Cowboys Magazine: Mike Fisher Talks Jerry Jones
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Jerry Jones is holding court in the middle of the hoity-toity Rattlesnake Bar in Dallas's Ritz-Carlton Hotel. Some in the growing throng of not-for-long strangers want to hear the great man philosophize. Some want to shake his hand. Some want an autograph. Some just want to gawk.
And because he is the billionaire owner of Dallas Cowboys and because even the hoity-toity are affected by a recession, pretty much everybody is hoping Jerry will buy them a drink.
The loud and steady din-men baa-ing in agreement with whatever he says, women giggling and clapping on cue as if an "Applause" sign is lighting up, Mr. Jones's drawling baritone lifting itself above the rest to instruct "Victor" to "put it on my bill!"-is interrupted by the piercing screech of a woman.
A woman scorned.
"You are screwing me!" screams the she-devil as she plows indelicately through the crowd and toward its carnival-barking epicenter.
She is not as attractive as she probably was when she left the house; overindulging will do that even to a blonde in her late twenties who is ably pulling off the belly-button ring thing. Her words are slurred and the wine in her glass is sloshing as the sea of humans parts respectfully, for anyone who barks like this at Jerry Jones must know him. A Valley Ranch secretary? A spurned lovah? A long-lost niece concerned about her inheritance?
Nope. Try a long-time Texas Stadium season ticket holder.
"You are screwing me out of a million dollars!" the woman screeches. "Screwing me!"
Turns out, Belly-Button Ring's Red Bull and vodka-soaked point is this: Her family could afford to attend games at the old building in Irving, but feels priced out of the new (Your Corporate Name Here) palace in Arlington.
Therefore, Jerry Jones is "screwing" Belly-Button Ring.
Jerry coolly takes a sip from his glass. His silver-blue eyes-a shade eerily close to that of the Cowboys' game pants-need but a moment to size up his accuser. He shifts into a different gear, from life-of-the-party host to intimate seducer.
"Honey," Jerry coos into her bejeweled ear, "if I was screwin' you, you'd know it."
Jerry Jones is holding court in the middle of the hoity-toity Rattlesnake Bar in Dallas's Ritz-Carlton Hotel. Some in the growing throng of not-for-long strangers want to hear the great man philosophize. Some want to shake his hand. Some want an autograph. Some just want to gawk.
And because he is the billionaire owner of Dallas Cowboys and because even the hoity-toity are affected by a recession, pretty much everybody is hoping Jerry will buy them a drink.
The loud and steady din-men baa-ing in agreement with whatever he says, women giggling and clapping on cue as if an "Applause" sign is lighting up, Mr. Jones's drawling baritone lifting itself above the rest to instruct "Victor" to "put it on my bill!"-is interrupted by the piercing screech of a woman.
A woman scorned.
"You are screwing me!" screams the she-devil as she plows indelicately through the crowd and toward its carnival-barking epicenter.
She is not as attractive as she probably was when she left the house; overindulging will do that even to a blonde in her late twenties who is ably pulling off the belly-button ring thing. Her words are slurred and the wine in her glass is sloshing as the sea of humans parts respectfully, for anyone who barks like this at Jerry Jones must know him. A Valley Ranch secretary? A spurned lovah? A long-lost niece concerned about her inheritance?
Nope. Try a long-time Texas Stadium season ticket holder.
"You are screwing me out of a million dollars!" the woman screeches. "Screwing me!"
Turns out, Belly-Button Ring's Red Bull and vodka-soaked point is this: Her family could afford to attend games at the old building in Irving, but feels priced out of the new (Your Corporate Name Here) palace in Arlington.
Therefore, Jerry Jones is "screwing" Belly-Button Ring.
Jerry coolly takes a sip from his glass. His silver-blue eyes-a shade eerily close to that of the Cowboys' game pants-need but a moment to size up his accuser. He shifts into a different gear, from life-of-the-party host to intimate seducer.
"Honey," Jerry coos into her bejeweled ear, "if I was screwin' you, you'd know it."
posted by The Gryphon at 5:51 AM
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