Hey, Jim Irsay. Whatcha doing?

“Clearin’ out some space f’r a few more brewdogs.”

Feeling better?

“Stomach’s empty, brother! Shit: nose, too. Got any krell, bitch?”

I have no krell, and don’t call me bitch.

“You like these here dungarees?”

They’re very stylish.

“Had a homo pick ’em out f’r me.”

Nice.

“How you fixed f’r perks?”

I’m good.

“You want a blowjob?”

From you?

“Fuck, no, hoss. Jimmy don’t swing that way. Getchoo a stripper. I got a whole separate phone f’r callin’ strippers. Smells like Shea’s cocoa butter and sweaty hundred-dollar bills.”

I’m all right.

“You a sissy? I’ll get the guy who bought me my jeans to swallow your marbles.”

I am fine. Are you all right?

“Better ‘n you, man.”

You sure? You’re tweeting out nonsense and covered in vomit.

“Could be worse.”

You could be the president.

“There you go, brother! Ol’ Jimmy’s gettin’ graded on a curve f’r the rest o’ his life!”

You got that going for you.

“I’m gonna go stick one o’ Clapton’s guitars in some chick’s bunghole.”

You do you, Jim Irsay.

“And I’ll do her.”

God bless America.

“Fuckin’ A.”