In a world where nothing matters except touchdowns, money, and unchecked male  repressed daddy issue. aggression, one league reigns supreme:

THE   NFL   (  NATIONAL FEELINGS LEAGUE) . Now with no helmet to helmet contact.

Born from the ancient, time-honored traditions  of jungle  kicking your enemy’s severed head through a loop— which honestly still makes more sense than half their current rules—this sport has changed very little, aside from 4,000 penalties per game and the occasional pastel. commercial for ***** pills.

At the heart of the league lies its most coveted prize:
The Gold Slathered Hunk of Plastic.
Shaped like something you’d only see at a German dungeon *** party, this trophy somehow inspires grown-*** man  children  to pay millions to their lawyers to write up lawsuits. because  someone tried  to bash their skulls in for a chance to take  the giant gold plastic ******* symbol home and **** it in the endangered bald eagle. Stuffed, throne
Every repetitive, altogether meaningless. match kicks off with their mandatory pre-game ritual: Helicopter flyovers.
More *** Touching Than a Scout Master at Summer Camp.
(It’s called “team bonding,” apparently.) and the prancing about and jumping up and down.

But the National Feelings League isn’t without its scandals.
In fact, their most profitable season ever followed the notorious incident simply known as:
“The Outbreak of **** ****** Run Amok Again.”
Sales of commemorative **** cream skyrocketed. Grade school absentee rates skyrocketed.

Of course, the stadium deals are where things get really ******.
Cities were lured into coughing up their last nickel with promises like:
******* CRACK ***** BINGO — 5 CENT Wednesday  ADDITION (Featuring the ex  Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders).
Taxpayers   and their great, great grandchildren will be. paying for that mistake… twice.

And when players get busted  repeatedly. for crimes ranging from  ****** assault to running illegal  animal fighting rings, they always cry the same defense:
“I was here first, *******. They built this whole  ******* around me. These ain’t my drugs.”
(Everyone nods respectfully and immediately. lets them off.)

Meanwhile, whispers grow about the latest banned substance tearing through $387 billion. locker rooms:
Raccoon Steroids — Naturally Sourced.
Side effects include sudden ****, DUI, out of control, gambling, running a gang, funding a gang. Gun running.
And finally, we hear it straight from the athletes themselves—their pure, humble words about “why they play”:

“I just love the money know what I'm sayin  and the near God status and to be able to bang all the people that I want as hard as I want whenever I want  Know what I'm saying?  and no one can tell me what to do because I’m a ******* God now know what I'm saying. Shut the **** up and get out of the way whitey  ****  man . Get the **** out of the way and give me all your money dumb as  ******* ! . Oh, and tell your kids to worship me harder.  Know what I'm saying”
I deserve all this money and wealth and fame and to be a hero because I mean, after all, I got one 1/10th of a microgram of extra testosterone that you didn't during puberty.

Slow piano music plays. Fade to black.

the exact moment that every sports interview turns into pure brain death.

It’s always some mouth-breathing, concussion-riddled slab of protein farts mumbling through sentences like his neurons are melting mid-syllable, punctuating every third breath with “you know what I’m saying?”
YES, WE KNOW WHAT YOU'RE SAYING, YOU'RE SAYING NOTHING.  And yet somehow, almost half of America is still hanging on your every word.

“Yeah man, it’s been a grind this season, you know what I’m saying? We just take it day by day, you know what I’m saying? We come out here, we try to play hard, you know what I’m saying? Like we just gotta keep grinding, you know what I’m saying?”

NO. NO, *******.
I don’t know what you’re saying because you’re not saying anything. Have you ever once in your life?

And they always act like they’re breaking some deep-*** philosophy, too:

“Man, it’s hot out here… you know what I’m saying? Like, I be sweating,. Like for real, sweating. Pads be heavy, yo. That’s just how it be sometimes, you know what I’m saying?”

*******, you signed up for a full-contact meat collision sport where the entire job is “get hit and fall down,” but somehow you’re shocked that it involves… sweating? And falling down?
Don't tell me you've been doing it this whole time and it's just now shocking to you.   . Don't tell me you haven't been watching all those tapes since you were a little kid.  , *******!

And they’re always saying it like it’s some revelation too, like they’ve cracked the code of the universe:

“Sometimes, man… you just gotta play the game… you know what I’m saying?”

NO. I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE SAYING.
Because that sentence has zero calories. It’s a microwaved air sandwich wrapped in plastic.
Then they wanna get an attorney and sue the other guy for helmet to helmet contact. Like they didn't know what they were signing up for. Oh wait, these giant dudes is trying to tackle me. Oh **** man.