Inside the War Room! Pittsburgh Steelers

Leading up to the draft, we’ll be giving you exclusive inside access to the war rooms of various teams across the league. Today: the Pittsburgh Steelers.

[The Steelers new head coach Mike Tomlin retires to bed after a wearying day of draft board analysis and administering Kendall Simmons' Flintstones chewable insulin.]

Mike Tomlin: If I get one more letter written on a Primanti Brothers napkin demanding we draft Paul Posluszny, I'm going to exude quiet confidence in a slightly less cool fashion. Like I imagine Delroy Lindo might if he got gyped on ketchup packets at a Chick-Fil-A.

Maybe there's a possible compromise with Levi Brown. That way, we can drop Max Starks off the Clemente Bridge, and the braying yinzers get their Penn State prospect.

[Tomlin yawns, shuts eyes]

...

...

[Jarring sound of chains rattling]

Tomlin: Ahhh! Fuck! That better not be you again, Colbert. I swear to God, I'll tell the Rooneys to send you back to Detroit.

Apparition: No, it ain't the GM, man.

Tomlin: Oh shit! A ghost! A ghost of a nondescript black man! You're scary because you have higher blood pressure than regular ghosts!

Apparition: I can't believe you don't recognize me.

Tomlin: Beasley Reese?

Apparition: Fuck no, I'm not Beasley Reese. You never heard of Jefferson Street Joe Gilliam. I used to be the quarterback of the team you're now coaching, way back in the '70s.

Tomlin: Oh, right. The Jeffersons were huge in the '70s. That Wheezy was a trip.

Gilliam: Okay. You clearly have no idea who I fuck I am. But you would if the Steelers had kept me as the starting QB like they should have. The Steel Curtain won four rings with a mediocre hick who only had two more career TDs than picks. Who knows how many more they could have gotten with me? That could be my bloated ass during movie scenes in a whirlpool with Kathy Bates.

Tomlin: Okay, maybe you were better than Bradshaw. What does that have to do with me?

Gilliam: You gotta draft a black quarterback. Trade up and get Russell.

Tomlin: But the Steelers already had a black starting QB for five seasons. I mean, shouldn't I just promote Charlie Batch to first string? It's not like Cowher shouldn't have done it at least five different times last year. He did play better than Roethlisberger.

Gilliam: That light-skinned motherfucker? Your white QB is more mobile than he is. And don't try that Kordell Stewart shit on me. That was like Hattie McDaniel winning an Oscar for Gone With the Wind. She only had to play a servant. I'm pretty sure Kordell was servicing Cowher thrice daily. I've been waiting for decades for this team to get a black head coach so the Steelers could get a respectable black QB under center. I had to trade my Super Bowl rings to get crack rocks, man. But because I wasn't starter, I only got two rings. Think of all the rocks I lost out on.

Tomlin: But, see, here's thing and I've given this some thought: a successful black QB would be nice but it's no longer a novel thing in the league. No, I'm implementing the blackest, gay-bashingest defense ever seen in the NFL, Tony Dungy's Tampa 2. For too long, this team and its cavalcade of crusty white defensive coordinators have embraced the wan, soulless 3-4 scheme. Nothing would more subvert the anglocentric status quo than if I took a defensive end like Adam Carriker in the draft, thus changing the beloved defensive set to a 4-3 and imposing a system forged from superior black intellect.

Gilliam: Dungy? I remember hearing about that cat on the Steelers a few years after I left. Smart, smart guy and just about the most harrowing menace to homosexuals I've seen outside of a Joe Gibbs team. I like your thinking, Brother Tomlin.

Tomlin: BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Gilliam: AHAHAHAHAHAHA

[Gilliam's ghost slowly dissipates]

Tomlin: Fuck that shit. I'm taking a cornerback. Ike Taylor can eat a decade-rotted dick with extra cajun cocksauce.

Inside the War Room! Seattle Seahawks

Leading up to the draft, we’ll be giving you exclusive inside access to the war rooms of various teams across the league. Today: the Seattle Seahawks.

Tim Ruskell, General Manager: Thanks for coming, gents. You all are the backbone of this team, the respective hearts of the offense and defense. In order to help figure out where we need to add youth, can you all state how old you'll be at the start of this season?

Julian Peterson, OLB: 29.

Patrick Kerney, DE: 30.

Ruskell: Wait. Aren't you a speed rusher?

Kerney: Yup.

Ruskell: And you're 30?

Kerney: Yessir.

Ruskell: All year? No chance of getting younger?

Kerney: I feel young at heart.

Ruskell: What was the deal we gave you this offseason?

Kerney: Six years, $39.5 million.

Ruskell: Good Christ! What was I thinking?!?

Peterson: Sir, we needed someone to replace Grant Wistrom, who was a year older. And much slower. Also, I believe you were on quaaludes that day.

Ruskell: Ah yes. That takes me back. Say, whatever happened to Wistrom? Class act. I loved his Halloween party.

Yes, that's Grant Wistrom.
Peterson: Retired, sir.

Ruskell: Good. Fucker was dead weight on this sinking ship. [pause] Anyway. Carry on, the rest of you. Ages.

Matt Hassebeck, QB: Uh, 32.

Shaun Alexander, RB: 30.

Deion Branch, WR: 28.

Darrell Jackson, WR: 28.

Walter Jones, OT: 33.

Mack Strong, FB: 36.

Ruskell: Fuck. My. Ass. Nobody's younger?

Hasselbeck: Sir, many of the players on defense and our offensive line are younger.

Ruskell: Name one known outside the state of Washington. Besides Lofa Tatupu.

Hasselbeck: Ummm... Kelly Jennings?

Ruskell: Fuck you. You're in the Asshole Box. No talking, five minutes. Got it?

Hasselbeck: [nods, hangs head]

Ruskell: Okay, so who should we take for our first round pick?

Branch: Uh, that's me.

Ruskell: Why would I draft you? You're already on the team.

Branch: No sir, last year you traded your first round pick to New England for me.

Ruskell: Oh, shit. Forgot about that. Must be nice to finally be paid, though, huh?

Branch: Yes, sir. And how.

Ruskell: I met [Patriots' personnel director Scott] Pioli last offseason. He actually picked up loose change off the street. He went to the bathroom while we were figuring out the tip for lunch.

Branch: I believe it, sir.

Ruskell: Right. So, second round. Let's see... number 55 overall. What are our biggest needs?

Alexander: Tight end, offensive line, tight end, and we could use a little depth in the secondary.

Strong: I am fucking ancient.

Alexander: Fullback, too.

Ruskell: Does anyone have any good news for me?

Kerney: You'll free up a lot of cap room when you cut me in two years.

Branch: I saved 15% by switching to Geico car insurance.

Ruskell: We're not getting anyone from this draft, are we?

Everyone: No.

Ruskell: Looks like I'm gonna need to make a move. Guess who's getting traded?

Jackson: ...me?

Ruskell: Ding ding ding. Pack your bags, vestigial wideout.

This Is the War Room! The Washington Redskins

"I'll give you the biggest extension you want,
just teach me the ways of the black man!"

Leading up to the draft, we’ll be giving you exclusive inside access to the war rooms of various teams across the league. Today: the Washington Redskins.

Cast of Characters

Vinnie Cerrato: Mr. Snyder I've got our chair set up right over here at the head of the table.

Daniel Snyder: That's good Vinnie, that's very good, but where are you sitting?

Vinnie: I'll be on your lap, sir.

Snyder: Excellent

Eric Schaffer: Mr. Snyder, I need to speak with you.

Vinnie: YAP! YAP! YAP!

Eric: Sir, could we speak in private, Vinnie seems to be biting me.

Snyder: Yeah, it cost me 2 mil but I finally got him trained (maniacal laughter). OK Vinnie, down boy. Who's my good boy? Who's my cuddly little boy?

Eric: Look Mr. Snyder, I've been going over the numbers and if we acquire Asante Samuel, Lance Briggs, and LaDanian Tomlinson we'll never be able to sign JaMarcus Russell and Calvin Johnson.

Snyder: Hey Gimp, is he right about that?

Eric: Mr. Snyder, Coach Gibbs can't respond until you take that ballgag out of his mouth.

Snyder: hehehe. Why'd I do that? I swear I can't remember?

Eric: I believe he violated your "No Jesus-talk in the War Room" rule.

Snyder: That's good, that's very good. But I want those players dammit! Once I have Russell and Johnson I'll be unstoppable!

Gregggg Williams enters, stops to kick Coach Gibbs in the ribs on the way

Snyder: Oh shit, here comes the asshole.

Gregggg Williams: God dammit Mr. Teeny, what's all this shit I'm hearing about Russell and Johnson?!?! I told you ten motherfucking times that I was trading the draft picks for proven commodities like Junior Seau and Ted Johnson.

Snyder: Don't blame me Gregg, I'm with you. It's Coach Gimp and the mathelete. I think your guys have plenty left in the tank.

Gregggg: So what's it gonna be nerdlinger?

Eric: I'm sorry Gregggg but I don't think it would be fiscally responsible to bring those guys in at this advanced point in their respective careers. Junior's retiring and Ted Johnson is concussed beyond the point of no return.

Gregggg calmly rips Eric's heart out of his chest cavity

Gregggg: Just get it done and I'll make it do what it do.

Gregggg Williams exits

Snyder: And they say I'm the difficult one around here!

Louis Riddick: Sir, the secretaries have just finished the shrine you commissioned them to build in your honor. It's ready for your inspection whenever you're ready.

Snyder: Sorry Louis but that's going to have to wait. I've just received a very interesting email on my IPhone. Did you know I had an IPhone? It's not even out yet but they sent me one anyway because I'm big time.

Scott Campbell: Sir, does that fax have anything to do with a potential draft pick?

Snyder: Who the fuck are you?

Scott: I'm your director of college scouting.

Snyder: I didn't even know I had one of those; how much am I paying you?

Scott: Well you only pay me $20,000 a year but somehow I carry a $3,000,000 cap number.

Snyder: We'll have to have our cap guy look into that.

Scott: He's still dead sir. I don't mean to push you but thanks to your shrewd trades we now have the first two picks of the draft.

Snyder: Not anymore. That fax was a trade offer and I just gave up the second pick for our new franchise wide receiver.

Scott: If you wanted a wide receiver we could have just drafted Calvin Johnson!

Snyder: Never heard of him but I like my guy better. He's established and he'll sell that merchandise.

Scott: Sir, who did you trade for?

Snyder: Who else?

photo via the indispensable Extreme Skins

Coach Gibbs lets out mumbled screams of protest/terror

Snyder: Tighten that gag! Now let's hurry up and get JaMarcus' name up to the podium. They're gassing up Redskins One as we speak!

Louis: That won't be necessary Mr. Snyder, he's waiting in the Green Room.

Snyder: Fuck it, let's roll down to Louisianna and pick up his momma!

Louis: She's already at the draft with JaMarcus, there's no need to take the plane.

Snyder: God damn I can't catch a fuckin' break. What about a dog? Does he have a loving dog back home?

Scott: I believe he has two pet goldfish back in Baton Rouge.

Snyder: Wheels up in ten minutes. Oh and before I forget, we need to stop by the cemetary on the way back so I can take a shit on Jack Kent Cooke's grave.

Inside The War Room! Dallas Cowboys

Leading up to the draft, we’ll be giving you exclusive inside access to the war rooms of various teams across the league. Today: the Dallas Cowboys.

Assistant: Well, I think the war room’s all set, Mr. Jones.

Jerry Jones: Where’s the fuckin’ easel?

Assistant: The what?

Jones: I need a fuckin’ easel! Have you never been in a meetin’, Jennifer? I need a big fuckin’ easel to write all my ideas down.

Assistant: Okay…

Jones: And I want three different kinds of Sharpies. I need a red Sharpie, because whenever I get a really fuckin’ big idea, I like writin’ it in red. That way, everyone pays attention to it. Then I need a green Sharpie for drawing pie charts. Then I want one of those markers that writes in shiny gold ink. It’s kinda like gold leaf, know what I mean?

Assistant: I think so.

Jones: Well, I want a shitload of those. Because I like goin’ through all my big fuckin’ ideas and then putting a gold star by the ones I REALLY like. Like if I say, “Hey, what if we trade up to get Calvin Johnson?” I wanna be able to star that little sumbitch. In fact, write that down right now.

Wade Phillips: Where do I sit?

Jones: Shut up, fatty! You only get to talk when I pull this chain! You understand me!

Wade: Yes, sir.

Jones: I didn’t pull the fucking chain. Dance, fat man! Dance!

(He dances.)

Jones: Ha ha! Look at that fat bounce all around! Jennifer, you can poke him with a stick if you want.

Assistant: No, thank you.

Jones: Suit yourself. Nothin’ finer than pokin’ a fat man! Now, I want place cards arranged around the table. And I want titles too! Remember my title?

Assistant: “The Boss Man”?

Jones: Goddamn fuckin’ right, I am. Son of a gun! Now, food. I want Einstein Bagels in the morning. Hey fatty, what do you want for lunch? You may speak!

(pulls chain)

Wade: Sandwiches.

Jones: Wow! Aren’t you an incredibly creative mind! I never woulda thoughta fuckin’ sandwiches on my own! Way to be outta the box! You stupid tub of lard. Let’s get some fried chicken, and other assorted Negro food.

Assistant: Sir, I don’t think that’s appropriate here.

Jones: (rolls eyes) Fine. We’ll have Thai.

Assistant: I meant the term "Negro", sir. Not the food choice.

Jones: Ah, don't be such a tightass, darlin'. We love our Negroes down here in Texas. Now, be sure to order extra Larb Gai. Somebody always eats that shit before I can get a helpin’!

Assistant: Okay.

Jones: Now, where’s the draft board?

Wade: Oh, we’re using an electronic draft board this year, using Javascript.

Jones: What?! Unacceptable. I want an old school draft board, with each player’s name and school written on a plaque that I can move up and down at my behest. It feels more God-like that way. It’s like Star Wars, where they play chess with those tiny monsters. In fact, I would like little action figures of all 500 draft prospects, so I can make ‘em fight! Make that happen!

Assistant: Yes, sir.

Jones: And I want the ESPN camera behind my right shoulder, so it looks like I’m presiding over the room, which I am.

Assistant: Yes, sir.

Jones: And I need a bottle of Lubriderm close by, so that Ed Werder doesn’t chafe my penis when he’s rubbing me down.

Assistant: Yes, sir.

Jones: Hey, fatty!

(pulls chain)

Wade: Sir?

Jones: Did you figure out the conference calling equipment like I told you?

Wade: I think so.

Jones: Then let’s call the ghost of Tex Schramm now and see if it works.

Wade: You can’t call ghosts, sir.

Jones: Just fuckin’ do it, Flubber!

(one hour later)

Tex: Hello?

Jones: Good! It fuckin’ works! Hey there, Tex!

Tex: Can we hurry this up? I got another meeting in ten.

Jones: You look here, you dead piece of shit! I spent an hour getting you on this phone. You aren’t going nowhere! I need you to help me compile my list of “Surprise Draft Picks”. You know, the ones no one sees comin’.

Tex: Ugh.

Jones: And where’s the mechanical bull? Jennifer, take this list down…

Assistant: Yes, sir.

Jones: We need a a mechanical bull, a LIVE bull, a 30’ foot Tostitos banner, a 1950’s style soda fountain, a pile of gold bricks that I can stand near at all times, a lifesize cutout for me for whenever I go take a shit, four mules, brownies AND blondies, ten crates of fresh cigars, a large cache of automatic weapons, Fiji water, a Bill Parcells lookalike I can shoot at, a mounted trophy of a moose’s head, notepads and pencils for everyone, a bearskin rug, artificial stalactites that I can have dropped on people at a moment’s notice, a compass, one of those oversized beach balls, and a fresh cheese and fruit plate no one will touch. Got all that?

Assistant: Yep.

Jones: Now that’s a draft room! Giddyfuckingup!