Making it Better For Jerruh

DMtShooter Five Tool ToolSep 21, 2009

As I watched yet another Romo Ono collapse last night, it was obvious, yet again, how much we owe to the owner of America's-Impossible-To-Parody Team. And I started thinking: how can we, as a nation, make things better for Jerruh Jones?

First, I think we should give the man his own jersey number and merch sales (with a big No. 1, of course). Considering that the current leaders in NFL jerseys sales are the collect every Favre jersey set and backup QB who shall remain infamous, I think the Jerruh jersey is gonna move.

Besides, I bet the man will get a kick out of seeing his own laundry in the stands; it'll be just like when the media slobs his knob, only with more of a cult overtone rather than a paid worker.

Second, there's the rather-difficult matter of trying to put 100,000 corn-fed asses in the seats, because anything else is just going to kill the place's vibe. At the ruinously expensive and Enron-esque new yard (enjoy your economic colonic, Cowboy fan), more is more is— goddammit, I said more!

When economic reality kicks in and the place is only two-thirds full, it's just going to get, you know, silly. And we can't have that.

Even by NFL standards, which start at ridiculous (especially in a bad economy), this place is muy loco. I think my favorite touch is the second-string skank "Cage Dancers" in the rafters.

These emergency backup objects are a great way to make sure the front line doesn't get uppity, and a good way to show that Jerruh is a hep cat with his finger on the pulse of the public. In 1967.

And here's where the man just inspires me. Jerruh, why stop at caged heat? For these prices, give us titty ushers. Titty parking attendants. Titty janitors. Butch titty security guards, so that we've got something for the differently-wired ladies and the menfolk that need more humiliation than even your team can provide. We'll all pay more if our scalper is a titty scalper!

And dammit, make sure there is a pan-galactic smorgasbord of tail. If I can't afford top-notch trim in a suite, there should be a nice, middle-class option with double the meat and all of the trimmings. I also demand a Happy Meal of speed, fat, and starch, and I think we all know what that entails. Perhaps with a little keepsake toy for the kids.

I'm seeing different-colored shirts, so I know my tier of worker. Or perhaps we can just do the old-fashioned Texarkana way, by race. It's affirmative!

Finally, we should think about the long-term sustainability of the Jerruhsoleum. As the franchise decays into increasing irrelevance, we're going to need thousands of road fans to pay full price, so that the dear boy keeps thinking everything is going well for him. It's like a casino; there are only so many locals who are going to keep coming back without hocking their fillings.

And that leads me to the final point. There is, really, no good reason why the Cowboys are in the NFC East, other than politics. And since the national television numbers have changed in the past few decades, the benefit of having New York, Philly, and DC on the dance card has changed dramatically, as well.

It's well past time for the Cowboys to be playing New Orleans, Tampa, and Atlanta in a true NFC South, which slides Carolina into a much more suitable NFC East I-95 Division.

And while we are fixing things, put Baltimore in the AFC East so that we can have more train turf wars, and Buffalo in the North so that people from those four cities spend less time away from their couches. The nation's roads and bridges undergo enough stress without moving that much tonnage.

When we're all done, we'll ensure that Jerruh will have fewer empty seats near his auxiliary trim and less ridicule when they show his Davisian reaction shots to his perennially overrated team in the owner's box.

It is, after all, the least we can do for a man who has brought us a millennium of playoff-victory-free Cowboy football.

Besides, he's going to just keep delivering the goods, especially in the coming years.

You know, when he gets *really* crazy...