa........You didn't?!?!

CUTLER: [laughing] Let's head out to the parking lot.

HANIE: [screams and jumps into CUTLER's arms] I CAN'T BELIEVE IT! I CAN'T BELIEVE IT! I CAN'T BELIEVE IT! I FEEL LIKE I'M ON OPRAH!!!!!!!!

CUTLER: That's right, baby! Jay Cutty's coming back Christmas Day to beat those Green Bay faggots. MERRY MOTHER FUCKIN' CHRISTMAS.

Caleb Hanie drives home in his new Lexus with a beaming smile on his face. He leaves the bow on top. He jams to America's greatest hits and thinks to himself, 'Cutty will win us a Super Bowl one day!'

Inside The Mind Of Kyle Orton

Sunday, November 20th. 8:21 PM. Kyle Orton watches the ESPN ticker. Jay Cutler suffers broken thumb, likely out for 6-8 weeks. Two days later, Orton calls his agent David Dunn.

ORTON: Double-Deez, have you seen the ESPN ticker?

DUNN: Of course I have. I get all the up to date information because I am a real agent.

ORTON: I think I can cut it as the Chicago Bears quarterback. Round Two, baby. I need you you to convince the Broncos to waive me.

DUNN: I thought you were talking about the Sandusky news. Hey-O [slaps self on the head]. Wake up Dunnster. Well geez, Kyle it's not that easy. Back-up quarterbacks superior to the the starter are at a premium in today's market. I'll give them a call, but I think they're going to want to hang on to ya.

[Two minutes and 13 seconds later]

DUNN: You have been waived by the Denver Broncos.

Wednesday, November 23rd. 6:04 PM. Kyle Orton hears the Chiefs have placed a waiver claim on him. He takes a much needed second to himself to reflect on his life.

Well, it looks like it's going to be Kansas City. Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck. I shouldn't complain though. It's a job. People are having a rough time finding those, I'm told. I like that Jamaaaaal Charles kid. LOL. How many A's does it take these days? The kid has some talent. Nice speed, shifty runner, and nice head of hair. He keeps those braids nice and clean. I'd buy life insurance from him. I wouldn't buy life insurance from Chris Johnson. Oh shit, I just realized Jamaaaaaaal is out for the year. He was on my fantasy team. Totally fucked up my season. John Fox made it even worse when he benched me. I should have listened to Chris Johnson when he told me never to draft yourself in fantasy football. 'One day you're going to get paid,' he said. 'Then there are going to be some days you just don't give a fuck. Like, you'd rather do anything than play football. Fly fishing, white water rafting, you name it.' I don't even think Chris knows what fly fishing is. He just threw it out there to make the point he would rather take part in an unfamiliar activity than go to work that day. I like the kid though, crazy gold teeth. Hehe. I'm going to be him for Halloween next year but I won't paint myself black because I could get in a lot of trouble. Good guy, that Chris. Hopefully Tennessee will release him and he can get back to caring about football.

Kansas City is supposed to have good BBQ -- huge plus. I can put up with the drowsiest of cities as long as I have the right food. Like, none of this McRib bullshit they have in Denver. What's that thing even made of? Does anyone know? Does anyone want to? Life's quandaries, I tell ya. I stumbled upon an article about Kansas City a few years ago -- I think it was a most desirable places to live or something -- and I was surprised to find out Kansas City isn't in the state of Kansas -- huge plus. Imagine ol' Ort out in the Bible-thumpin' state of Kansas. Some of those places wouldn't take too kindly to a man who knows how to enjoy a good drink on a Sunday morning. I'd get thrown in one of their two-bit jails the minute I stepped foot into the saloon. I seem to remember an old Western --what the hell was the name of it? Something or other and it took place in Kansas. All the guys drank and dressed like they got by on $1.25 a week and they probably did. Some scruffy mother fuckers too. Well I'll be damned! For once the NECKBEARD will fit right in. No more anonymous gift boxes filled with razors, no more 'Well you better buy me drinks all night,' no more 'Use TWO condoms,' and no more '1968 called....' jokes. 

People are always asking me about Tim Tebow. Tebow this -- Jesus Christ that -- Tebowing -- and TeBLOWing. Everyone seems to assume I hate the little prick. Not true. Timmy loves the cameras. He loves Jesus Christ. He loves answering questions about his religion, and he loves gently forcing his religious beliefs upon those living in impoverished areas of the world. He hasn't really fucked with me, so I don't have a problem with him. People always say, 'Well Kyle, he did take your job. Isn't that kind of fucking with you?' HELL NO. I'm still getting paid, aren't I? He's playing like a fucking idiot, isn't he? Eventually the Broncos are going to realize they made a mistake and put me back in. Heh heh heh. I just thought about what I just thought about. They're NEVER going to realize it.

I've had some good and some bad times in my career. Chicago, despite all of my wins, was not the greatest time. I wish those pictures never hit the net. Now everyone thinks I have no standards. That I'll shack up with the first pair of tits that pop out during Thirsty Thursday. They think I can't dance and I drink alone. I don't even like the taste of whiskey. It's rotten and deceptive. It doesn't love me like I thought. No one loves me like I thought. Except Brady. That's right, Brady Quinn. I can say without hesitation, we are bros. I'll never forget the day he came to Denver. He was trying to make nice with me, and I think -- quite possibly -- trying to ruin my chances of winning the starting quarterback job. He invited me to a party being held by a friend of a friend of a friend's dad. You know those frat-types. Everyone knows someone who knows someone.

So I get to the party and it's taking place on a deck. This is not an ordinary deck, as seen in Indiana. This is a fucking huge two-story deck. The place was already packed with people, mostly shirtless guys and scantily-clad females. I'm a shy person by nature, which has its advantages, but doesn't afford me the luxury of meeting many beautiful women. I took this as a great opportunity to stand near the keg and hold the front of my hand out -- waiting for a girl's ass to brush against it if they passed by me too close. I'm delighted to say this maneuver worked two times before the third girl slapped me. I admit to being a little too forward with the third girl -- I used the palm of my hand this time and offered a playful squeeze. My face stung and I high-tailed it out of there down to the first floor, worrying the entire time my NECKBEARD would make me easily recognizable into the night. 

Brady was on the first floor playing beer pong with three girls. I'd been drinking Jack all car ride and was pretty drunk when I showed up. Brady saw me first, 'Hey, Ort-MAN. You're on my team. MY TEAM. THE FUCKIN BRONCOS AND WE'RE GONNA SLAY THE SHIT OUT OF THESE TWO GIRLS!!!' It took me a second to realize he was referring to the game of beer pong. By that time, I had already decided my inappropriate squeezing of the girl's buttocks was Brady's fault. He'd invited me to the party and my brain processes determined this was justification enough to blame him for the incident upstairs. So I said, 'What is that shit you're drinking in those cups? I bet that shit is Bud Light.' He just kinda stared at me and didn't say anything. He was trying to be my bro and I was hostile. 'You want to play a real game of beer pong? Fill the fucking cups with Jack. I have a handle right here.' I pulled out the handle from underneath my shirt and one of the girls seemed to be impressed with that. I think she thought I magically summoned it. So I gave her ass a playful squeeze, realizing it was OK this time, and saddled up next to Brady.

'Let's just play with Bud Light, bro,' Brady said. 'We're gonna get way too fucked up with the Jack.' 

'Getting too fucked up off the Jack is how we do it here in Denver. Are you not man enough to play in Denver?'

I realized that night questioning Brady's manhood was a surefire way to get him to do anything. I filled our cups all the way up with the Jack and the girl's cups with the piss. Brady and I were on the same team, but we taunted each other as if we were competing. He would miss a shot and I'd tell him he had a small penis. I'd miss a shot and he'd tell me I was a lame. The girls were dominating and we both became frustrated missing shot after shot. Then I said something I shouldn't have.

'You're missing cups from a few feet away. How the hell do you plan on completing a pass to a receiver?'

This pushed him over the edge. I also learned that night very little was off limits with Brady. He was generally good-natured except if you questioned his on-field performance. He was very sensitive when it came to his inability to play quarterback at the professional level. Some of the guys in the locker room would compare him to Jimmy Clausen. This hurt him deeply.

'THAT'S IT,' Brady screamed. He told me later he contemplated flipping the table but thought better of it. 'YOU VERSUS ME. THROW-OFF."

I had no idea what a throw-off was. Brady enlisted a couple of his bros to bring the tables into the yard. They counted off and placed the tables 25 yards apart. Brady and I and close to one hundred bros met in the middle of the tables. Brady explained we'd be throwing the ping-pong balls 25 yards now. This was supposed to prove who the better NFL quarterback was. As I said, I was already drunk, and welcomed the challenge. There was no light in the yard, however, which proved to be a problem. 

We threw the ping-pong balls up and into the dark night. Playing quarterback for the Broncos was not all too different from our throw-off. Neither of us could hit anything, but we bonded over our lack of success. The last thing I remember from that night was taking off my shirt and offering body shots. I woke up the next morning still shirtless and face-down on the lawn with my pants around my ankles. I drove home drunk from the night before and laughed it off. I hadn't experienced a night like that since college. I owed it all to Brady. So when people ask me about being replaced as a starter, it's not so much I'm disappointed about being replaced. I just wish it were by Brady. He deserves the promotion.

Sunday, November 27th. 7:48 PM.   

Mom never trusts me. She made the goddamn cranberry sauce out of the can for Thanksgiving again. I hate the fucking cranberry sauce out of the can. 'But it's so affordable,' she says. 'Mom,' I tell her. 'I'm rich. If you're worried about money, I can pay for the dinner. I'd gladly pay for the dinner if it means you're making homemade cranberry sauce.' She doesn't think I'm rich. She thinks if you don't start in the NFL you don't get paid. She doesn't even believe I've been claimed by the Chiefs. She's referred me to the Wanted ads at least three times today. I'm sick of this shit. I just want to enjoy a homemade meal, watch a little football, and fall asleep. Why is that so much to ask?

Orton is crunched in between James Harrison and LaMarr Woodley. This following a first down run for no gain and a throw to the sideline as his receiver breaks in on second down. Todd Haley is irate on the sideline.

HALEY: What the fuck is numb nuts thinking about out there, Thanksgiving dinner?                 

#CuttyDoesIt: A Non-Comprehensive List

Up close look at the thumb in question.

Sunday night was supposed to be a time of relaxation. A time to enjoy the Bears victory and laugh at the plight of the Eagles. The Eagles won in spectacularly boring fashion, the real interruption, however, was the news of Cutler's broken thumb. The reactions were swift and ranging. Everything from "The season is over," to "Their remaining schedule is pretty soft, the Bears should be able to survive and make the playoffs." The Bears this season, especially during the current five game winning streak, have looked more in-sync on offense than they have since the first half of 2006, and before that --what -- the mid-1990s? Cutler, now surrounded by a competent offensive line and a rejuvenated defense, appears worthy of the hype surrounding his acquisition three years ago. Fans who didn't see him play in Denver were probably wondering how and why that hype originated.

Cutler's on-field exploits -- extending plays with his legs, the accurate, zip-line throws into tight windows, and propensity to throw on the run -- seemed to be a matter of "if" rather than "when." He justifiably lacked confidence in his offensive line. He forced throws when he knew he wouldn't be afforded enough time to throw down the field again for the remainder of the drive. His body language was bad. Too much was made of this, particularly in connection to buzzwords like "leadership ability" that are more literary crutch than beneficial discussion point. There was and is something to body language, though. Cutler approached every game as if he was preparing for a 10-hour warehouse shift. This applied to all phases, on the field, at the podium, etc. Playing football wasn't about fun or winning. It was some shit he had to do to survive.

Soldier Field erupted when Cutler took the ball over the pile for a one-yard score in the second quarter. The Bears would not relinquish the lead for the rest of the game. It's plays like these Bears fans love because they can say, "Look how tough he is." When news came out Cutler finished the game with a broken thumb, I could envision the prideful smug-faced Bears fans everywhere. When a slew of players, NFL fans and writers (all OUTSIDERS oooh oooh), criticized Cutler for not returning to last year's NFC Championship game, almost all Bears fan -- even those who didn't like Cutler -- rallied defensively around him. He was like the younger brother they could slap, push down the stairs, and tackle in the mud, but the minute someone else did it, they're dead. Basically, we don't need someone outside our family telling us how to be an older sibling, or how to raise kids, whichever. He's leaving us now, for  6-8 weeks, and it's created a void in our sporting lives.

The team has won the last two years and Bears fans have an excuse to permeate the "Us Against the World" mentality with Cutler front and center. Spawned from this new relationship is a funnier, more entertaining and relateable Jay Cutler. He's actually interacting with fans on Twitter and joking about giving Philip Rivers a call. He can tell his offensive coordinator to "Fuck Off," and everyone laughs it off. He's embraced the #CuttyDoesIt hashtag and is using it to promote his foundation. I love #CuttyDoesIt because it's all-encompassing. What can't Cutty do? He can do the mundane, the supernatural, the sexual conquistador -- whatever you want. And the best part is he embraces this fluidity. Two years ago he would have shrugged it off.

* * *

Make a list of your own. Here's mine:


Shaves with Ginsu knives. #CuttyDoesIt

Pierces ears, nose, and lip with a blue push-pin. Critics point to the fact push-pin was sterilized beforehand. #CuttyDoesIt

Orders a $3.99 meal from Denny's. Tips 60 cents in nickels and dimes. #CuttyDoesIt

Contacts four different electronic stores in regards to a 60 inch flat screen HDTV. Decides on the one with the most affordable price. #CuttyDoesIt

Has taken to yelling "Go Long!" at the drunken holiday parties. The guests get a kick out of it. #CuttyDoesIt

Notices a beehive has begun to form underneath the gutter. Runs to the store, purchases a can of Raid and sprays the hive for the next three days. Removes nest on the third day with no problem. #CuttyDoesIt

Enters a burning building. Mother screams, "My baby! My baby! Not my baby!" Jets up to the second floor, grabs baby, and throws perfect spiral out the window to Earl Bennett, standing nearby. #CuttyDoesIt

Publicly roots for Vandy, but wouldn't mind seeing Kentucky take the SEC East every year. #CuttyDoesIt

Ponders aloud in the doctor's office the difficulty of jerking off with a thumb cast. #CuttyDoesIt

Throws off back foot to distinguish himself from Aaron Rodgers. #CuttyDoesIt

I have never seen this woman in my life before, officer. #CuttyDoesIt

Publicly denies to the intrusive, no-fun-whatsoever beat reporters his knowledge of the term "cutty" as slang for a "sex act."  Privately knew all along. #CuttyDoesIt

Cutler Finally Picks Up The Phone

JAY CUTLER emerges from his bathroom wearing nothing but an opened bathrobe. The bathrobe -- pink, fuzzy, and clearly fraying is embroidered with #CuttyDoesIt on the ass. Water drips from Cutler's hair on to the carpet but he doesn't seem to notice. En route to the fridge he stops for a second and stares at the telephone. Next to the telephone is a torn off piece of notebook paper with a phone number written on it. Cutler stares at the telephone dismissively, as if the telephone picked him off four times in a game. After much hesitation he picks up the phone and dials the number on the piece of paper.


[Phone rings three times. A woman answers]


WOMAN: Hello. Rivers residence.

CUTLER: The time has come Philip. Do you know who this is?

WOMAN: This is Philip's wife, Tiffany. May I ask who's calling?

CUTLER: Oh, couldn't tell the difference. Umm, this is Jay -- Jay [five second pause] Jay Smith. From work.

TIFFANY: One second, Jay. I'll get him for you.

[Tiffany yells upstairs to Philip that he has a phone call. Rivers plays with his two boys, while his four girls are locked in another room. He is in the middle of explaining how to properly throw a football. He is visibly perturbed. "My kids are retards," he mumbles under his breath. He instructs his boys to practice "The Bible" while he takes this phone call]


RIVERS: Who is it, honey?

TIFFANY: It's a man who calls himself Jay Smith. He says he works with you.

RIVERS: Fuck. I think that's the QB Coach, I better take this. [Tiffany scurries out of the room and up the stairs]

RIVERS: Hello, this is Philip.

CUTLER: Hey there, cockboy.

RIVERS: Now what did I tell you about that dog gone nickname. I didn't intend to stare at Tolbert's dick. It was right there in front of me. I couldn't look anywhere else.

CUTLER: Jesus, you're more pathetic than I remember. Let me give you a little hint as to who this is. 4-1: your record against me. I know you keep track of those meaningless stats.

RIVERS: Well by golly, this isn't Jay Smith at all. This is Jay Cutler, the hot-doggin SUMAVABITCH I've had to answer questions about all week.

CUTLER: Very good, limp dick. Although I probably shouldn't call you that anymore. You have like 17 kids now.

RIVERS: Just had my sixth thank you very much. A beautiful and healthy baby boy. He just made one month. He's ree-tarded. I've tried teaching him to throw a football and he just doesn't get it.

CUTLER: All kids are retarded. They're like women -- and beat reporters -- and football fans.

RIVERS: I've had just about enough of your foul mouth. All these years later and you haven't grown up one bit. I'm a family man and a devout Catholic. I play for a DOG GONE ball club that's lost four in a row. I have better things to do than trade dick jokes with you.

CUTLER: Philip, and I will call you Philip from now on -- dick jokes were not the purpose of my phone call. I have grown up and matured since our little run-ins. I want to make things right. I didn't have to call you this afternoon, but I DID. I care and I want to turn our relationship around. I've been meaning to for a while but I couldn't work up the courage. I knew how little you thought of me. Remember when we met in Denver? You said if I'd write to you you would write back. See, I'm just like you in a way. I never knew my father neither, he always used to cheat on my mom and beat her.

RIVERS: WHAT THE???.......MY FATHER WOULD NEVER.....AHH it appears I've been taken. Here I am, thinking you're trying to mend fences and you're quotin' Satan's music. Well the sun don't shine on the same dog's tail all the time, buddy. Know that.

CUTLER: You strike me as more of a Lynyrd Skynyrd kind of guy.

RIVERS: I'm hanging up now....

CUTLER: WAIT! Philip, I'm sorry. Behind my rough exterior is a sensitive, caring man. I've been battered and bruised on the football field. My reality star girlfriend and I are still putzing around the issue of our relationship. I'm a football player and a FUCKING LEADER. It's true, I've been putting on airs. But it's the only way I know how. Do you have any idea what it's like playing with a shitty team your whole life?

RIVERS: I do Jay, I do. I'm in the middle of that right now. In fact, some would argue I've always played for shitty teams -- just with good records and gaudy numbers.

CUTLER: We're not that different, Philip. The media tries to paint us as a couple of assholes. We ARE a couple of assholes, but there's more to us than that. I know the kind of good work you do, talking to the kids, saving them from getting some pussy and all. And I run my diabetes foundation. We're good guys, but no one ever wants to talk about those things. They just see a couple of guys with bad body language and peculiar facial expressions. That's all we are to them.

RIVERS: You know as well as I do that we're both used to being the biggest asshole on the field. Now it's just human nature or some shit that you never want to give that title up. When you used to grab your crotch and wave off the officials I became jealous. I felt my scowls and sideline tantrums paled in comparison to your performance. Me lashing out at you was a way to cover up the thoughts of inadequacy I was feeling.

CUTLER: It's getting too real right now, bro. I'm glad we've had this talk. But let me make one thing clear: when Sunday comes and it's time for the coin toss, I hate your FUCKING guts. I want nothing to do with you. We're going to go on like we still despise each other.

RIVERS: No doubt. It's good for business. The dumb ass fans need to feel like we still hate each other.

CUTLER: As long as we're being honest, I slipped this video into film study this week:




CUTLER: Virginity is the greatest gift you can give your wife and vice versa? [laughs] I bet you've never had good sex in your life. I bet you've never ventured away from the missionary position --

RIVERS: Enough. Nobody talks about my wife and family like that. I WILL be the bigger asshole on Sunday you can bet on that. I've never been more motivated.

CUTLER: Jay Cutty can do no wrong! I'm winning games. I'm all of a sudden the charming asshole. I'm interacting with fans on Twitter and giving handy J's to my parody account. My popularity is at an all-time high! Charges fans are ready to run your ass out of town. It's a good time to be Jay Cutty.

[Rivers hangs up. He asks his wife if she would consider spicing their relationship up -- maybe some edible panties or party masks. She refuses. "Just for that, no sex for a month." Rivers picks up a Sears catalog, sandwiches it between the playbook and heads down to the basement]


[Cutler drops his robe and exposes himself to the neighbor's daughter. He calls up Greg Olsen and gets his voicemail. He leaves a message, "You're not going to believe who I just talked to. Call me back when you get this. Urgent."] 

It's Never Just Hair Loss

Matt Forte in 2008.

Matt Forte in 2009.

Matt Forte in 2010.

Matt Forte in 2011.

Sweet mother of God! That hairline -- it's -- it's -- pushed back a full inch. A receding hairline comes with age and stress. Stress. Forte was planning a wedding and how to tell his fiance he knocked up his ex-girlfriend when this picture was taken. This was also only a few months removed from the loss to the Packers in the NFC championship game. Stressful things indeed, but let's be honest with ourselves. Forte's hair loss is the result of his contract situation. Everything relates back to his contract because we want to believe there's some justice and distinction in a sport where there is none. It's also less painful to discuss someone else's salary than our own. Alas, Forte showed up to camp looking like Taj Gibson's brother.

   

And cannot be interviewed without a hat for the rest of his life.

When will the madness end? You say Forte shaved his head to conceal his hair loss. I say shaving one's head is an act symbolic of the pain and loss one is feeling. Forte's grown the contract-squabble-beard perfected by Darrelle Revis. Remember when he rejoined his teammates for the taping of Hard Knocks? Dude looked like he hadn't seen bright light in 18 days. Dude most definitely hadn't groomed for at least a month. It was depressing and I wonder if Forte is suffering the same silent anguish. He's almost certainly dipped into the junk food. Once he discovers the delicious combination of pepperoni pizza topped with chocolate syrup and sandwiched in between two Krispy Kreme donuts, those jump cuts aren't going to embarrass defenders anymore.

So as you try to convince your sensible friends Forte deserves a shitload of guaranteed money, don't reference his statistics or big plays. Running backs typically break down after five years -- the ones lucky enough to last that long. Cite the visible damage to his appearance and the inevitable damage to his psyche. These are sane, persuasive arguments. Or just run around in circles, bang your head repeatedly against the wall while chanting "Pay Forte." Your friends will probably say "Fuck it," and agree with you.    

A Most Sincere Appreciation of all Things Packers

I took a trip over to the local library this afternoon to return a book and came across, dare I say, a typical Chicago Bears fan. Like all Bears fans, this one was more concerned with the Packers than his own team. He wore a heavy blue and white flannel shirt, a black knitted cap, and stood, feet firmly planted on the roof. Whether he was up there to fix something or bring home his point I don't know. Another man, bigger, perhaps more rational held the ladder and yelled up to him, "They're all saying Aaron Rodgers is overrated." Keep in mind I approached them mid-conversation so I couldn't tell you how they got to that point. My immediate reaction was, "ALL? Who's saying such a thing? No large, reactionary group of people could possibly be that stupid." The man on the roof yelled down to him, "Aaron Rodgers IS overrated." This was his moment, his statement to end all statements -- a thought more definitive than any he'd conjured up in 35 or so years of living. 

Suddenly, the wind gusts picked up. Blue and white flannel shirt man began to sway -- arms flailing -- at the edge of the roof. "He IS overrated," he continued. "He IS." It became clear to me that he felt the wind was a sign from God. A powerful force meant to smite him and he stood there on the edge of the roof firm in his convictions. The wind continued to howl, and he kept going. "He IS, he IS, he IS..." His upper body now hung over the edge and he looked like he was performing the breaststroke in the swimming pool of his creation. The man on the ground, clearly concerned, mumbled something to the effect of, "You might want to get down from there." But the man on the roof enjoyed this too much. He was getting a kick out of battling his brisk, assuming enemy. He was winning.   

The wind slowly died down and blue and white flannel shirt man took two steps back to gather himself. He surveyed the bikes and cars he was overlooking, and I'd have to assume, felt above it all. "I'm so sick of hearing about the goddamn Packers everywhere I turn." He averted his gaze. "9-0 my ass." This man nearly plummeted to his death, and for what? The current is coming to sweep us all away. It's best to trend in its general direction, lay our heads down, and let it take us where it will.

* * *

Let's clearly establish one thing from the get-go: Aaron Rodgers is the best player in the NFL. This is not debatable. It's bad enough I have to hear about how overrated Rodgers is in real life, but then I have to venture onto some Internet hatespeak platform masquerading as a legitimate website, only to hear that Aaron Rodgers isn't even having the most impressive season from a quarterback in the last five years. These propaganda-flingers will have you believe Tom Gay-dy's 2007 season trumps anything Rodgers will do this year. PUH-LEASE. They'll have you believe the rules are so slanted towards modern day offenses that Rodgers' numbers deserve the Roger Maris asterisk treatment. You want to talk about asterisks? Here's one: Randy Gene Moss. Tom Gay-dy simply threw the ball up and allowed Moss in all his gazelle-footed glory to run out and get it. You've seen some of those catches, no? Underthrown, overthrown, ten yards to the right, ten yards to the left, one hand free, no hands free. It didn't matter. Unless a back physically tackled Moss, there was no way he wasn't coming down with the ball. Wes Welker wasn't going to make those catches, folks. Deion Branch wasn't going to make those catches. And Moss accounted for almost half of Brady's 50 touchdown passes that year. LOL. Take Moss off the team and Gay-dy's numbers are looking mad average. Get that shit outta here, bro.

Now I'm supposed to believe Aaron Rodgers has someone of Moss' caliber in Green Bay. Don't get me wrong, Greg Jennings is the most underappreciated receiver in all of football, but Greg Jennings isn't making those catches. Jordy Nelson is a white guy named Jordy and Rodgers is making him look like a beast out there. Rodgers is placing passes so perfectly in between James Jones' hands that he can't even drop them. Donald Driver is 58-years old. McCarthy and Rodgers are drawing up misdirection shovel passes because they look cool on the whiteboard and they want to throw John Kuhn a bone once in a while. I believe in this defense too. They're going to get better because they have Pro Bowlers and they can't get any worse.

I know what you're thinking, Internet stat-geeks. The Packers couldn't possibly go 19-0. There's too much parity in this league. The pressure is too great. The 2007 Gay-triots had the best chance we'll ever see and that ship has sailed. Now Aaron Rodgers is obviously working with a lot less than Gay-dy had, but this should not sway you. This Packers team is light years ahead of what the rest of the league is doing. Look at their remaining schedule. Who's honestly going to beat them? I see you, Internet word-nerds, moisturizing your delicate hands and circling Week 13 against the Giants. LOL. Have you forgotten dum-dum Eli Manning still quarterbacks these New York football Giants? Have you forgotten the wounded ducks Eli is capable of throwing in adverse New York weather conditions? The Giants are going to punt to Randall Cobb -- this year's DeSean Jackson. Tom Coughlin will be tomato-red in the face five minutes in trying to match wits with McCarthy. The Packers might just line-up Ryan Grant at tight end because you never know, and it would give something for future opponents to think about.

It's time for me to address my fellow Bears fans because, quite frankly, some of you are embarrassing in the alcoholic uncle sort of way. Like, I'm embarrassed to even be associated with some of you. All this picking and prodding and advanced statistics and this "They're weak in the secondary!!" garbage takes you back to square one: 9-0. Kiss the ring, watch the throne, whatever. I know I am. How can you honestly watch a Packers game and not take delight in a guy like James Starks? This is a guy who was given nothing. Watch him truck a defensive back and tell me this guy doesn't run with a purpose. I look at the stat sheet and Starks runs for 60 yards and it feels like 150 because his aura, his entire presence on the football field feels magical in a way that a biased Bears fan couldn't understand. How can you watch Rodgers and Jennings execute a perfect 10-yard slant without your eyes getting a little bit watery? I was in the middle of a momentous cry during last night's second quarter and my girlfriend walked in on me. I had to tell her my best friend from childhood died. Car accident. I don't feel good about that one bit, but if you appreciate good football, the Packers are sure to turn you into one of those Miller Lite pussies. 

It would be irresponsible of me to exit before singling out the exemplary performance from the Packer faithful Monday Night. They're the best and most loyal fan base in all of professional sports for a reason and you saw it yesterday. Jared Allen managed to stumble into a few sacks like he's been doing all season and tried the hog tie routine at Lambeau Field. Know one thing: Packers fans will extend a forgiving hand for many things (addiction to painkillers, sexual assault, drunk driving, lean), but a repetitive, unimaginative celebration that isn't called the Lambeau Leap is not one of them. You tried to get gully in front of the most rapid fan base in all of sports Mr. Allen and you got your ass handed to you. Don't ever try it again. 

Did you even know the city of Green Bay owns the Packers? I didn't until yesterday. Pretty neat fact. And this is what truly separates Green Bay from every other NFL city. It's in the blood. Kids are born and their parents immediately put them on the season-ticket waiting list. Never mind that they don't really like football and would rather play the piano -- they're going to go outdoors in -10 degree weather, grill some brats, drink some beer, and toss around the pigskin until their knuckles crack and bleed. There's no choice in the matter. So while Chicago parents are coddling their children and allowing them to "pursue their interests," Green Bay children are being force-fed a beautiful brand of football. Fandom done right if you ask me. And you wonder why Bears fans can't muster up the slightest hint of excitement when leading the Lions by three scores -- little Johnny is too concerned with watercolors and his biology homework.

The Bears and Packers play on Christmas Day this year. The Packers will be 14-0 and the Bears will hopefully have their heads above water! May I be the first to say it's an honor to play such a distinguished franchise in a historic stadium on the holiest of red-blooded American days. The Packers could really wipe the floor with us, but I don't think they will. They have too much respect for the game and its players. They wouldn't send the Bears home to their families on Christmas Day like that. Honor and integrity are two things they teach in Green Bay, dating back to the days of the great Vince Lombardi who lied on his resume to land the Packers job in 1959. Mike McCarthy may purposely lose a timeout on a dumb challenge or James Jones may inexplicably fumble the ball, no one within ten yards of him -- something to keep the game close.

When this season is over we'll be talking about the 2011 Green Bay Packers as the greatest football team of all-time -- 19-0 and three merciless playoff victories because honor and integrity don't apply in the playoffs. Anything less would be a colossal disappointment. Ask Packer fans, they're as confident as anyone. They know how much your team sucks. Can you feel that? It's the current here to sweep you away, Bears fans. Don't fight it. Drift peacefully in the wind unnoticed as the Packers tussle with the lofty expectations they've established for themselves.

For The Next Eight Hours...

[Setting: Airplane flight to London. Chicago Bears players take their seats and settle in. CHRIS HARRIS watches Big Momma's House 2 and engages his Twitter followers in lengthy discussions involving but not limited to institutional racism, ancient Chinese farming techniques, and lemon meringue pie. TIM JENNINGS holds in his hand a Just Wright movie poster. He has photoshopped his face on to Common's body. DEVIN HESTER watches a YouTube compilation of his record-setting TD returns. MATT FORTE quietly listens to his iPod, while LANCE BRIGGS begs him to share one of the buds. JULIUS PEPPERS has had enough of this shit and just wants to hit someone. ROBBIE GOULD and ADAM PODLESH take turns reading chapters of The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers. BRIAN URLACHER reaches into his carry-on bag and pulls out a container of Edge Advanced shaving cream and a cheap razor. He asks a stewardess where he can find a damn mirror around here. JAY CUTLER reclines his seat and still manages to slump over. He looks like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world right now.


JAY CUTLER: I'm so excited for this trip, guys. I wouldn't want to be anywhere else in the world right now.

CHRIS HARRIS: Me too! I've never been to Europe before.

DEVIN HESTER: Europe? I thought we were going to London.

MATT FORTE: [slaps hat off of Hester's head] You deserve one of those everyday for the rest of your life.

LANCE BRIGGS: [Laughs uncontrollably] Good one, Matt. Good one. We -- uh, you got him.

ADAM PODLESH: I don't know about you guys, but I'm really looking forward to seeing the Churchill War Rooms. I'm a bit of a history buff, and that Winston Churchill, oh boy, could he rally the troops.

BRIAN URLACHER: [pointing at PODLESH] Who the fuck is this guy?

ROBBIE GOULD: That's Adam Podlesh, captain. He's our punter. We use him quite often.

BRIAN URLACHER: What happened to the old, bald guy? Brett. I liked him.

ROBBIE GOULD: Brad Maynard. His name was BRAD. You played with him for the last ten years. Jesus.

BRIAN URLACHER: [looking at PODLESH] This dome aint' gonna shave itself, rook.

TIM JENNINGS: [still staring at photoshopped picture of himself and Queen Latifah] Do you guys ever feel like all your hopes and dreams are just out of reach? Like, you just picked off a pass right, and you're running for the end zone, and it keeps getting farther and farther away. You keep running and you're getting nowhere. That's how I feel. I just want to be loved.

JAY CUTLER: Enough with the soft shit. I have some of the finest English trim lined up for us as soon as we step off this plane. You know what they call them across the pond? Birds, that's what they call them. Although I'm not sure if it's as derogatory of a term as whore. Bird sounds kind of nice when you think about it.

DEVIN HESTER: What's the Londish word for "whore?" Miss me with this talk of birds.

JULIUS PEPPERS: [slaps Hester across the face] Listen fuck boy, I better not see you running backwards once in this game. I know some real English goons who've snatched semi-famous rapper's chains and lit garbage cans on fire. They damn sure will have no qualms disposing of you.

JAY CUTLER: We're getting away from the real issue here, which is what to do with all these whores. By my count, I have 16 of them and they're not the best-looking. They're English 10s, which is like an American 5. What I'm saying is, my women, like my interceptions, come in threes. So there's 13 between the 9 of you. Cock slap, sword fight, pussy pinch, whatever you gotta do to get your fill.

LANCE BRIGGS: It's OK, me and Matt can share one, can't we, Matt?

MATT FORTE: [glares at BRIGGS and says nothing]

CHRIS HARRIS: I'm happily married, thank you. But I'd be more than happy to argue about the artistic merits of the Wellington Arch.

ADAM PODLESH: Ooooh, now we're cooking.

MATT FORTE: You guys bore me, I'm going to get up, nut punch the pilot, and fly this plane. I do everything else around here.

LANCE BRIGGS: You sure do. I sympathize with your contract situation. I sympathize with my contract situation. It would be nice to get some respect in the form of money around here. I guess, like Tim, we just want to be loved.

MATT FORTE: Keep my name out your mouth, mother fucker. There is no we. We is not a thing. Our situations are not the same.

BRIAN URLACHER: I went to bat for you dumb ass, Briggs. I offered to take a pay cut years ago. All I hear about is how many Pro Bowls you've made.

LANCE BRIGGS: I've made 6 Pro Bowls.

DEVIN HESTER: Hey tho, ain't London that place where they talkin' funny? [Laughs] Cheerio, and shit.

TIM JENNINGS: [punches Hester in the mouth] Everyday I find myself thinking about sliding between those tree trunk thighs, slowly messaging my Queen's temples as she hums "Poetry Man."

ROBBIE GOULD: I SO love her rendition!

JAY CUTLER: [Laughing] Our boy Jennings over here has his tip tingling over a big pork chop dike.

TIM JENNINGS: What did you call her?

ROBBIE GOULD: A lesbian, Tim. She's fond of women.

[TIM JENNINGS jets towards the bathroom, sobbing uncontrollably.]


JAY CUTLER: Hey, wait, don't feel bad. It's happened to all of us. I slept with a beautiful Taiwanese boy at Vandy three times before I realized he was a she. Fuck it. I regret nothing.

ADAM PODLESH: Did you guys know... [pauses] that "Big Ben" as most people think, is not actually the clock tower, but the bell within the clock tower.

JULIUS PEPPERS: I would love to visit.

[Everyone stops and stares at Peppers]


JULIUS PEPPERS: What!? I happen to be a clock connoisseur. My grandfather ignited a passion in me which I didn't know I had. I carry his Swiss pocket watch with me to this day.

DEVIN HESTER: Hold up, Ben Russeyberger has a London clock named after him?

[Urlacher grabs Hester by the head and repeatedly smashes it against the window. Hester falls over, bleeding and unconscious]

BRIAN URLACHER: [While administering the beating] I hear they're ten years behind the American trends in England. This tribal tat should have 'em dropping panties in the club, just like it did for Paris Hilton.

[The players fall asleep for the remaining four hours. Devin Hester may or may not be dead. They awake to a landed plane]


TIM JENNINGS: [Opens door to find thousands of screaming Bears fans in England] They love us! They really love us!

MATT FORTE: I'm hope they're not expecting too much, like a win, for instance.

JAY CUTLER: All I know is, we're gonna give 'em a good show. None of this faggity shit they call football over here. Let's go, men. TRIM, on three.

Things Easier Than Keeping Calvin Johnson Out of the End Zone

Via Fantasy Tradar

Calvin Johnson used to be the NFL's most sympathetic figure. Exiled to the NFL's barren wasteland and subjected to passes from the likes of Jon Kitna and Dan Orlovsky, Johnson seemed to be a super hero in need of saving. Except he never asked to be saved and sure as hell didn't want our sympathy. In an environment that drove fellow talented wideouts Roy Williams and Charles Rogers mad -- or maybe they just weren't cut out for it from the beginning -- Johnson remained even-keeled and stayed the course. Maybe he knew his 10 offensive teammates would eventually turn in their dunce caps for officially licensed Detroit Lions helmets. Or maybe he figured there was a quarterback out there somewhere who wouldn't underthrow him 15 yards (Kitna) or overthrow him 15 yards (Orlovsky). Johnson knew from the beginning he could catch anything in the vicinity, it was just a matter of finding a quarterback who didn't define "vicinity" as one fifth of the football field.

Through the first four weeks of the 2011 season, Matthew Stafford is healthy and their defense is finally respectable enough to allow the Lions to open up the playbook on offense. Aided by these factors and a pretty weak schedule (it had to be said), the Lions are looking like a team primed for the Playoffs. Calvin Johnson is the most compelling story of the 2011 Lions season, but in a way not usually seen. Statistically, he's having a breakout season, even though his other four seasons were pretty impressive as well. The big difference this year is Johnson seems to be getting his numbers in accordance with the offense, not despite it. The talent has finally caught up around him, and his patience has payed off. Johnson has turned the popular narrative of perseverance upside down -- the belief in an organization against all odds versus the belief in self.  

Johnson has caught two touchdown passes in each of the Lions first four games. It's difficult to envision a situation in which the Bears are unable to stop him from grabbing two more. I present 25 things easier than keeping Calvin Johnson out of the end zone.

***  

Using chopsticks for the first time.

Watching a Fighting Illini game in its entirety and thinking, "I don't care what anyone says, this team deserves to be 6-0."

Spotting Theo Epstein in a Chicago Starbucks.

Doing a quick Google Image search of "Theo Epstein Wife," noticing Epstein's accomplice is not his wife, but you just wanted to out him as the next Cubs GM, not as an adulterer.

Getting high, eating one of everything from the Wendy's dollar menu, claiming your head is not attached to your body, and falling asleep within the hour.

Coming to a thorough understanding of Ghostface Killah's album, "Supreme Clientele."

Getting the icing on the Toaster Strudel to look like it does in the commercial.

Failing to find someone who, in the middle of mid-70s temperature bliss exclaims, "I just LOVE Fall."

Refraining from the "At least we don't live in Detroit" defense mechanism after the Bears lose tonight.

Respecting the hell out of Aaron Rodgers.

Executing a standing back flip in full pads after missing the first three games of the season due to a calf injury.

Watching Gone With the Wind in one sitting.

Enjoying Gone With the Wind.

Passing out drunk on your dorm room floor at 4 in the morning on Sunday and waking up in time to shower, shave, and eat breakfast before your 8 AM Monday class.

Pretending you couldn't stand The Backstreet Boys' Millenium album when it came out.

Answering your child's question with, "Because," because you don't know the answer to your child's question.

Praising Joe Buck for the way he seamlessly juggles NFL and MLB broadcasts year after year.

Convincing yourself your cleavage-bearing waitress is really into you and not just trying to get a better tip.

Reading Joe Posnanski and thinking, "I have what it takes to be a sports writer."

Engaging in a perfectly normal conversation with your boss.

Enjoying the three hours you just spent with your wife at IKEA -- on football Sunday.

Secretly rooting against your favorite team's players in favor of your fantasy team because "Your real team's season is over anyway."

Resisting the urge to buy 30 dartboards, print out pictures of each of the 30 NBA team owners, and tape a different owner's picture to each dartboard.

Resisting the urge to combine Coke and Pop Rocks. If such a beautiful combination is deadly, you don't want to be alive.

Discovering the true source of Calvin Johnson's powers. HINT: Check underneath the skull cap.

Roy Williams' Beautiful (In)Consistency

Roy Williams is much maligned in Chicago because he dropped some preseason receptions and replaced Johnny Knox's pretty hazel eyes in the starting lineup. The Knox situation is obviously indefensible, but Williams' occasional stone hands should come as no surprise. From the University of Texas, to Detroit, to Dallas, the book has been out on Williams. He's going to make some spectacular catches that remind you of how bright his future his. Then he's going to drop some routine passes that remind you he's a ninth-year wide receiver and far too old to be spoken of in terms of potential.

Roy Williams made his name in the NFL by being one of its most remarkably inconsistent players. No one can make the routine catches difficult and the difficult catches routine quite like him. He is one of the poster boys for what the NFL's detractors call a culture of showmanship over substance. He celebrates every first down catch by extending his long right arm and pointing -- no different than the referee's first down signal. Almost every receiver has indicated their own first down at least once in their career but no receiver remains as steadfastly loyal to the gesture as Williams. Williams' first down signal is the one consistency in an otherwise capricious career.

When it comes to Roy Williams, erratic is what we know. So why should his first down celebrations be any different? Rather than replicating the same boring hand signal, Williams should be trying to find new and creative ways to celebrate first downs. Here are a few suggestions.

    

NAME: Unemployment Line, Credit Card Declined

GAME TO UNVEIL: Week 5, @Detroit

DESCRIPTION: Historically, there are two appropriate ways to act at an unemployment line. The first is to jam your hands into your coat pockets and look straight ahead. Avoid all eye contact. Hum along to Ben Selvin's "Happy Days Are Here Again." The second is to cross your arms across your chest and look pissed off. Think of all the dumb fucks who still have jobs. The first person who asks for anything as much as the time is getting their head smashed into the concrete wall. Roy Williams doesn't have pockets so he has to settle for the second historically appropriate way to act.

RESULT: The state of Michigan, suffering from the third highest unemployment rate in the US knows the look all too well. They remember Williams was able to escape their dreadful 0-16 team five weeks into the season. Feelings of bitterness begin to fest within Lions fans. They contemplate burning tires late into the morning before realizing their team is 4-1 after defeating the Bears on Monday night. Things are looking up.

 

NAME: I Just Rhymed Kodak With Kodak, Pay Me

GAME TO UNVEIL: Week 9, @Philadelphia

DESCRIPTION: Cuban-American rapper Pitbull, despite making a career off of danceable songs, never learned how to dance himself. To cover up his deficiencies, he snaps his fingers and sways from left to right. One suspects young Pitbull picked up these moves from his father who was influenced by the sudden influx of rhythm-retarded Americans vacationing in Havana before the Castro regime. Dr. Pepper was impressed with how well Pitbull hid his inability to cut a rug and scooped him up to promote their equally coy product. Williams adopts the two-snap, left, right, left first down celebration to a chorus of Philly boos.

RESULT: Philly fans do not pick up on the the thinly veiled reference to Mike Vick and the pitbulls he murdered years ago. Had they known they would have become especially offended because Vick gives them the best chance to win a Super Bowl. Philadelphia reporters explain to Vick the connection between Williams' first down celebration and the actions that landed him in prison for almost two years. Vick says all the right things. The NFL Live crew devotes an entire half-hour segment to Vick's new found sincerity.

 

NAME: People Were Doing This Before The 1968 Olympics

GAME TO UNVEIL: Week 12, @Oakland

DESCRIPTION: Oakland is a city with a longstanding history of racial division and police brutality. From the city's ashes spawned the Black Panthers, a movement that would both terrify and inspire millions of Americans. In order to pay tribute to what Roy Williams believed was a world-class organization (particularly the free breakfast programs), he celebrates a first down by standing still and raising his right fist. Williams' timing couldn't be worse as the Bears are draped in their two-minute offense with no timeouts. His celebration costs the team a shot at a 48-year Robbie Gould field goal.

RESULT: Williams is accused of reverse racism by the Chicago media. Oakland fans misinterpret the gesture as questioning their manhood. They challenge Williams to a fight -- right there in the visitor's tunnel. The fans become confused and soon direct their misplaced rage at each other. A brawl ensues and results in the arrest of three grown-men painted head to toe in silver. Roy Williams v. O.co Coliseum is still pending.

Aaron Rodgers: The Giver

I've been thinking long and hard about the upcoming Packers game and have come to one conclusion: Aaron Rodgers did the Bears and their fans a favor. Huh? You're probably thinking. The Bears had the chance to knock the Packers out of the sixth seed by defeating them in Week 17. They instead showcased some vanilla play-calling (even by their standards) and allowed Green Bay to escape with a narrow 10-3 win. You know how the story ends. If anything we did them a favor, last year.

Maybe but we're discussing the now. Let's start with the inevitable. The Packers are going to win on Sunday. They're going to win convincingly, probably by 20+ points. Go ahead and throw out the "but it's always a close game when the Pack come to town" argument. Keep kidding yourself. Chicago's O-Line couldn't pick up a blitz if it was buried comfortably in a litter box. Green Bay likes to blitz, sometimes in odd situations, and is really good at disguising them. As was the case in New Orleans, the Matt Forte checkdown will be the only open receiver Cutler sees all day.

Aaron Rodgers' career numbers against the Bears: 133-194 (69%), 1396 passing yards, 7 TD, 4 INT, 4-2 overall record. Good numbers, especially completion percentage, but not as good as one might expect. Credit the Bears defense for keeping Rodgers relatively human during their six match-ups, but this Sunday feels like the time for a big breakout. I may be wrong, but I doubt it.

So how exactly has Aaron Rodgers done us a favor? He shaved his horseshoe mustache, that's how. Anyone who has followed the Packers recently knows there was always an air of mystery surrounding Rodgers. He inexplicably fell to the bottom of the first round where the Packers snagged him 24th in the 2005 Draft. "He wears oversized clothes," the Green Bay locals gossiped when they saw wander the town. Under the "tutelage" of Brett Favre, no one was sure what exactly Rodgers did. Did he study the playbook? Could he even talk? Rodgers blended in in the way you would expect Brett Favre's back-up to -- he was there, but no one would even notice if he wasn't.

While riding the bench, Rodgers sported shoulder-length hair. He experimented with full beards, goatees, regular old mustaches, and three-day stubble. His willingness to change can be attributed to a lack of identity. He was still trying to find himself. Then again, the entertainment options open to Rodgers in Green Bay were slim. Either play around with his face hair or take up World of Warcraft. He chose the former before settling in on the wholesome Midwestern look after being named the starter. Rodgers is from California.

Watch this:

Rodgers' stat line Sunday : 34-38, 396 yards, 4 TD, 0 INT, 145.2 QB Rating

Class act. Humble. Born Leader. I can't help but respect him. I wish he was on our team.

  

Rodgers' stat line Sunday : 34-38, 396 yards, 4 TD, 0 INT, 145.2 QB Rating

What a fucking douche bag.

The mustache, or lack thereof, is absolutely essential here. Properly-groomed Aaron Rodgers looks like your typical 9-to-5 Subway-sandwich-for-lunch businessman. Respectable. Excellent worker, deserves a promotion but struggles to get noticed because half his floor wears the same red tie. Mustachioed Aaron Rodgers looks like the northern Wisconsin everyman. Send him into the woods with nothing but a Cold Steel 6' Outdoorsman hunting knife and a 18-rack of Miller High Life and he'll come back with dinner and/or a new kitchen ornament. Properly-groomed Aaron Rodgers is the picture of conformity -- the downtown Chicago businessman. Mustachioed Aaron Rodgers embraces being different and shoves his difference in your face. Us Chicagoans laugh at the northern Wisconsin types who claim to be proud of where they're from. God forbid their star quarterback, the best player in the NFL, were to beat us year after year, AND choose to look like one of them in the process. It would be too much to bear.  

While taking in Sunday's game, remember: it could be worse. Mustachioed Rodgers could be be handing out championship belts and blowing the imaginary smoke emanating from his finger gun. "Isn't that the guy from Deadwood?" is a question your wife won't have to ask. Your three-year-old can stop crying because Jay Cutler is doing that thing again where he twitches his right arm and your son thinks Rodgers shot him and Cutler's arm is about to fall off. "It won't hurt if he watches an old episode of The Rifleman with me," you so foolishly thought two weeks ago. Enjoy the game, expect the beatdown, and at least be thankful Aaron Rodgers could find a razor in that god-awful shit stain of a city known as Green Bay.*

*I've never been to Green Bay.

The One-Man Cover Band, Tips Not Included

Matt Forte carried the literal and figurative load on Sunday. He caught 53 percent of Chicago's completed passes, ran for 80 percent of their carries, and accounted for a staggering 67 percent of the Bears' total offense. Forte also cooked pancakes in the morning, delivered personalized wake-up calls to his 52 teammates and drove the team bus to the Superdome. He was planning on returning kicks, but Devin Hester is so damn stubborn (and conscious of the record-book). 

There's nothing left for Forte but to get paid. NFL football is a business, as we're told, and one of the most brutal. For every 30-million dollar guaranteed contract there are hundreds of over-performing players working for, let's suspend basic human judgement and call them "pennies." The risk of career ending injury is higher than any other major American sport by a wide margin. Contracts are not guaranteed and the average running back lasts 2.57 years in the league. Management wants the best value (i.e. cheap labor) and players want long-term security. 

Watching Forte on Sunday, I couldn't help but feel like he was being run into the ground. It was not Martz's intention to run 70 percent of the offense through one player, it just happened to work out that way. Each carry, each reception, and especially each hit takes its toll. Thousands of potential running backs are waiting in the wings. The sad reality of an NFL player, especially a running back, is that the second he earns a starting job, his team is scouring the scene for his potential replacement -- better sooner than later. Forte shoulders the offensive load, and a whole lot more than that.

In order to bring a little light to his contract situation, Forte had a talk with Bulls back-up power forward Taj Gibson -- another young player whose production and compensation don't match. Joakim Noah makes a special guest appearance.    

"Sup, Taj?"

"Uh, do I know you?"

"It's me, Matt. Matt Forte. Chicago Bears running back."

"I see you went ahead and shaved your head there."

"Yeah. You like it?"

"Hmm, how do I...We look kind of alike, bro."

"I know! I modeled my new look after you. Your dunk over D. Wade in the Playoffs -- Nothing short of inspirational."

"This was kind of my thing."

"Did somebody say THING?!?!"

"Wait...Ya'll some twins. Hehehe."

"Leave him alone, Joakim. He's going through a really rough time right now. The Bears front office won't renegotiate his contract. He's only making 600 grand this year."

"600?!?! Get the fuck outta here. Should I tell him what Booz made last year?"

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOO."

"Even Scal made over a mil. I have to tell him that."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOO. THAT'S EVEN WORSE."

"Man, between the guaranteed contracts, lack of serious head trauma, and the ability to walk after our career is over, we make out pretty good."

"What are you guys saying over there?"

"Oh, nothing."

"Nothing. Nothing at all. I like the new look, by the way."

"Alright, well I gotta run. Martz is designing 1200 new plays for Green Bay and I'm the number one option in all of them."