[Strip mall in Indianapolis]
Hostess: Hi. How many?
Fat white woman: Three.
Hostess: Would you like a table or booth?
Fat white woman: Booth, please.
Hostess: Right this way.
[door flies open]
Philip Rivers: Ya betta ask someboddddddaaaaaayyyyyyy!
Doesn't this fucking pennyante Brigadoon of a town have anything other than chain restaurants? Plus, you got all these chains and not one goddamn Bojangles? Steak 'N' Shake's not good enough! Fuck, I wish I was back in the South.
Hostess: Hi. How many?
Rivers: How many what, you stupid underemployed bitch? How many seconds you got to tell me where L.T. is sitting? Can you do that? Can you point me there? Arm too tired from creatively flipping signs around apartment buildings for extra cash to raise your litter right? Make sure they get the good doctor at the methadone clinic? WHERE THE FUCK IS HE?
Hostess: What's the party name?
Rivers: Tomlinson. Y'know. Black dude. There are only, like, six in this state. Find the one you haven't blown for rocks.
[laughs in her face]
Anyway. I'm 'supposed to meet him here. Why's he keep ducking me? I even bought a Vizio like he told me to.
Hostess: Well, I'm not seeing him on the list. I can seat you until he arrives. What section would you like?
Rivers: Pfft. I don't know. How about the one for quarterbacks who win when it counts!? BIGTIME PLAYOFF FOOTBALL, THAT'S MY SECTION, WHERE THE RUBBER MEETS THE ROAD. YEAH!
Rivers: Hey. All right. TVs at every table. So I don't have to pay attention to anybody.
Sweet! Highlights from Sunday!
Look how fucking intense I am! I'm livin' large and taking charge! You like that? How I totally Supermanned that defense in the second half?
Huh? Lady? Huh? FUCK YOU!
Waitress: [handing him menu] Get you something to drink, sir?
Rivers: 'Kind of beer you got?
Waitress: [by rote] BudBudLightMillerLightHeinekenCoronaSierraNevadaSamAdams
Rivers: Got any Hoegaarden?
Rivers: BELGIAN WHITE ALE YOU RUSTY FUCKING CUNT! Fuck, just bring me your highest quality Indiana 'shine, you backwater wench.
Waitress: I'll have that right out for ya
[Rivers focuses back on the TV]
Boy: Hehwoah, Mistaw Wivers. Could you pwease sign my napkin fo' me? It woo mean veawee much.
Rivers: What? Shit. Made me miss hearing about how much of a bitch Antonio Gates is. Hope my steak is half as tender as his leg.
Sign the napkin? How about the deed to your parents' shack? Okay. Whatever. [writing] F-U-C-K-O-F-F. There's the ol' sig. Add a little a frownie. A middle finger right there aaaaaand voila!
[Balls up the paper and throws in a high arch that suspends in the air for 40 seconds then falls two feet from the table.]
Boy: Waaaahhhhhh [walks off]
Rivers: Fuck. This isn't worth it.
[Gets up. Grabs drink from arriving waitress. Gulps it down. Drops glass on floor and walks out without paying]
[Tomlinson, Chris Chambers and Antonio Gates come out from kitchen]
Chambers: [slipping waitress a C-note] Thank fuck. Can we get a refill on the poppers, when you get a chance?