Here it is, folks. Half a blurry second of mild marital chaos. The Cutlers are from Santa Claus, Indiana. And if this clip doesn't evoke memories of your family during the holidays, your dad must have been Ozzie fucking Nelson. Special thanks to Marty P for the clip.
Time remaining until the NFL pulls this clip: 3, 2, 1...
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!
(attacks him)
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.
