On Monday, Michael Silver of Yahoo noted this very interesting tidbit from Sunday’s Broncos-Colts game:
Were Jay Cutler’s parents having a "competitive conversation" in the RCA Dome stands after their son's touchdown run, or did they just pick the most embarrassing possible time to have a full-on fight, with cameras rolling? If any flies on the wall out there have any insight, I would love to know.
Now, we at KSK have yet to stumble upon video of this incident. If you have it, please send it to us post-haste. But, we were indeed at the stadium on Sunday. I even had a Dictaphone handy. Amazing! Here now is a transcript of the conversation that took place between Mr. and Mrs. Cutler.
Mrs. Cutler: Great game!
Mr. Cutler: Yeah. Nice to some here and watch our boy play. I hope they win!
(five minutes later)
Mrs. C: Honey, honey. You gotta move your arm.
Mr. C: What?
Mrs. C: You’re hogging the whole armrest!
Mr. C: Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Jesus.
Mrs. C: What are you saying “Jesus” for?
Mr. C: Well, you don’t have to get all mad at me if I don’t know I’m hogging the armrest. Just ask nicely and I’ll be happy to move it.
Mrs. C: Oh, quit being so sensitive.
Mr. C: I’m not being sensitive. I’m just looking for a little courtesy. That’s all.
Mrs. C: Okay, okay. I won’t do it again.
(five minutes later)
Mrs. C: God, do you HAVE to chew that pretzel so loudly?
Mr. C: Hey, you just did it again!
Mrs. C: Did what?
Mr. C: “Do you HAVE to chew that pretzel so loudly?” I don’t know I’m chewing it loudly. Just fucking ask, will ya?
Mrs. C: Well, you keep chewing with your mouth open every goddamn day. Okay? And it gets a little old when I have to ask you over and over again.
Mr. C: Then don’t fucking ask me! Let me be how I am. I’m not fucking perfect.
Mrs. C: I’m not trying to make you perfect! And I resent, any time I ask YOU to do me the courtesy of something, you treat me like some kind of horrid fucking nag.
Mr. C: Well, maybe you are.
Mrs. C: WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY?
Mr. C: I said maybe you are a horrid fucking nag. Maybe I’d like a wife, instead of a goddamn study hall monitor!
Mrs. C: Oh, is that why you fucked your receptionist, then?
Mr. C: That was five years ago! And she wasn’t a receptionist! She was an Associate Account Executive!
Mrs. C: Why the fuck are you defending her?
Mr. C: Maybe because she didn’t mind if I occasionally hogged the goddamn armrest!
Mrs. C: FUCK YOU!
Mr. C: No, FUCK YOU!
Mrs. C: I’ll fucking take this goddamn plastic knife and shove it up your ass!
Mr. C: Go ahead. You’ve been dying to do that since our wedding day, you hateful old cunt!
Mrs. C: Take that back! You take that back, or so help me God I will find that big black guy that plays running back and bear him a child!
Mr. C: Joke’s on him! Wait till he gets you in the sack, Ms. Halfway In Hurts Too Much!
Mrs. C: FUUUUUUCK YOUUUUUU!
Innocent Bystander: Excuse me, sir? Ma’am? Would you mind taking this somewhere private? My son and I are trying to enjoy the game.
Mr. & Mrs. C: FUCK OFF!
(Mr. C grabs a hot dog vendor’s grill fork.)
Mr. C: C’mon, little girl. You wanna dance? Let’s dance.
(Mrs. C grabs the pepper spray from her purse.)
Mrs. C: What would you know about dancing? You haven’t invited me onto a dance floor since high school, you limp old fuck.
Mr. C: Good! Good. I’m glad you’re finally laying it all on the table. Now maybe we can finally end this charade. You miserable queen of the harpies.
Mrs. C: I am gonna fork out your eyes, and I am gonna enjoy doing it.
Innocent Bystander: Uh, your son just scored.
Mr. C: He did?
Mrs. C: He did? Whatever. He’ll score again some day. Your ass is mine, fuckface.
Mr. C: Bring. It. On. COCKWHORE.
Innocent Bystander: SECURITY!
Photoshop courtesy of flubby and Ape.