An apartment in Columbia, South Carolina. Stephen Garcia sits on the couch.
Stephen: Fuckin' Tetrisphere. They don't make shit like this anymore. Straight N64 pimpage, brah.
Floating Matthew McConoughey: No way, man. (Draws on enormous joint.) Strictly old school for brahs like you and me.
Stephen: It's like I'm on a trip to Amsterdam on the train and playing Tetris at the same time.
FMM: With some Italian chick rubbing your sack like it was a Coach bag.
Stephen: Bitch, please. Mine's a certified Fendi. Watch me knock this puzzle shit out with this long piece.
FMM: Double entendre, brah!
Stephen: What the fuck is double entendre?
FMM: Entendre is french for penetration.
Stephen: You're damn right it is. Watch me entendre the fuck outta this tetrisphere, brah.
(The phone rings. Stephen pauses the game.)
Stephen: Fuck. Who's calling me? I'm not answering a phone today.
FMM: You gotta answer that phone, man. Opportunity only leaves voicemails once or twice, and then your inbox gets full, and you end up missing the chance to make Failure to Launch Two. Wait, that wasn't a bad thing, actually...
Stephen: Fuck. Beep. Hello?
Steve Spurrier: Okaaaay, this is coach Spurrier.
(Stephen covers the phone.) Brah. It's the coach. He wants me to play football. I know it.
FMM: Fist-jab, brah. Up top. (They fist-bump.) You gotta make sure he knows who the alpha male is here.
Stephen: Dude, I can't pee on him over the phone.
FMM: You have to pee on him over the phone. It's what a mansaurus sex like you does.
Stephen: I'll do it with words.
FMM: That's so deep. I'm caressing your soul right now...WITH MY JUNK!
Stephen: Whatever. You're loving it, bitch.
FMM: I am! Seriously, it's making my skin even tanner wherever it touches me. (Inhales.)
Stephen: You want me back on the team, coach?
CSS: Well, um, Stephen, that's exactly what I was gonna ask. You think you learned how to, um, behave yourself now?
Stephen: (hits mute.) I learned that you can't tame a wild panther on acid, Steve. I've learned that a buccaneer is born with his boots on and is gonna die that way.
FMM: You can't take the parrot off a pirate's shoulder.
Stephen: You can't bitch a bitchmaster, bitch.
FMM: You can't ask Stalin to a tea party and expect him not to poison the tea, dude.
Stephen: You can't pick up a mamba and expect it not to bite you in the face and drive off in your ride.
FMM: You can't give a man like you a bull and then tell him he can't rape it by the horns.
(Unmutes the phone.)
Stephen: Yeah, I want back on the team, coach.
CSS: Was that a chicken?
Stephen: No, coach. What you heard was a cock. Your best cock, ready to fire like he was made to, sir.
CSS: Um, okaaaay, Stephen. We'll just see you on the field, okaaaay? Monday?
Stephen: With my feathers on, coach. (Hangs up.)
FMM: You gotta dance. (Bongos appear in his hands.) You gotta dance like the funky chicken you are.
Stephen: Damn right. (Hits unpause on Tetrisphere. Knockoff techno and bongo beats fill the room.)
FMM: SHAKE A TAILFEATHER! LEMME SEE YOU SHAKE A TAILFEATHER!!!
Stephen: Im gonna! I'm gonna!
FMM: OH HELL YES!!! Is that the sun I see coming over the horizon? Who's gonna wake all these sleepy people up?
FMM: Hit 'em with the fullness, brah.
(Stephen flaps his arms doing the funky chicken and arches his head skyward.)
FMM: We're gonna entendre the hell out of this season, brah.
Stephen: Rape the bull by the horns.
FMM: (Takes hit off huge joint.) Rape the bull by the horns, baby.
(They fist-pound. END SCENE.)