SCENE: HOUSTON NUTT'S home office, some 24 hours after the conclusion of the Cotton Bowl. The room is brightly lit, overly so, and the faint scent of Lemon Pledge and Phillip's Grocery corn nuggets is wafted about the room by a squeaky, off-kilter ceiling fan. HOUSTON NUTT is sitting at his desk, clutching a Dan Brown novel in his right hand. There is a low, unenthusiastic knock at the door.
HOUSTON NUTT: Gig?!
Peering through a now slightly opened office door is JEVAN SNEAD, clad in a red polo shirt, jeans, and a flat-brimmed Texas Rangers cap.
JEVAN SNEAD: Uh, so, that means I come now, or..
HN: Yeah yeah, come in Jevan.
JS walks in and throws himself into a chair. Quickly slouching, he has an air of impatient annoyance about him.
HN: So what's up Jevvie?
JS: Um, Coach Nutt, you called me here.
HN: Oh, right, yes, blotankus. Let's see... AH! Yes! Ya put any thought into the NFL?
JS: Well coach, I think I'm gonna do it. I think I'm gonna give the combine a shot and see how well I do. I'm thinkin' maybe early-third, late-sec--
HN: Nah, nah, spoodankus, that ain't so much gonna happen.
JS: What do you mean coach? This isn't fair. Dad and I talked it over and we reall--
HN: Ya ain't gonna wanna do that, Jev. C'mon now (wiggles fingers, stares at ceiling, grunts).
JS: Well you know that it's always been my dream to play in the NFL and I think a pro salary would be ballin.
HN: Fuck a dolla and a dream. We're gonna need you and you ain't goin' anywhere.
JS: (confidently) Oh yeah? Why not!?
HN: Have you seen yourself play this season? You're Jay Cutler with less mobility, Jamarcus Russell with a weaker arm and (significantly) smaller skull, Jake Delhomme with less cajun. C'mon Jevan, let's work on that.
JS: Coach, you don't so much work on that whatsoever. I mean, in prac--
HN: Let's not get caught up in semantics here. Hold on let me call up Kentofankupoo baby WHOO holdon to it baby!
JS: ....
HN: Ok ummm, how do you, um, do you press it here or?
JS: It's a damn phone, coach. Here let me--
SNEAD grabs the cordless phone off of NUTT's desk, dials KENT AUSTIN's telephone number, turns the speakerphone on, and places the receiver into the phone dock. The telephone's ring fills the room.
KENT AUSTIN: Hyello?
HN: Can I get-ah, can I get-ah, can I get an AUSTIN baby whoo let's go bowl practice!
KA: (Long, audible sigh) Hello, Houston.
HN: Hey coach, lemme tell you about ol' Jev here tryin' to go to the NFL.
JS: Hey coach!
KA: Don't, ugh, don't you "hey coach" me. And Houston, leave me out of this. (under breath) I mean, it's not like you weren't doing that anyway.
HN: Ha-what now there Kent?!
KA: Nothing goodbye tootle-oo (receiver clicks).
A brief silence stales the office. HOUSTON NUTT's head and eyes dart about wildly, as if the words he's looking for are flying in circles around his head. His mouth slowly comes open.
HN: Well lookie here, why wouldn't you wanna stay here with us Ole Miss family can't let go.
JS: Well, Shay and Dex are going to the NFL and it just worries me about next year. Also, there's this:
HT: FotP
HN: Hah! Yeah diggity I remember that shit! Your head bounced like a fake pair of tits when you hit that turf baby that's the SEC TOUGH LEAGUE STRAP YOUR HELMET ON YESSIR!
JS: Yeah, um, and well if I go to the NFL this year, I'll probably just get picked up by Seahawks or something. You know, I'll back up Hasselback or whoever for a few years, suck dick for a season, then get traded away for an aging free agent before "retiring" back to Texas with the few hundred-thousand I've got left. I can, I dunno, coach high school football and sell insurance in Stephenville or some damn place.
HN: That's what you're thinking?
JS: Maybe...
FOR THE RECORD, we haven't a clue what Jevan is actually going to do. We'll post more unfunny shit with maybe some analysis later.