(This is a collaborative effort between entropy and Senor Weaselo. We blame any and all errors on theweebabySeamus)

The interior of a network executive’s office, location undetermined, as all the window shades are drawn. The NETWORK EXECUTIVE is staring expectantly at the man in the first guest chair, who is hunched over a photo he took from the executive’s desk and making very loud snorting sounds, followed by gasps and small grunts. Finally, he seems to be done and throws the photo back on the desk, and as he looks up, we can see it’s entropy. His eyes are red, nose running, and he seems wildly distracted.

NETWORK EXECUTIVE: Look, entropy, you’re probably wondering why you’re here…

entropy: (completely bored) Not really. I mean, who wouldn’t want to talk to me?

NETWORK EXECUTIVE: (sighs, wipes off the photo of his daughter, and sets it back upright on his desk) …ugh. Look, we need to make some changes. The plot you laid out for this season isn’t working, and I don’t know if you can right this ship alone. The network is getting concerned.

entropy: (distractedly) Concerned about what? How much MONEY I’m making them?

NETWORK EXECUTIVE: Um….. no. Your leading man is a headcase, and quite frankly the supporting cast is falling apart, too.

entropy: All part of the plan, man. All part of the plan.

NETWORK EXECUTIVE: Yeah. Maybe. But we can’t wait for you to pull this together any more. We’re bringing you some help.

entropy: What? FUCK YOU! I don’t need any help. And we can make Fitzpatrick work out, trust me.

NETWORK EXECUTIVE: We don’t share your faith, so we got you a new guy. Best young writer we have.

(There’s a knock on the door; entropy hurried stuffs a small baggie in his pocket)

NETWORK EXECUTIVE: Come in.

[DOOR IS PUSHED OPEN RESPECTFULLY]

Senor Weaselo: Hi, you wanted to see—what the…

(Senor Weaselo sees entropy and is furious.)

[DOOR IS SUDDENLY SHOVED WIDE THE FUCK OPEN]

Senor Weaselo: What the fuck is this prick-canoe doing here?

NETWORK EXECUTIVE: Senor, sit down, I know you’re still sore about entropy taking over the project.

Senor Weaselo: I told you guys I was on it, but by the time I came back and had something, you had replaced me!

NETWORK EXECUTIVE: You were saying something about a minotaur and a bronco going into the woods for a fight on the phone, how does that not sound like an acid trip?

Senor Weaselo: I don’t do that, I just drink 252 until I puke and pass out. I still have standards and wide-eyed ideals!

entropy: Aren’t those “standards and wide-eyed ideals” why you sleep alone?

Senor Weaselo: Can it, shit-for-br–

NETWORK EXECUTIVE: Both of you, stop! Mr. Weaselo, if you do this we’ll pay you the remaining balance before everything was terminated, in addition to your standard fee.

Senor Weaselo: …Fine. All right, what do we have?

(He reads entropy’s preview. His eyes widen immediately, and his begins mouthing some of the words on the page in complete disgust and bewilderment)

Senor Weaselo: (continuing) Geno Smith playing a complete game? Rise of Hackenberg? Damn it, anything for Hackenberg, that Penn State mediocrity at best? You backed the wrong inevitable waste of a second-rounder to base this story on!

(entropy looks up from his phone, moaning sounds of dubious veracity can be heard)

entropy: Hmmm? Wasn’t paying attention, looking at an old sex tape with a girlfriend. What were you saying, now?

NETWORK EXECUTIVE: That voice sounds familiar…. IS THAT MY GOD DAMN DAUGHTER?!

(Senor Weaselo sighs, composes himself.)

Senor Weaselo: I said, you waste of brain-power, Hackenberg was the absolute wrong choice for your secondary lead!

entropy: Hey, when I pitched Hackenberg as the big bad for the season, no one could have predicted Fitz’s predilection for massive amounts of blow and nearly dead hookers!! Whole damn thing would have worked out fine if the director had followed my story bible from the start.

Senor Weaselo: what “story bible?” You mean that fuckin My Little Pony Trapper Keeper full of torn-out Playboy centerfolds, empty bags of drugs, and the words “PLAN JETS SEASON” written in sharpie above a crudely drawn penis?

entropy: YOU’VE BEEN IN MY TRAPPER KEEPER?!

(NETWORK EXECUTIVE is visibly upset, this is not working the way he’d imagined. He bangs his head on the desk gently as the argument between Weaselo and entropy continues)

NETWORK EXECUTIVE: Look… gentlemen…. these personal attacks are clearly getting us nowhere. Perhaps if we went over the major issues one by one, we could get out of this meeting before I see if a papercut can reach a vein?

Senor Weaselo: I’ll do what I can, but this idiot is clearly out of his dep— ARE YOU ABOUT TO SHOOT UP?!

(entropy hastily rolls down his sleeves, looks offended, tries to stand and realizes his belt is tied around his arm as his pants fall down.)

entropy: WHAT?! Why I have NEVER been so insu– (pants drop to his ankles)—- uh. OK. Maybe you were on to something there.

(NETWORK EXECUTIVE leaves the room; in the waiting room, his assistant, SWEETCHEEKS, is staring out the window wistfully, thinking maybe she can find a line of work that doesn’t involve any of these football assholes.)

NETWORK EXECUTIVE: Sweetcheeks, baby-doll, you think maybe you could make a quick call for me?

(Inside the office, the sounds of an argument escalate. Fragments of the conversation can be heard, with entropy making vague comments about sitting on members of Senor Weaselo’s family, and Senor Weasalo calling entropy an untalented hack with whiskey in his veins. Sweetcheeks picks up the phone, dials 9 and waits for further instruction)

NETWORK EXECUTIVE: Oh, god dammit, hang on….

(Sweetcheeks stops dialing, pulls up dice.com on her computer and frantically begins searching for jobs abroad. NETWORK EXECUTIVE enters the room only to nearly be decapitated by the flying photo of his daugher, flung by entropy)

Senor Weaselo:  You are a fucking psycho!! This script is never gonna work; look, last episode, the director could tell, he shifted the focus to Bryce Petty!

(entropy is fuming; the NETWORK EXECUTIVE retakes his seat. Senor Weaselo is writing notes on a tablet, seemingly invested in the changes he’s ready to make)

NETWORK EXECUTIVE: OK, look, you two aren’t getting us anywhere, and based on the dailies for next week’s episode, the director’s an idiot, too. He apparently wants to shift back to Fitzpatrick, but based on what information or fan reaction, I can’t fucking tell.

entropy: (muttering) …tolja Fitz was the way to go…

Senor Weaselo: If you don’t knock it the fuck off…

NETWORK EXECUTIVE: That. is. IT. I’m fuckin done with you two. (punches intercom button on phone) Sweetcheeks? You out there? Fuck these two. Get me Revisisle on the phone, see if he can make some sense of this gang of idiots.

–FADE OUT–

Ok, obviously, we have no goddamn idea what is up with this team. Fitzpatrick is obviously not qualified to be the starter, and Bryce Petty has apparently earned the hatred of the front office for some slight or another. Geno Smith’s career has to mercifully, finally be over. Decker is down, Marshall has disappeared, Enunwa seemed to be catching on then fell off the face of the planet, and the rest of the receivers are such a faceless assemblage of extras no one’s seen anything like it since the original Star Trek. The tight ends are hilariously incompetent. The one offensive bright spot are the running backs, and they barely qualify for “mediocre at best.” The defense has become a joke, and Bowles seems so out of his depth some days that our only real suggestion for New York is, “Blow it all up, start again next year.”

That, or bring in a child actor like every other over-the-hill TV show does and squeeze two more seasons out of the network.