Earlier this week, talentless harpy and anti-vaxx shitbird Kristin Cavallari announced that she and Jay Cutler were getting divorced after 10 years. Now she says it’s because Culter was “lazy and unmotivated.”
You’re Fuckin’ A Right he was.
Let me tell you why Mr. Cutler threw away his box of fucks to the deepest pit available. My dude Jay spent eight years here on the lakefront in Chicago, being chased by a variety of large, angry men. My man was sacked 251 times in 102 games with the Bears.
He was knocked down, harassed, hit, and otherwise bothered an ungodly amount of times because the Bears only employed ringmasters and carnies on their offensive line (and Olin Kreutz, because I don’t want Olin coming to look for me). Anyone care to relive this? This was not a one-off occurrence either. That was in one half too, I might mention.
He had to listen to a legion of Giardiniera-soaked Ditka-philes tell him he didn’t care and was soft because he has resting you’re-an-idiot-face, when he was busy doing shit like this. All because he didn’t answer the press’ questions like a good boy. Give the man a real question, you got a real answer. Give him shit, and he’d throw it back at you. Because my man don’t give a fuck, I already told you. Nothing causes sports journalists to cover themselves in their own urine than when a player points out they’re being stupid.
#ShaughnessyFacts.
When he had time to breathe, he still had to run plays called by a collection of Magoos like Mike Tice or Mike Martz or Dowell Logains, all of whom became side characters in some recent Christopher Guest vehicle.
He had to listen to various media and fans scream for him to be replaced by squeegee-holders like Josh McCown or Matt Barkley. His last two coaches were John Fox and Marc Trestman, the NFL equivalent of getting the bee-guarding job.
So while now-Ms. Cavallari can spend even more time chasing the spotlight like Wile E. Coyote, and we wonder just what the hell she’s doing on our TV screen, maybe she should take a moment to consider that this is the time in his life where my brother Cutty can lay down without some large man sitting on his head for payment and glory. Motherfucker has earned it, which is more than I can say for Cavallari and the dull roar and screeching whenever she tries to produce a thought. Cutty will get up and do something when he damn well feels like it, thank you very much.
That’s how Cutty does it.
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