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JaMarcus Russell negotiates with the Oakland Raiders

Training camp has ended and JaMarcus Russell still isn't an Oakland Raider. Evidently he's been holding out for a little more guaranteed money than the Raiders want to offer, as spelled out in this article in the SF Chronicle.

Wondering what the hell is going on? Why JR is the first pick since Orlando Pace in 1997 to miss his team's entire training camp? Well good news everyone! We here at ATVS have an exclusive up to the minute play-by-play of the negotiations. We're gonna call it UFC 87. (I have no idea what number they're on now; ask these guys.)

VERSUS

What? I'm pretty sure that's JaMarcus on the right.


Well, close enough.

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AD: JaMarcus! Pleased to meetcha, baby! I look forward to makin you the newest Oakland Raidah!

JR: YOU WILL ADDRESS ME AS MAJOR, TURD! DASSA MIGHTY FINE HANDSHAKE. YOU WANNA WRESTLE?

AD: Ahm, no thanks. You here alone? Don't you have an agent?

JR: NEGATIVE. I FIGURED IF THE NFL THOUGHT I NEEDED AN AGENT, THEY'DA ISSUED ME ONE

AD: Achoo! Sorry, I'm a little under the wea...

JR: WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT YOU LITTLE FRECKLE FACE CARTOON? DID I GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO SNEEZE, OPIE?

AD: Ahh, no...

JR: THEN YOU HOLD IT BEFORE I KICK YOUR ASS BACK TO MAYBERRY!

AD: Ok, ok...so I gotta lotta things to ask ya.

JR: PROCEED.

AD: As you know, we're no longer enamored with Andrew Walter.

JR: WHAT HAPPENED? YOU TERMINATE HIS COMMAND?

AD: Raidah policy is we don't talk about that anymore.

JR: I ASKED YOU A QUESTION, AND YOU WILL ANSWER IT, TURD!! ELSE I'M GONNA PUT MY FOOT SO FAR UP YOUR ASS, THE WATER ON MY KNEE WILL QUENCH YOUR THIRST!

AD: Awright, awright...take it easy, baby. He was inadequate. It was troublesome. You can ask Robert for perspective...



(In walks LT Robert Gallery.)

JR: FE-FI-FO-FUM. WHAT BEANSTALK YOU FALL FROM?

RG: ROBERT HUNGRY. ROBERT NEED NEW QB FOR TO EARN PAYCHECK.

JR: WHAT'S YO DAMAGE, MUSCLE HEAD? YOU STUPID, YOU IGNORANT, OR YOU JUST PLAIN OLD DEAF?

AD: Actually, Major, he's just stupid.

JR: WHY THANK YOU AL! NOW DROP DOWN AND GIMME 25 FOR SPEAKIN OUTTA LINE!! OK MR. HANDICAPPED MAN, WHAT IS IT?

RG: ROBERT SAY PLEASE SIGN. (Whispering: You see, J, your inexplicably large frame will mask the deficiencies of our offensive line as defenders who blow by us to get to you won't budge you an inch. We find it enormously difficult to block for those slippery boy-band quarterbacks who can't take a hit when we never know where the hell they are behind us.)

JR: SLIPPERY, YOU SAY. YOU THINK CHARLIE CARE ANYTHING ABOUT SLIPPERY? ONLY THING HE CARE ABOUT IS SLIP YO THROAT.

RG: Forgive me...I was just saying, I think you've clearly demonstrated a supernatural ability to take a jarring hit and continue...I ask you, J, to merely imagine the possibilities...especially since towards the end of last year you showed you can run and deliver a stiff arm too!

JR: HEH HEH HEH. THERE WAS THAT ONE BOY FROM TENNESSEE...THAT WAS THE FIRST TIME I EVER DROVE A MAN'S NOSE INTO HIS BRAIN, CAUSING INSTANT DEATH AND SIMULTANEOUS BOWEL EVACUATION. NOW GET THE HELL OUTTA HERE AND GO EAT SOME PANCAKES, DUMMY.

Gallery sulks off towards the cafeteria.

AD: Major, excuse me for a minute. I have to go to the bathroom.

JR: YOU HOLD IT, TURD! WE GOTTA CONTRACT TO SIGN.

AD: What? I'm an old man, I don't have the internal organ control of you kids. I have to wake up three times a night just to take a piss for Chrissakes.

JR: YOU HOLD IT ELSE I'MA BREAK IT OFF AND KICK IT AROUND ON THE GROUND!!

AD: What the hell is wrong with you?

JR: I CALL IT HARDBALL, TURD.

AD: And I call you an insecure, overbearing, psychopathic, edictorial, ego maniacal, frigid, lunatic ASSHOLE!

JR: I AIN'T FRIGID.

AD: What a crock. So what's the deal, Major, you want $35 million guaranteed?

JR: AFFIRMATIVE.

AD: Come on now, baby! There's no way we can do that. You're completely unproven and we have 50 plus other guys to sign.

JR: YOU WILL GET NO SYMPATHY FROM ME! YOU WANT SYMPATHY, LOOK IN THE DICTIONARY BETWEEN "SHIT" AND "SYPHILLIS!!" ARE YOU TELLING ME YOU DON'T HAVE ROOM FOR A TRAINED WEAPON OF DESTRUCTION SUCH AS MYSELF?

AD: So you're just gonna walk away from us? After all the scouting and getting-to-know you we did back from February through April, I was beginning to think of you like family, baby! You just gonna let that break up?

JR: NOBODY EVER SAID FAMILY DON'T BREAK UP. DON'T YOU WATCH OPRAH, TURD?

AD: (Sighs.) Ok, how about a six-year deal, and we can give you $27 million guaranteed. Whaddya thinka that?

JR: STILL A SHIT SANDWICH!! JUST NOT A SOGGY ONE. I WILL GIVE YOU THREE SECONDS TO IMPROVE YOUR OFFER OR I WILL ELIMINATE YOU LIKE I DID CHARLIE!

AD: What the hell? This isn't war!

JR: ONE, TUBBY TUBBY! TWO, TUBBY TUBBY!

AD: Fine, fine...ok. How about six years, $32 million guaranteed...and a different shackled Raiderette a week will be delivered to you by two chicks dressed like Cleopatra.

JR: MAYBE I LIKE IT.

AD: Just like?

JR: MAYBE I LIKE IT A LOT.

AD: That's it?

JR: DON'T PUSH THE MAYBES, BABY.

AD: Ok, Ok...so we've got a deal, then?

JR: AFFIRMATIVE.

AD: Fantastic! Just win, baby!

JR: WIN! WHISKEY! INDIA! NOVEMBER! I LIKE THE SOUND OF THAT WORD!

JR: HEY AL.

AD: What's that, baby?

JR: YOU ARE NO LONGER A TURD. YOU HAVE GRADUATED TO MAGGOT.

(Cue Disney fade-off-into-the-sunset music, and FIN.)