DGDB&D Lives (well, at least the parts we copy to the BRB servers)

Special hat tip to Nolander for teaching me a new link to click in the Interwebs. It's always great to learn something new like that, even if that link doesn't promise me gratuitous barely legal boobies.

So in light of this new-found trick, I bring to BRB some of the archives from the days when DGDB&D lived. There are some things in life that should never die. Today's special: Travis MF'ing Johnson

Chop-Block-Concussion-Gate: The Untold Story


12:01 PM
Travis Johnson’s Brain: You know…I have a lot of respect for Trent Green. I mean, it’s not just any ol’ white boy that can throw like a girl and still be able to make an NFL career. That’s impressive. Do yo’ thing, whitey.

Legs: Did we stretch enough? I dunno. Damned airconditioned dome, keeping us cold all the time. This is stupid.

Eyes: Yo, our offensive is looking pretty good. Matty is spreading the ball around. OH SHIT!!! Did you see that pass to Andre?!? Hells yeah!


12:18 PM
Brain: Okay. Let’s do this. 7-3, baby. Let’s get a three and out!


Eyes: End around! Run, motherfucker, run!

Legs: Let’s go!

Eyes: FUMBLE! No, wait, he’s running the other direction.

Legs: Oh, hell yeah. Tedd Ginn ain’t shit! We’re gonna catch him. This is gonna be some highlight reel shit right her–

Trent Green’s Head: BONZAI!!!!!!!


Eyes: We’re seeing double here. Hold on. Okay…that was…OH, HELL NO! That was the motherfucking quarterback!!!

Brain: Who the fuck does he think he is?! Nobody hits motherfucking Travis Johnson like that! Nobody!! We should tell him that, too!

Legs: C’mon, we’re heading to the bench.

Right Knee: (with each step) Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow.

Brain: Go on, mouth. Tell him what’s up!

Right Hand: (points) I’ll help you.

Mouth: Motherfucker! Don’t ever motherfucking hit me like that again in your motherfucking life or I will break your motherfucking ass in half, you punk bitch motherfucker! I ain’t even play–

Trent Green’s Brain: pffft.

Travis Johnson’s Eyes: I think he’s dead.

Legs: That don’t mean the mouth is wrong. Let’s keep moving, though.

Right Knee: Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. What’s that fucking clicking sound? Ow.

12:20 PM
Right Knee: You know what, Brain?

Brain: What?

Right Knee: I don’t have so much respect for Trent Green anymore.

Brain: Nah, me neither.

Right Knee: In fact… you know what… FUCK Trent Green!

Brain: Yeah! He’s like… um… scared. Like a, uh, a fucking…SCARECROW! Like some Wizard of Odds, shit. Scarecrow motherfucker. Get the wizard to give you some courage and shit!

Right Knee: I think it was the Lion who wanted courage.

Brain: Which one of us got the B- in book readin’ at Florida State, you gimpy bitch? Besides, that don’t make sense. Lions are brave motherfuckers. Kings of the jungle book and shit. Scarecrows is scared, obviously.

Right Knee: But they are supposed to scare the crows. Ah, fuck it. Nevermind.

Brain: That’s right! Can’t NOBODY step to this knowledge.

3:45 PM
Mouth: The bottom line is, it was a malicious hit. It was uncalled for.

Brain: Tell ‘em that scarecrow shit I came up with!

Mouth: He’s like the scarecrow. He wants to get courage while I wasn’t looking, and hit me in my knee instead of trying to hit me in my head.

Brain: Yeah!

Eyes: People seem confused by that. Are you sure it was the scarecrow?

Brain: They just can’t keep up with my intellect, fool. Now, listen mouth. Give them something about how the hit was dirty and that nobody likes dirty hits. Maybe throw some religion in there, just so no one thinks you are a jerk.

Mouth: God don’t like ugly, you know what I mean?

Brain: Perfect!

Christmas Shopping with Travis Johnson

Travis Johnson: (singing to himself) "A-dashing to the sto’ in a big ass Chevrolet. These peoples drive too slow. Bitch, get out my way! Wearing a Santa hat, makes my spirits bright. But if someone laughs at it I’ll gut them like a motherfucking snitch-ass bitch!" Damn. I had some rhyme-time shit going on there for a second. Still…snitch-ass bitches do get stitches, so that kinda works. "Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way. I don’t know what the fuck that means, but I sing it any way."

(arrives at Galleria, somehow manages to find a parking spot) OK…let’s see…WHOA! This big ass map says I am here! How the fuck!? How does it know that shit!? That some spooky, voodoo, hocus-pocus bullshit right there!

five minutes elapse

(still looking at the map) You think you’re so smart, Mr. Map? Well let’s just see about that. (walks around to back of map, counts to four, jumps back in front of it) A-ha! Now what do you have to sa–MOTHER FUCKER! "You are here." How does it know?!? I need to find that cologne-sellin’ booth and get away from this plastic devil.

(walks up to perfume counter at Nieman Marcus) Hello, perfume lady.

Lady Behind Counter: Hello, sir. Is there something I can help you with?

Johnson: Yes, perfume lady. You see, I have many, many peoples who love them some Travis Johnson. I want to get them something special that will let them think about Travis any time they wear it.

Lady: Well, we have several new scents this yea–

Johnson: No, perfume lady, you seem to be misunderstanding Travis. Let Trav spell it out for you, homegirl. I want to get them something smells like me. I want to make Eau de Trav or Johnson Fields or some such heavenly fragrance.

Lady: I…but…wait…what? You want to bottle your own scent?!

Johnson: Precisely. So, let’s do it. Hook me up to whatever scentifying machine you gots back there and start extractin’ some of that Travisey goodness.

Lady: That’s not really how it works, sir. We can’t bottle your "scent. "

Johnson: The fuck you mean you can’t bottle Travis’ scent?! You got that Liz Taylor stank in a bottle! And I don’t even know who the fuck "Ralph Lauren" is, but you got that dude’s funk in a lot of different bottles. Travis gots a much better musk than that motherfucker!

Lady: Sir, please, keep your voice down or I will have to call security. There is no way I can get your "musk" in a bottle. It is literally impossible.

Johnson: What the fuck? Ain’t this about a bitch? What the hell am I supposed to do with this, then?

Lady: What is that? Is that a jar of…

Johnson: You know it, perfume lady. That’s a week worth of 100% Travis Johnson ball sweat. I collected it myself. Do you have any idea how hard that is to do? Of course you don’t, because you are a woman, so you have flabias and clicks instead of balls. But trust me–it ain’t easy.

Lady: (trying not to vomit) Sir…you need…GUH…to put that…away!

Johnson: The fuck I do! I need to mix it with, like, the smell of some roses and peaches and shit, and then put that shit in a little glass bottle with some France writing on it. Maybe have some glitter and shiny shit on the outside, just so it looks as pretty as it smells. Mark that shit $99.95! People in other countries fight wars for this kind of magic love potion! This shit might just cure blindness. Hell, you rub this on a dead baby and that little dude will probably live again. This is some top-notch, magical stankonia!

Lady: Sir, I am not really even sure what you are talking about now, but, for the LAST TIME, we cannot bottle your "smell" here. Now, unless there is something else I can help you with, I am going to have to ask you to leave.

Johnson: Oh, HELL no. Nobody asks Travis Johnson to leave!

Lady: SECURITY!!!!

(two guards run up) Johnson: Motherfucker! It’s on, now. I was just trying to Christmas shop, but you had to go and start shit. (gets into crane kick pose) Enter the dragon, bitches!

Travis Johnson composes his wedding vows

Travis Johnson: (to self) OK, Trav…you gots to get these vows done. OK…here we go…

(takes out pad and crayon and begins to write) Baby, u so fine, I want to suck u like a smokt nekbone.

Frank Okam: (entering lockerroom) Hey, Trav, what’s up?

Johnson: Shut your ass, rookie. Can’t you see I am trying to think here?

Okam: Think about what? What are you writing?

Johnson: Damn, you a nosy motherfucker. Shit. I’m trying to write my motherfuckin’ wedding vows. The woman says we have to write our own so they be special. She knows I ain’t wrote nuthin’ since high school.

Okam: You mean college?

Johnson: D-d-d0 I stutter, you rookie asshole? No, I mean HIGH SCHOOL.

Okam: Oh, yeah, I totally forgot you went to Florida State. My bad. Well, uh, I could give you some help on this if you want.

Johnson: The fuck do you know about wedding vows?

Okam: Well, not much per se, but I tend to write well. And I’m willing to help. (glances at paper) And based on what you have so far, it’s probably a good idea for you to let someone help. Assuming you actually want her to say "I do," I mean.

Johnson: The fuck is wrong with what I have so far? That’s some romantical shit right there, rookie. You ain’t got no idea how bitches think. They don’t want some lovey Homeo and Juliet making out on the Eiffel Tower shit. That shit is for the gays. Like Trent Green would probably whisper that kinda shit.

Okam: (looking confused)…on the…Eif–nevermind. (has epiphany) OK, fine, you’re probably right; you’ve got way more life experience than I. How about I just help you with some ideas and help you proofread it?

Johnson: I guess that’s cool. So, after the neckbone bit, I was going to go into detail about how much I love her.

Okam: Sounds like a plan.

Johnson: Something like this:

Baby, I luv u mor than I luv getin relly high and watching old kung-fu movies.

Okam: Hmm.

Johnson: What?

Okam: Oh, nothing. Just considering how great the woman must be. That’s all.

Johnson: Yeah, she pretty fly. No doubt about that. So, then, I thought I’d tell her how much she means to me.

Baby, u meen mor to me than my PS3, my 22s, and that time I got to hang out with Jamie Foxx and ride arond in his limo and shit.

Okam: Pure poetry, man. Go on, though. Tell her why she means so much to you.

Johnson: Yeah, dawg! Good call.

Baby, u are so speshul to me because u done had my kids.

Okam: That’s it?

Johnson: More? How about

And becuze u luv me and becuze u don’t mind how much I swet when we be sexin cuz u understand that Houston is one humid mutherfucker.

Okam: Awesome.

Johnson: Then, finally, I thought I’d get all deep on her ass and tell her how because of her, I understand what love really is.

Okam: (genuinely shocked) Seriously? Preach on it, man.

Johnson: Yeah, so, like

Baby, u no I never understude why Jay-Z didn’t put the song Encore last on the Black Album if that was relly suppost to be his final album. I mean, shit, the last verse says "this heres the victry lap and I’m leevin’;" don’t that sound like the way to end an album? But luv ain’t neer as confuzin as that shit–when I am with u, I understan that love is what I feel in my heart.

Okam: (relieved) Fantastic, man. She is going to love it. Great job.

Johnson: Thanks, rookie fag. Now, I gots to go memorize this stuff.(Johnson leaves)

Okam: (to self) Yes, go memorize your little vows, Travis. I can’t wait for her to hear them, either. BWAHAHA! I will destroy you, Travis. Yes, DESTROY! And then the starting Nose Tackle job shall be mine!!!! BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!!!

To Be Continued…

Goodbye Stranger

Game Show Host: Aaaaaand, we’re back! It’s time for the lightning round. You all know how this works; You pick a category, I ask a question and, if you get it right, I ask you another one. If you get it wrong, the next person gets a chance to answer. The first person to answer five correct wins. Travis, as the only person without a negative dollar amount following round one, you get to go first. Please choose from General Knowledge, Human Anatomy, and Authors.

Travis Johnson: General Knowledge.

Host: OK…name the first President of the United States.

Johnson: George Washington–

Host: Correct!

Johnson: Carver.

Host: Um…incorrect. Ms. Raley, your question.

Anna-Megan Raley: What?

Host: It’s your turn to answer the question.

Raley: What question?

Host: Name the first President of the United States.

Raley: Sam Houston.

Host: Ugh. No. Vince, please, who was the first president of the United States?!

Vince Young: Oh, that’s that dude on the dollar bills I put down those strippers pants at JR’s. Oh, what’s his name…um…Washington! Yeah, George Washington!

Host: Correct! Next question: In the equation 2x+4=6, what does x stand for?

Young: X? Hold up! This is a trick question, dawg. X is a letter, not a number!

Host: Good god. I mean, seriously…sweet holy Jesus. Travis?

Johnson: (dancing to music no one else hears) Word.

Host: What does X stand for?

Johnson: Shoot, I dunno…one?

Host: Wow…that’s right! OK, what is the capital of Texas?

Johnson: Ha, that’s easy, dude! The letter T!

Host: What? Oh. No. Anna-Megan?

Raley: (two octaves higher) Uh huh!

Host: Ow. What is the capital of Texas?

Raley: AUSTIN!!!!!

Host: Yes, but please calm down. You still have to answer four more to win, ok?

Raley: OK!

Host: (sighing) Jesus. In the sentence, "the dog bit the cat," what part of speech is "dog?"

Raley: I love dogs! What color is he?!


Raley: The tail?

Host: (stares blankly at Anna-Megan)



(considers the sweet release of death)

Host: Moving on…Vince, what part of speech is "dog?"

Young: (removes shirt) A noun, dude.

Host: I honestly have no idea how you knew that, but correct!

(bell rings)

Host: Oh, we are running short on time! That means it only takes THREE correct answers to win the lightning round. Vince, if you can answer this, you will win. How many sides are there on a dodecahedron?

Young: I don’t know nuthin’ ’bout dinosaurs.

Host: (muttering) Goddamnit. Travis, dodecahedron, sides?

Johnson: It burns when I pee.

Host: (eyes fill with tears)

(stabs self in the chest with pocket knife)


Johnson: Whoa. That’s some fucked up shit there, dude. (looks at Raley and Young) Yo, Vince, you wanna stuff this broad like a pair of Chinese finger cuffs?

Young: (rubbing nipples) Nah, dawg. You know I don’t get down like that. (realizes what he said) Um, with, uh, white women. Yeah, that’s it. Nothing to do with guys at all…no, no sir, not me. Not that, like, there’s anything wrong with that, but, you know, I ain’t, um, like that…

Johnson: Whatever. (to Raley) Yo, bitch, you ever get yo’ shit rocked by a big ol’ dude like me?

Raley: Puh-lease…how do you think I GOT my job? Let’s go back to your place and I’ll show you why they called me "Ol’ Three Hole" in college. (pauses) You’re wearing a condom though…Lord knows I don’t need another inflamed elvis.

Travis Johnson explains the finer points of the impact of rising fuel prices

Hello, peoples. Travis Johnson here. As I’m sure you noticed if you drove anywhere over this past weekend, gas be expensive as a motherfucker right now. And everyone be complaining about it, saying how they can’t afford it and shit. ‘Cept, when most people bitch about gas prices, they don’t consider the big picture of how those prices can affect other parts of their lives. Travis, on the other hand, is a master of the big picture. I actually took a class in "big picture thinking" at Florida State.

Or…wait…no…that was "motion pictures," but same shit, ya know? After all, good ass movies like Mission: Impossible have all sorts of car chases and exploding trains and shit like that, and that kind of shit takes fuel, meaning that rising gas prices are going to make the movies more expensive. Unless you want to do nothing but ninja movies, since ninjas are, um, solar powered. And, ya know, Travis loves him a good ninja flick, but eventually people are going to get tired of ninja movies, and then you have to bring back shit blowing up, and then you run into those fuel costs again. It’s a vicious circle.

But what if you don’t like movies? Travis hears that a lot when I be explainin’ this shit to people, like that is some kind of damned excuse. I mean, you might not like donuts, but you can be sure that the people who do like donuts are going to be lined up waiting to get into Krispy Kreme when that "Hot Fresh Now" sign is flashin’, and you are going to be stuck in that traffic, burnin’ gas while your car idles. It’s the same way with the movies, too, cuz it don’t always matter what you like when you start talking about global economies, dig?

No? Damn it, y’all be dense. Let me spell this shit out real simple like, since y’all can’t seem to follow Travis’ next-level thinkin’.

Where does gas come from? That’s right — it’s the remains of dead dinosaurs that Jesus turned into liquid so he could power his car. Jesus was recyclin’ and goin’ green before it was the hip thing to do, but Jesus was always way ahead of the curve when it came to social trends. He rocked the long hair, had the original Tevas, home-brewed his own wine, knew that chicks would dig scars…that kinda shit, man. Anyway, Jesus thought he made enough that there would be oil forever, but he didn’t consider that some of y’all greedy motherfuckers would drive Hummers and shit. So, now we be runnin’ out of oil, which decreases the supply.

At the same time, the people who control the oil, the Arabs, hate the people who control the media, the Jews, because the Jews have a liberal bias and they be tellin’ folks to buy, like, hybrids and shit and they keep showing shows like Two And A Half Men, which really has nothing to do with oil, but is still hated by the Arabs. And, really, you can’t blame them because that Charlie Sheen was bangin’ the one ho from Wild Things and now he’s not, so he is like, gay, and stuff, and they hate gays. So there is even LESS oil available.

So…yeah, because of all that shit, the price of gas is going up and that is going to affect NFL teams just like it affects y’all. For one thing, it is going to become more expensive to scout new players, because the scouts have to drive or fly because they all think they too special to take a train because it is a scientific fact that trains make you dizzy and maybe make you throw up. Travis knows because he took a train once…it was electric and it went real fast, but it just kept going in circles and up and down these big ol’ hills and it even went upside down at one point, and then I guess the driver forgot some of his shit, because we wound up back in the same place we started and they made us all get off and told us we’d have to stand in line again if we wanted to ride and Travis wasn’t about to stand in no line with a bunch of screamin’ ass kids when he had just been on the train a few minutes before. And, since then, I ain’t never took no trains nomore and I don’t really blame the scouts for refusing to take them. So, instead, they drive or fly and they use more of that $4 per gallon gas.

Oh, and get this, footballs might actually make the price of gas go up more! I mean, we call them pigskins, but they ain’t actually made from pigs. In fact, according to my cousin Del’ron, who watches Discovery channel when he’s high, they made from leather. And leather comes from cows and, since we have to kill the cows to get the leather, the cows be dead and dead cows can’t make more of that fart gas alternative fuel, so people have to use regular gas. So, the more footballs that are made, the more gas that is going to be used. That ain’t good, peoples. That ain’t good at all.

Fortunately, Travis has a plan that can help the Texans minimize the impact of these gas prices. I call it the "Pay Travis" plan. Because, let’s be honest here, God don’t like ugly and Travis’ current deal be ugly as that Betty bitch. Anyway, in the "Pay Travis" plan, the Texans would pay Travis. That’s how I came up with the name.

It’s a simple plan, really. Since it is going to be more ’spensive to scout for new players, the Texans should lock up the players they have right now, starting with Travis Johnson. I mean, sheeeeeiiiiiiiiiit dude, if a barrel of oil is $150 or $200 or whatever the fuck, you tellin’ me that Travis ain’t worth at least, say, eleventy million dollars a year? C’mon, man…you know I’m right. So, that’s the plan, you give Travis eleventy million dollars per year for, say, threeve years, and that allows you to ride out this spike in the gas prices without expending extra dollars for scouting. Even better, since Travis plays defense, I don’t need no new footballs to practice with, so you wouldn’t have to buy so many, so other people would benefit. Travis always doing shit for other people. Travis loves da kids, just like Trick Daddy does.

Now, I know you might be saying that Travis’ play hasn’t been good enough to deserve a raise, even if helps cut down on the gas prices. To that, Travis says "fuck you, bitch." Travis has played very well — y’all just don’t understand what defensive tackles do, man. You want Travis on that line; you NEED Travis on that line. That Frank Okam? Man, that dude ain’t nuthin’ but a no-account rookie shitbag. And, I heard that he likes to cut down trees and burn them with gasoline. That don’t sound like the kind of socially responsible player Mr. Bob be likin’ on this team. Oh, and Frank also leaves his Hummer running in the parking lot during practice, just so it’ll be nice and cool for him when he gets in. How messed up is that?!

So, yeah, if the Texans are really wanting to help out with rising gas prices, they should do the socially responsible thing and pay Travis. And cut Frank Okam. Oh, and also, recycle.


Methodist Practice Bubble parking lot, September 19, 2008, after practice

Kevin Bentley: (jogging) William! William! Do hold on a moment, William!

Will Demps: Will Demps is not very fond of talking to your pretty, er, ugly ass. Besides, there’s a good chance some random bitches are waitin’ for Will Demps back at, um, Will Demps’s crib, ya dig? Make it fast, mofo.

Bentley: Well, William, I was just going to suggest that, now that we’ve both made the team and, more importantly, now that Hurricane Ike has given us some perspective on the important things in life—things like family, love, community, and the need for proper skin care in inclimate weather—perhaps we should call off this entire wager.

Demps: The fuck you mean "call it off?!" Motherfucker, Will Demps is going full dick ahead with this bet! Will Demps is going to drive your cockblocking ass out this town, holmes! Will Demps is going to ball Rhonda Kubiak so good, SHE be callin’ you up to tell you Will Demps won the bet. Ain’t no calling it off, brothaman.

Bentley: William, I fear you might have gotten concussed in our competition against Pittsburgh, as you do not seem to be thinking all that clearly. What makes you think your odds of winning a bet in which you’ve been a decided underdog from the outset have somehow improved of late?

Demps: What makes…odds? I, er, Will Demps ain’t got no clue what the fuck you’re jibba-jabberin’ about. But if you askin’ why I’m going to win, take a look in the mirror. You look like you done gained fiddyleven pounds. You fat, dawg. Not P-H-A-T like Kim Kardashian’s ass, either. Straight F-A-T. Will Demps is still a sexy ebony god with fifteen inches of throbbing black Jesus.

Bentley: Silly William, I gained a small amount of weight on purpose. I have neither the time nor the patience to explain the mathematics to you right now, but rest assured that my increased mass gives me more power when I tackle and makes me an even better player.

Demps: On special teams, bitch.

Bentley: Point taken, William. Of course, were I to decide I wanted to play defensive back, I am sure I’d have no problem out-performing the disastrous results you and C.C. provided against Pittsburgh. Tell me, William, is it customary to give wide receivers a fourteen yard cushion when they are at the five-yard line?

Demps: Fuck you, dude.

Bentley: Charming. So, you really do not plan to give this wager a rest?

Demps: Hell naw, Chubb-o.

Bentley: Fine. Then consider yourself forewarned—with your play, it will not be a huge blow to anyone when you leave after I bed our target.

Demps: And, um, consider yourself forewhatevered—Will Demps taps ass.

Bentley: …

Demps: That’s right!

Bentley: (looking over Demps’ shoulder) Not to change the subject, William, but is that an ass I see over in Travis’s vehicle?

Demps: That’s Travis’s ass, dude!

Bentley: And you know that…nevermind.

[Both run over to the truck, where Travis Johnson is having sex with Rhonda Kubiak]

Demps and Bentley: WHAT THE FUCK?!?

Travis Johnson: (rolling down window, but without breaking his stroke) The fuck you frilly faggots want?

Rhonda Kubiak: Oh oh oh oh god oh fuck yes god holy cock yes oh fuck oh jesus oh mandingo oh pound that snizz you big, black stallion!!!! THERE’S A SNAKE IN MY SNIZZ!!!!

Demps: Will…Will Demps…um…Will don’t…

Bentley: What my semi-literate friend means is ‘How in the world did you get her to have sexual intercourse with you!?!’

Johnson: (stroking) Because, Ass Pirate Roberts, Travis Johnson fucks bitches. He don’t act like one. While y’all busy tweezing and buffing, I gots hoes skeezing and sucking. Ya feel me?

Kubiak: I feel you! I feel you! Holy Christ, it’s so big I can taste it!

Bentley: B-b-but…I have seventeen and a half inches of manhood! I know you don’t have that!!!

Johnson: (stroking) Nope, Cockbreath, I sure don’t. But I have something better.

Bentley: What’s that?

Kubiak: (nearly out of breath) His dick is…consecrated by the God! So this…isn’t…OH GODDAMN…YES, BIG DADDY…KNOCK THE LINING OUT THAT MOTHERFUCKER…isn’t a sin!

Johnson: (stroking) That’s right. I told y’all there was a reason for having the Pope conse– consecr– bless my shit. Married bitches always be looking for that loophole so they can indulge they fantasies. I gots the ultimate loophole, Nancy!

Bentley: (shaking head, muttering as he walks off) This just…it doesn’t make sense…I was supposed to be knocking that lining out of her motherfucker. (looks back over shoulder) C’mon, William. I’ll buy you a lapdance at Centerfolds.

Demps: Will Demps says the bet is over.

Bentley: (patting him on the shoulder) I know, William. I know.

Johnson: (yelling after them) Wait! Don’t y’all wanna watch this bitch get baptized?!? (to Rhonda) Open up, ho…you ’bout to taste some religiousness up in here!

Like sands through the hourglass…

February 25, 2009. Reliant Stadium. Gary Kubiak’s office.

Gary Kubiak: [into desk intercom] Send Will in as soon as he gets here, Darlene. I need to get this over with.

Darlene: Damn! [into desk intercom] Ok, Mr. Kubiak. [to Will Demps] Shit. Pull your pants up; we’ll have to do this some other time. Here’s my number.

Will Demps: Dang, girl. Will Demps wants to take a bite of that onion! You know Will gonna call you, right? You mean a lot to Will, Charlene.

Darlene: Darlene.

Demps: Yeah. That’s what Will said. Will Demps gon’ head on in and talk to Coach. Will Demps will get back at you after he straight handles his business like a MAN.

Kubiak: Hi, Will. Come on in.

Demps: Now, coach—before you say anything, just let Will Demps tell you that he…er…I…Will is aware that his play was not exactly Pro Bowl quality last year.

Kubiak: Will, it’s just that we’re going younger in the secondary this year. We think tha–

Demps: Coach coach coach…hold on! Before you make a decision or anything, let Will make you an offer. Something Will thinks is fair for everyone.

Kubiak: [sighing] OK…fine. What is it?

Demps: I’ll suck your dick.

Kubiak: What?! The fuck did you just say??

Demps: Naw, hear Will out, dude. Will Demps ain’t gay or nuthin’. Totally straight, and you know this. But Will can suck a mean dick. Or, you know…Will could most likely, if Will was gay. Which he ain’t. At all.

Kubiak: Are you out of your fucking mind?!?

Demps: Seriously, Coach. Golf ball through a garden hose, if you know what Will is sayin’. You just can’t tell nobody because that would damage Will’s cred with the ladies. And that’s what Will likes—the ladies. Will is one-hundred percent about that female anatomy.

Kubiak: Get the fuck out of here! You’re off the team!!

Demps: Wait wait wait! There’s gotta be somethin’…[thinking]…OH, SHIT! Will Demps bets you don’t know who Rhonda been creepin’ ’round with.

Kubiak: How dare you?!? I oughta be–

[Dream sequence: Kubiak flashes back to conversation with Morlon Greenwood.

Greenwood: Ku ya! Me nah need help from de downpressor! Me nuh bubu!

Kubiak: I didn’t mean anything by it, Morlon. Just offering to help. Anyway, the facility will be open to you through the end of the week so you can get your things. Please drop off your playbook when you come by. Again, sorry.

Greenwood: Betcha din’ know bout Travis feelin’ d’agony in ye wifey pum-pum. She bumba clot ya! She tek smadi mek poppy-show!

Kubiak: OK, then. Very well. Good luck, Morlon. [hangs up] Travis…pum-pum…poppy-show?

/end dream]

Kubiak: Ok…I’m listening.

Demps: Ok, see, Kevin and Will Demps were in the parking lot

[five minutes later]

…was screaming "THERE’S A SNAKE IN MY SNIZZ"…

[five minutes later]

…sweaty stank…

[five minutes later]

…’bout to taste some religiousness up in here!"

Kubiak: I… but…

Demps: Yeah, dawg. Fucked up. [moves across the room] Will Demps feels yo’ pain. Will Demps is here for you, man. Will Demps can be a great shoulder to cry on…a great listener, too. [sits beside Kubiak, puts his arm around him] Maybe you’d feel a little better if Will Demps–

Kubiak: No.

Demps: No?

Kubiak: Get out, Will. I need to handle something.

Demps: Fine. Ain’t this some shit? Coach actin’ all homophobical! Maybe you repressin’ somethin’.

Kubiak: OUT!

Demps: [walking out door, talking back over his shoulder] Fine! But you better not tell anyone! Because Will Demps is not gay! Just because Will Demps offered to suck–[sees Darlene]–er punch you in the mouth! You hear Will Demps?! [shuts door]

Kubiak: [to self] Stay calm, Gary. It won’t do any good to flip out. None at all. You need to keep a level head until you have all the facts.


Fuck that shit. It’s fucking ON now. [yelling] This is not over!!! Vengeance will be mine, Travis!!! Oh yes…it will be mine!!!!

[Meanwhile, fifteen miles away, listening to the whole conversation via a homemade surveillance device planted in Kubaik's office back in September]

Frank Okam: Excellent. BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!