Hey, y'all. This here's Jerry Jones, and I wanna tell you this afternoon 'bout a couple of changes to our fuhball team that's gonna git us back in the Super Bowl faster'n a coyote goes in heat, I'm pretty sure.
Now, some folks said the Dallas Cowboys were finished, that them damn perverts, or whatever they are, from out there in San Francisco are the new power in the National Fuhball League. These are the same people that said when Ken Norton left we were all done. These are the ones that said when Alvin Harper left we were all done. Well, I'm here to tell you that just ain't so. Yeah, we got whipped outta the big one last year by them pantywaists from Castro Street, but now we've gone and put some things together here in Dallas that's gonna knock your boots off. We been workin' on this thing day and night. Like my daddy used to say, there ain't no place round the campfire for a quitter's blanket.
First off: sponsors.
Case you ain't heard, Pepsi-Cola is now the official drink of the Dallas Cowboys, and you can bet your spurs that every last fan in Texas Stadium over the age of three will be chock-full of the stuff by halftime every Sunday--even if I have to go down there and personally herd the strays toward the concession stands myself. As of right now, any red-blooded Texan who doesn't drink Pepsi, the official drink of the Dallas Cowboys, is a pervert and oughta go live in San Francisco.
We've also signed an exclusive promotional deal with Nike, and those of you who were at the Denver game--hah, Denver, now there's an outfit that doesn't know which end of the mare the oats go in--you people who were at the Denver game already know that every Dallas Cowboy on the field will be wearing Nike fuhball cleats, and that our security guards will also be checking each and every fan's footwear this season. To say it plain, folks, if you ain't got Nikes on when you come to Texas Stadium, we're gonna confiscate your tickets and resell 'em out in the parking lot to people who unnerstand the new shoe code.
Now, I have it on very good authority that Jerry Rice and Steve Young were spotted wearing Reeboks a couple of weeks back--in a gay bathhouse, I think it was. And that should tell you all you need to know about those two.
Frankly, I can't wait till we get them pinko perverts from San Francisco down here on November 12 for some good old-fashioned country fuhball. In fact, I personally wanna kick their butts with my brand-new, size twelve diamondback-rattler Nike cowboy boots. And if that Tagliabue fella wants to get his butt kicked, too, he's more'n welcome. Imagine the gall of that varmint--tryin' to tell me how to run my fuhball team. Probably drinks RC Cola and wears high heels made by Puma or somebody.
Okay then, Deion Sanders.
Like my mama used to say, always drink upstream from the herd. Not sure I get it, but that's probably what we did when we went out and lassoed us the finest professional atha-lete that God ever created. The man is faster than a shot from Sam Houston's Colt, and he covers receivers like the paint on a privy. Jerry Rice? Just wait'll Prime Time gets his hooks into him. Rice'll wish he was on the tennis team with the rest of them weirdos.
Now, as you know, a couple of other teams were running there for a minute in the Deion Derby. Teams like Denver, which wouldn't know a horse thief if they found him in the barn. The only thing we really had to do to hog-tie Denver and them other drugstore cowboys was offer Deion $8.3 billion a year for the next 150 years. Now, some folks think that's a little high, but this is Dallas, Texas, pardner, and things are s'posed to be big down here. Cadillac El Dorados. Your woman's hairdo. Fuhball salaries.
Besides, consider what we're gettin'. A great atha-lete in the peak of his prime. Why, I personally talked with Deion only this morning on the telephone, and he assured me that the arthroscopic surgery he needs on that ankle won't keep him off the field much past Christmas, and that li'l ol' elbow thing from gettin' hit with a fastball will be just fine as soon as the doctors can line up the right donor. Somethin' about tissue rejection. Whatever.
As for Deion's alternative career choices, no one here at the Dallas Cowboys has any intention of standing in his path to self-fulfillment, wherever that may lead. Like my Uncle Estes used to say, don't go kickin' a fresh cowpie on a hot day. I still ain't sure what he meant, but if Deion wants to play baseball, he'll play baseball. His new commitments to the World Badminton League, the pro surfing tour and the International Curling Congress are no problem, either: He's promised us at least two hours of playing time this January and a full four-point-three-five hours next November. Only this morning, Deion also told me that he'd like to run in the Kentucky Derby next year. Why not? Hell, that thing only takes two minutes. Besides, it's in May.
Now, y'all may have heard the rumor floating around that Deion is thinking about declaring himself an independent candidate for president. I can't confirm that news this afternoon, but if he should become the nation's chief executive, Deion has personally assured me that he'll slip away from meetings with the joint chiefs of staff and crises in the Balkans in time to give us at least six or seven good, hard plays on defense every third week or so. And whenever we play them hippie commies from San Francisco, he promises to work an entire quarter of fuhball--not a second less.
Naturally, many members of the Dallas Cowboys family have made personal sacrifices in order for us to sign Mr. Deion Sanders. Here are just a few examples. As you know, quarterback Troy Aikman has "restructured" his multiyear contract and moved into a pretty nice little trailer park over in Garland. Wide receiver Michael Irvin is working the swing shift at International Harvester to help make ends meet, and Jay Novacek, our outstanding tight end, reports he's doing lively trade with his new taco cart in Turtle Creek. 'Course, this here's everybody's task. The famous Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders have all volunteered to work nights--for a man named Smoke, I think it was. Home-furnishings bidness. The mayor of our fair city has cut police and firefighter salaries by one third and shut down a couple of public hospitals in order to plump up the Deion Fund, and so far no one's bellyachin' one bit. We like winners in Dallas.
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Even Jerry Jones, my ownself, and head coach Barry Switzer have personally taken on second jobs for the good of the team. Next time you spot Coach Switzer movin' them orange pylons around up on I-35, give him a honk, won'tcha? He's doin' it all for you.
Will this whole thing be worthwhile? Will the Dallas Cowboys, led by Deion Sanders, get back to the Super Bowl and kick the livin' snot out of whoever the pissant AFC sends to the show? You can count on it, pardner. I'm here to tell you that Destiny and Deion are on our side--at least when we're not playing fuhball on the man's bowling night. So y'all can take them "Tuck Fexas" bumper stickers and them crude bathroom jokes and them sorry stories about how folks from Dallas act when they're skiin' in Vail, and you can stick 'em where the sun don't shine. Cause America's Team is back big-time. Unnerstand? Good. That's that.
Now, if one of you cowpokes is going my way, I'd be much obliged for a ride. I gotta drop this here case of Pepsi bottles off at the Piggly-Wiggly for the deposit money, and I still got three or four rooms left to clean back at the motel. If I ain't done by 3:45, the boss'll more'n likely personally kick my butt as if I's a wet dog loose in the front parlor. Like my Aunt Elvira used to say, a horse's ass don't fit in a saddle. Whatever that means. Probably heard it that time she was out in San Francisco.