Living in a place that cherishes football as much as Wisconsin does has given us the secondhand joy of Super Bowl triumph, and that’s nice, but we’ve also had to watch a lot of athletes blundering through local endorsements. From Reggie White rasping for Ford to Coach McCarthy grumbling “Challenge” in a cellphone ad, Packers have taught us that sometimes it’s OK to cringe while smiling, and that being really good at both sports and acting is hard.
For some reason, when it comes to bad things, I can’t help but imagine what would happen if they got worse, and that’s the inspiration for this story about a nasty brute who throws a tantrum before the filming of his commercial even started. It’s meant to be a cautionary tale about ego gone evil, not an indictment of any real players—and if that all sounds boring, do me a solid and skim for the swear words at least.
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Brock Walton:
OK, OK. That’s enough of the freakin’ eyeliner. Quit giving me the Howie Long treatment, for Christ’s sake. Let’s do the shoot already.
Oh yeah, and one more thing: where’s the football? Come on, don’t play dumb with me. Everybody knows you bring a pigskin to a commercial like this. It’s what you pony-tailed fairies call a “prop.”
Look at the three of you! You remind me of the fawns I plowed into with my A-Team van on the way here. Quit your dawdling and fetch me a ball.
Photo Courtesy The Conmunity, Flickr CC
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What? You’re shittin’ me, right? Nobody brought a football? What the hell, guys?!
How are the people gonna recognize me if I’m not clutching a football? It’s bad enough that I’m not wearing pads and a uniform. Now you don’t even have a Manning Missile for me to palm while I nod at the camera and say, “Bunkley Trucks has the perfect game plan for low prices!”
The nobodies sitting on milk crates in their trailers will say, “Who is that asshole dressed like the rest of us bums, not holding a football, telling us where to buy a truck? What does he know about game plans? Just where in the hell does he get off?”
Sweet Jesus, why didn’t I bring a football from home? I’ve got like 50 of ‘em, and that's just in the garage. Wait, I know why. Because any dipshit with a camera and a boom mic should know to bring a Brown Lombardi to a commercial that stars a man who racked-up three pancake blocks against the Cowboys last year. Amateurs! How are the peons supposed to know I’m better than they are if I’m not toting a pigskin? I’m overweight, bald as Mr. Clean, and missing a front tooth. You take away my Dick Butkus Bomb and I look like a bouncer at a hick bar, checking the ID's of the jagoffs who want to see some Poison cover band. I’m a fat, naked nobody without that pigskin!
What’d you say? Oh, that’s rich. After I say, “I'm Brock Walton, one of the local gridiron guys,” some fancy “graphic” is gonna state that I play in the N.F. fucking L. Well, allow me to dust off my hands and breathe a sigh of relief, chicken-shits... I shouldn’t have to introduce myself! Holding the Stitch-y Ditka should do that for me. When I want to skip the line at a steakhouse with both of my hot-ass dates, do you think I waste my breath telling the host why I don’t deserve to wait behind Ned and Nancy Nobody?! Hell no, I don’t. I just palm a pigskin two inches from his beak and snarl and then the pipsqueak gets the hint. “Table for three, on three: Hut, hut, HUUUTTT!”
And the graphics idea? Oh, that really makes me wanna drown you in the pit sweat of one of my headlocks. The people hate to read while they’re watching the TV. You ever see a 64-inch flatscreen inside a museum? No way. Those art-pansies are holding up their end of the deal, and if this here company expects TV watchers to read instead of noticing a football being pumped in their faces, I'm outta here. To hell with your 20 grand and GMC Jimmy with a built in mini-bar. I make that in three quarters-worth of gruntin’ and shovin’ and gay-bashin'. I got a little thing called integrity. OK? I won’t be no shill for a dealership that would sooner make their piss ant customers read than give their star the football he deserves.
Photo Courtesy Eirscnieder, Flickr CC
(Some call it a “Stitch-y Ditka.”)
Is this the thanks I get for gulping six pain pills a day so I can help pave the way for the league's 25th best offense? I can’t believe I’ve got no football to thrust at the camera while I promise that, “Bunkley Trucks will lead block you into the red zone of big savings!”
Give me a break. This is worse than soccer...
Hey! What have we here? Is that a pencil-necked intern carrying a pigskin like it's a radioactive turd? Dick's Sporting Goods, you say? Well. All right. Then, let's do this! Hey, give me a high five, poindexter. Don't worry, I ain't gonna hurt ya. You are the man, little guy! Big savings on one... HUUUTTT!
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Whoa! His wrist just snapped like Theismann's leg. I’ve YouTube’d some history, y’all, and I pretty much Lawrence Taylored that shit. I mean, he is literally waving to the ceiling. Someone should be filming this. Roll on my cue, once I start pumping this here football.
