The New HNIC of the NFL, Part 2

On September 1, 47-year-old Roger Goodell (left) officially became commissioner of the National Football League, having been voted to the position unanimously by the League's 31 owners. And the Houston Texans. While the new commissioner was not expected to address the media for several days at the time of the announcement, he did grant a brief interview to KSK's Monday Morning Punter (not pictured) mere minutes after the exchange of power took place at 6 AM ET that morning. What follows is the second of two excerpts of their exchange, ranging from Mr. Goodell's takes on labor relations with the players union, rubbing elbows with the owners, and assuming command of arguably the most powerful entity in professional sport.

Part One was published on September 1 and can be read here.

Monday Morning Punter: So, not to be a wise-ass, but did Paul ever show you where he kept Gene Upshaw's leash?

Roger Goodell: I heard that remark, and I didn't find it particularly humorous.

MMP: Oh. But I thought--

RG: I have the utmost respect for Mr. Upshaw. One would be hard-pressed to match the career that man has had, as a player or an executive. He's negotiated --

MMP: What kind of leash is it? Does it have a lot of bling?

RG: Excuse me?

MMP: Bling, man. You know. Diamonds and shit.

RG: If you don't have any other questions, we can end this interview now.

MMP: Wait, wait. Okay. Sooo, let's talk about you finally being named commissioner. You came out of a list with a lot of big names on it, over 100 candidates were considered.

RG: It was impressive company, indeed.

MMP: Even Condoleeza Rice was openly campaigning for the job at one point.

RG: I actually met Condi in Dan [Snyder] 's box at a Redskins game last fall. She really does have the passion for football, she's quite a fan of the game. I remember it was a cold, December afternoon, and we were all eating this kind of a thick soon. Lots of soon.

MMP: Do you mean...soup?

RG: What did I say?

MMP: Never mind, so what about...

RG: Hang on, man. I didn't tell you the best part. After we were in Dan's box, I got into Condi's box.

MMP: Jesus Christ, Rogg, don't say that. I don't need to get my fucking phones tapped.

RG: Oh, you don't wanna hear the story? There aren't any curbside vermin in this one. Come with me, as I share a tale about a man and a women, and a journey to fulfill their desires. And the man is handsome, like a well-nourished Conan O'Brien. And the woman is exotic, like a tropical rain.

MMP: Wait. Exotic? How do you get exotic out of a hybrid of Whitney Houston and Buckwheat?

RG: Dude, I am detecting a wee bit of jealousy here. I'm telling you, she is a FREAK. We're at the game, and I'm trying to talk to Snyder about some luxury tax bullshit and there's Condi from across the suite, giving me this look. At first I thought she had popcorn in her teeth or something, but then I realize that she's actually being suggestive. That's how I roll. So somewhere during the second half, she says good-bye to everybody, and as she's walking out, she jams this cocktail napkin in my pocket when nobody's looking--

MMP: I am pretty sure that didn't happen.

RG: And so I'm like, What the fuck? I step away from everyone to pull out this napkin, and you'll never believe what was on it.

MMP: No, I won't.

RG: RADISSON LARGO, ROOM 513, CONDI. I read that, and I've instantly got a Sharpie in my pants.

MMP: Please stop telling this story.

RG: I leave the stadium right away. Can't find a fucking cab anywhere so I have to run the two miles to the hotel. Don't ever run in a suit, Punter. It sucks, no room to swing your arms. But, anyway, I get there in like 15 minutes. It's a pretty nice hotel, I mean, for a Radisson. I grabbed a towel in the lobby and now I'm wiping myself off in the elevator. And as I'm in the hall, looking for the door, I am getting SO pumped up for some interracial humping, I think my naughty bits are gonna rocket off and hit me in the face.

MMP: I am throwing out the red flag and calling Bullshit on this epic tale.

RG: Hang on, man. I finally get to the door and knock. The door opens, and there's Condi, wearing a Clinton Portis jersey, and nothing else. It was the white jersey, and I admit that the irony was lost on me in that moment. I can tell she's had a bit to drink because the doorframe is the only thing holding her up. She says she has a serious case of the CFM virus, and that I was the cure, which kinda freaked me out until I realized CFM was "Come Fuck Me."

MMP: Dude, you're so old.

RG: Fuck you. So we're finally in the apartment, and it's not even a suite, but whatever. I see two bottles of Cakebread Cabernet on the nightstand, and I can tell that one's already been polished off. And that's pretty badass on her part to plow through a whole bottle of Cake by herself. So I go in the bathroom to wash my balls and all that, clean off some of that running stank, and then I hear her laughing through the bathroom door. At what, I have no idea. But then it suddenly stops. And then, get this shit.

MMP: I am walking out of the room so the snipers can get a clean shot. Please continue.

RG: I open the door, and she's passed out on the bed. Out cold. So here I am, harder than Sudoku, with a naked, unconscious woman literally laying at my feet. A woman, mind you, that is so powerful, she could make one phone call and have me erased from the face of the earth in about 5 minutes. And I know I shouldn't, but she was curled up ever so slightly, the soft light made her skin glow, and I was pretty sure I could make the commute to Pleasure Town before she came to.

MMP: Yeah, and she'd probably blac--um, not remember it anyway.

RG: That's what I was thinking!

MMP: So...did you "Fuck the government?"

RG: Nah...I just wanked it into a towel...But I did take the other bottle of Cake.

MMP: The first part of this interview was so much better.

RG: Hey, don't hate the player. Hate the game.