Sunday, October 7, 2012

PLAXICO BURRESS IS RUNNING OUT OF TIME

"...the Jets are up against it again...third and sixteen...Sanchez in the shotgun...he's got it...looks left...looks right...he throws over the middle...Hill, he's got it...no, it's off his fingertips...incomplete..." 

"Come on, guys," says Plaxico Burress.  "You gotta catch the ball. Stickem.'  You gotta get some Stickem on your hands, Dummy.  What am I?  Watching some kind of high school game?"

It's Friday afternoon, around one.  Plaxico Burress lounges on his couch, bare feet on his coffee table, one full, three empty Doritos' bags on the floor.  His iPhone sits on the table, set on vibrate, blink, and loud ring.  No way he's missing the call.

He points an empty Red Bull can at his 100 inch LED Flatscreen.  "How can this be happening.  This is beyond just lame, guys.  I can't keep watching this." 

He grabs the remote, and replays the play.

"...the Jets are up against it again...third and sixteen...Sanchez in the shotgun...he's got it...looks left...looks right...he throws over the middle...Hill, he's got it...no, it's off his fingertips...incomplete..." 

He pitches the Red Bull can.  It hits the wall and banks into the plastic trash can in the corner.  He pops another.  Eight or is this number nine?

"Come on, where's Tebow?  Something.  Sanchez ain't hackin' it.  What's going on?  Ryan, hello?  I'm sitting here. Your next wide receiver. Waiting.  By the phone."

His iPhone sits silently on the table.  He looks at it just as it rings.  He leaps.

"Plaxico?  That you?"

"It's me, who's this?  Coach Ryan?  Rex Ryan, that you?" says Plaxico.

"No no, no.  OchoCinco.  The Chadster.  Mister Chad Johnson.  I'm Just hangin.'  Been watching the Jets.  They need somebody like me back on the team, you know.   One of the best and they've forgot about me already, can you believe it?  Me, the Chadman."

"The Jets?  They're looking for young, my friend.  What are you?  Thirty-four?  Kinda old.  Come on, of course they'll take me first.  And after that thing you did on Dancing with the Stars, it's a wonder you can still show your face..."

"Plaxico, you'd be out there playing for free, they ever gave you another chance."

"What?  Look,  I'm not waiting by the phone if that's what you want to know.  So...Hey I got a call coming through, so...I'll see you Chad."

"It's me they really want, Burress.  Me, Chad Johnson.  I'll always be the real star."

"I don't know?  Didn't you do some pistachio commercials?  And race a thoroughbred?  You do weird stuff, Chad. They aren't looking for weird.  I'm down to 225 pounds and I'm faster and more explosive today than I ever been.  Hey, gotta go.  Real nice talking with you, Chad."

He drops the phone on the coffee table, and kicks it away with his foot.  "Play for free?  Guy's crazy.  Thinks I want to play that bad?"  He gulps Red Bull, sits back and looks at the can.  "This stuff ain't good for me."

He picks up his iPhone, and thumbs a number.

"New Jersey Discount Liquor."

"I'd like somethin' delivered.  I usually get drinks already made, so..."

"We got some Mount Gay Rum?"

"I don't know?  Mount Gay?"

"It's excellent rum. Or how about a bottle of Old Grand Dad?"

"I don't know.  Old?...no, not really."

"Got just the thing.  Ten High Whiskey.  It has a unique, (code for taste like kerosene), bold taste, (code for peels the paint off the hood of your F-150) you won't forget (code for you're in for one really hideous hangover).

"I'll take it. Two bottles."

"Okay, that'll be...let's see...with tax and tip...$100.  That's cheap, trust me."

Plaxico clicks replay.

"...the Jets are up against it again...third and sixteen...Sanchez in the shotgun...he's got it...looks left...looks right...he throws over the middle...Hill, he's got it...no, it's off his fingertips...incomplete..." 

"I should be the one catching that...I'm sorry, okay two bottles, twenty minutes...that'll be fine."

Back at the LED.  "What the hell?  This guy Hill is nothing..."

His phone vibrates.  "Hello..Hello?  This is Plaxico.  Is this Rex?  Coach Ryan?"

"Plaxico...it's me T.O."

"T.O?  Oh, yeah. Terrell Owens."

"Yeah, T.O.  Who'd you think I was?  Coach Ryan?  You've been watching too many Jets games."
 
"No...Well yeah," says Plaxico.  "They sure need help."

"They need somebody like me," says T.O.  "No problem catchin' passes from Sanchez.   And Tebow?  He's still green.  One season with me makin' touchdowns..."

"You?" says Plaxico.  "How old are you, T.O?  Close to 50?"

"...39, if you have to know...

"...and with your Hydrocodone problems....

"...a long time ago...

"...and that stint last year with the Allen Texas Wranglers?  What the hell was that?"

"...I can still bring it, Buddy."

"I gotta much better chance than you, T.O.  I'm faster, stronger, and a whole lot younger."

"What about you, Burress?" says T.O.  "You're no prize.  You go to a stripper bar, a 9 mm in your pocket, and while you're getting a lap dance..."

"That was an accident...

"You end up shot in the leg.  No NFL teams wants somebody so Flaky, man."

"End of conversation, T.O.  And I'm no Flake, my friend."

Again he replays the play.

"...the Jets are up against it again...third and sixteen...Sanchez in the shotgun...he's got it...looks left...looks right...he throws over the middle...Hill, he's got it...no, it's off his fingertips...incomplete..."

There's a knock on the door.  A young man carries in a brown paper bag.  Plaxico points toward the kitchen.  The young man sets down the bag, grabs the C-Note off the counter, giggles, and darts out the door.

Plaxico finds a milk glass and fills it to the rim with Ten High.  Three gulps, his eyes water, as he points the remote.  Another replay.

"...the Jets are up against it again...third and sixteen...Sanchez in the shotgun...he's got it...looks left...looks right...he throws over the middle...Hill, he's got it...no, it's off his fingertips...incomplete..."
 
"I can't watch this any more."  He flops down on the couch.  His face is hot.  "This is crazy."  Another large gulp.

"What am I going to do?"   He  breathes heavily as he watches Hall drop the ball again and again, and again.   He stares at the screen, '...off  his fingertips...incomplete...'  '...off  his fingertips... incomplete...' '...off  his fingertips...incomplete...'

He lifts up, walks over to a desk, pulls out a 9 mm, walks back to the couch.  He takes another gulp, slowly sits down on the couch and blasts three large holes in the 100 inch screen. 

Just as the phone rings.

He jumps up and lurches for the iPhone. "Hello...Hello. This is Plaxico.  Plaxico Burress."

"Oh, I'm sorry.  It's Rex Ryan.  How are you doing Plaxico?  I'm sorry, but I guess your number was in here...and I dialed it by mistake.  Sorry.  You take care Plaxico."

Plaxico's knees buckle.  He falls into the couch, his face into the cushion.  Slowly, he sits up, gulps from the glass, and reaches for the remote.  But instead he picks up the 9 mm.  He looks at it, holds it out in front of him, and as he begins to cry,  he fires...
.....................

HELP COMES FROM:
nesn.com/2012/10/plaxico-burress-chad-johnson-could-provide-only-chance-for-mark-sanchez-jets-to-salvage-season.html
livingstondaily.com/usatoday/article/1611491
readabilityformulas.com/  

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