Conversations Not Meant to Be Public: Jerry Jones Sells His Soul To The Devil

By J-Dub and Ryan Meehan

Editor’s Note: This article is a collaborative effort between J-Dub and Ryan Meehan from First Order Historians. Ryan also has his own blog, East End Philadelphia, which is featured in the Dubsism BlogRoll and it is well worth the read.

When a situation threatens to become a train wreck, much like the Dallas Cowboys have been for nearly two decades, the facade keeping us from the inside truth starts to show cracks. As we have been prone to do in this series, we find those cracks and expose them to you, the blog-reading public.

Two months ago, the Cowboys band wagon was overflowing, but things cooled a bit. But now that the Cowboys are the #2 seed in the NFC, Super Bowl fever is back in Texas for the first time since Troy Aikman was only on his fourteenth concussion. You know the hottest case of said fever is burning as we speak in Jerry Jones’ office.  The man wants another Super Bowl before he dies, and you can tell he knows he may be running out of time, as is evidenced by a series of conversations which were intercepted* by the investigative division of Dubsism.

*Legal Disclaimer – J-Dub and Meehan have a strange way of defining certain terms. “Intercepted” should be read as “completely fucking fabricated” by these two jamokes during yet another of their nights spent snorting Pixie Sticks and D-Con until 6 a.m. Despite that, we here at Dubsism would be willing to bet these guys probably aren’t far from the truth…

The scene opens with Jerry Jones in his office opening a package.

Jones: Hot Damn! My book finally got here! (Begins furiously thumbing the pages)  I don’t know why I didn’t think of this years ago!  Let’s see…Chapter One: “So You Want To Sell Your Soul?”

At this point, Jones slips on a pair of reading glasses and begins studying his book; his lips moving the whole time.

Jones: Sum-Bitch! They got a list in here of other people who sold their souls to the devil.  Let’s see…Taylor Swift? I don’t know who that is. Barack Obama…who didn’t know that? TONY ROMO? WHAT THE FUCKING HELL?! (Angrily throws down book, storms over to office door, which he swings wide open) GET ROMO’S ASS OVER HERE RIGHT FUCKING NOW! (Slams door)

Ten minutes later…

Romo: (Sheepishly peeks head in office door) You wanted to see me, boss?

Jones: You’re goddamn right. Get your ass in here. And close the fucking door!

Romo: Uhhh…what’s going on?

Jones: You want to explain this? (throws book at Romo) What’s this “deal with the devil” shit?

Romo: Well, you see the thing is…

Jones: (Interrupts) I don’t want to hear it! All I want to know is how you could sell your soul and we still can’t win a goddamn thing?!

Romo: Well, you see…the thing is…I didn’t make that deal for football.

Jones: (Stunned…stares over the top of his reading glasses directly at Romo) What?

Romo: Yeah. It wasn’t about football at all.

Jones: (Still giving Romo the “death stare”) You didn’t blow it trying to get yer pecker-dick into that country singer, did you?

Romo: (Flashes his trademark idiotic smirk) Oh, hell no. I’m an NFL quarterback, which means I get more ass than a toilet seat.  I used it for my golf game.

Jones: (Snatches off his reading glasses) You what?

Romo: Yeah, I wanted to take a couple of strokes off my handicap for when I do that Pro-Am thing in the summer up at Tahoe.

Jones: You mean to tell me…(starts turning purple)…that you???…I mean…Why didn’t you do that for football?

Romo: What do I need to get better at football for?  You already gave me a crap-ton of money for that.

Jones: (Barely able to contain his rage) Get out of my office. Now!

Romo: Did I do something wrong, Boss?

Jones: Don’t say another fucking word, and GET OUT!!!

Jones goes back to his book and flips ahead to the chapter on summoning the devil.

Jones: (Puts reading glasses back on) Fuckin’ Romo. Now I really need to do this myself.  Let’s see here…

Step One: Put on a copy of “Bella Donna” by Stevie Nicks. Lucky I still got all these cassette tapes from my old Camaro, and I still got this old Radio Shack tape player! (Loads tape, starts singing along) Da da da dada….Just like a white-winged dove…Damn that girl was hot back in the day…Fuckin’ weirdo, though. (Continues reading)

Step Two: Light some candles. That’s easy enough. These Deep Woods Off mosquito bombs ought to work. Step Three: Repeat the following phrase…what the fuck language is this? “Quia adduxisti me diabolus victus!”

The room explodes in a flash of flame and smoke, and when the air finally clears, Jerry Jones is treated to the following sight:

Jones: What the hell?

The Devil: Hello, Jerry. It’s been a long time.

Jones: You’re the Devil?

The Devil: Have been ever since the U of Miami days.  Shit, I thought everybody knew that by now.  It was easier to get away with when I was younger; the hair was all about hiding the horns.

Jones: Well, I’ll be goddamned…

The Devil: Probably, but that’s not my department. What can I do for you, Jerry? (Rubs hands in that way only evil geniuses do…)

Jones:  Alright, look…I know we’ve had our differences in the past but my liver only has so much time left (takes two man-sized gulps of bourbon and Aqua Velva).  We need to figure out how we can work out some sort of deal.

The Devil:  (laughs maniacally)  Keep talkin’, Bubba. First off, I set the terms here.  Last time I negotiated with you, I got Barry Switzer stuck up my butt. And that whole “anybody can coach this team” stuff still chaps my ass. So, I’m willing to meet your needs, but you better goddamn believe I got some demands of my own.

Jones:  Looky here, Jimmy.  Y’all know damn well that smooth talkin’ Oklahoma sum-bitch took me to the cleaners.  I figured since your bookie has some serious connections, I think we both know damn well that I ain’t getting another one-a them Lombardi trophies, which means I’m needin’ a favor.

The Devil:  Why should I do you a favor? I just told you I still hate your fuckin’ guts.

Jones: Well, I’ve got to have something you want. Shit, I own most of Texas and a couple third-world countries.

The Devil: Well, I’m listening… You gimme a fair price and I’ll get you Tony Romo in the Pro Bowl, no problem.

Jones: Don’t fuck with me, Jimmy. I’m goddamn serious here!

The Devil: (laughs) Oh man, that shit never gets old!

Jones:  Goddamnit, Jimmy! Can we be serious here for a minute?!  You know what I want, and you know what kind of money I have, and you know I can…

The Devil:  (interrupts, bangs fist on Jones’ desk) Let me remind your cracker-ass whose in charge here! (Points at autographed picture of Michael Irvin, which immediately bursts into flame.) Your money is no good in hell, much like your football team in the post-season.  You know I’m gonna want more than just money…

Jones:  Don’t you be nickel and dimin’ me with all that “a soul here” and “a soul there” shit.  Goddamnit Jerry, I need to die with dignity. Say, tell me somethin’, would ya? Does Hell have a VIP lounge? I mean, I ain’t gonna have to be in Hell with all them trailer park crackers from Fort Worth, am I?

The Devil: Can we stick to business here (points at watch)? I’ve got to be at Al Sharpton’s house in an hour.

Jones:  (Mutters “Fuck” under his breath)  Alright, what do you want?

The Devil:  Well, for starters, since you spent a billion and a half dollars building that mausoleum of yours, I think at least that much is a fair place to start.  Oh, and let’s tack on an extra 50 million since you waited until after I was gone to build that thing, even though you knew back then Texas Stadium was a piece of shit.

Jones: Are you out of your fucking mind? I don’t have that kind of money in cash just sitting around!

The Devil:  (ignores Jones while playing with his smartphone) Man, this Trivia Crack shit is crazy. You ever tried this? Do you know what the capitol of South Dakota is?

Jones:  Hey, I thought we were talkin’ business here. You’re the asshole who told me he had to be at Jesse Jackson’s house in an hour.

The Devil: That’s Sharpton, dickweed.  And you might want to watch that “asshole” stuff. You’re the jag-off who needs a deal here (continues to play with his smartphone). Don’t you guys have Wi-Fi in here? I’m only getting like two or three bars.

Jones: (getting pissed) Goddamnit, can you put down your fuckin’ cellatellular phone and do some goddamn business with me here?!  I got a fuckin’ football team to run!

The Devil:  Sorry, checkin’ out some funny shit Joe Gibbs posted on Instagram.  Man, that Mark Rypien’s daughter is hot. You ever thought about gettin’ into that Lingerie Football League?

Jones:  (shouting) Goddamnit, will you just tell me what you want and what I need to do!

The Devil:  (laughing) Settle down, Old Timer! I’m just fuckin’ with you. But don’t give me any of that “I ain’t got the cash” bullshit. You probably got a ton of yer “petty cash” floatin’ around in them Mexican drug cartels…

Jones:  Hey, shut the fuck up about that shit! If Michael Irvin finds out I can get a U-Haul full of coke up here with one phone call, I’ll never get his ass out of my hair! And keep your voice down about the cash thing too! I got DeMarco Murray’s agent fixin’ to run a pole through me.

The Devil: So, you can pony up the cash?

Jones: (does a facepalm) Yeah, I can do that…What else is this gonna take?

The Devil:  Well, it’s not so much for me, you know…but you can help me with a favor I owe to another friend of mine (chuckles eerily).

Jones:  I don’t like the sound of this. (takes deep breath) What is it?

The Devil:  Well, see…my good friend OJ Simpson just earned conjugal visits at that prison he’s locked up in, but he doesn’t have anybody wantin’ to come visit him, if you know what I mean.

Jones: You mean to get another Super Bowl I gotta blow OJ? (scratches his chin contemplating the idea) Hmmmm….

The Devil: Don’t flatter yourself, Liver Boy! I’m talking about your wife Eugenia…Jones:  Are you out of your fucking mind?  I’m not going to let my wife spend her weekends getting rammed by Mr.  Too-Tight-Glove.

The Devil: Yes, you will. You will do whatever I fucking tell you. And it not just weekends now either…this deal carries on to the afterlife you will all be spending with me.

Jones:  I’m not going to let my wife become an eternal cum dumpster for a guy who killed his ex-wife!

The Devil: Don’t give me that “high and mighty” bullshit. You think I don’t know you’ve got an army of lawyers keeping all sorts of paternity and sexual harrassment suits quiet for you.  Yer pecker is like a Viagra-powered lawn sprinkler;  you’ve dribbled your Jerry-spuzz on every cheap bimbo between here and Waco. So use that “sanctity of marriage”  crap for something useful, like fertilizing your rose bushes.

Jones:  You’re a fucking asshole…

The Devil:  Yeah, but I’m the asshole in charge of this conversation. Besides, we all know what kinda woman will deal with you, let alone marry you. It ain’t no secret that if she was skeezy enough to fuck you, she’s open for just about anything.

Jones:  Now, wait a minute here. What if I told you I can get Terry Bradshaw’s soul? You’d have to love that, right?

The Devil: You think I don’t already have it? How else do you think that illiterate bumpkin got a TV job?

Jones: Yeah, I guess you’ve got a point there…

The Devil: Listen, Jerry. I got a lot of lonely guys down in hell, and some of them have done some real good work for me, and they need some action, if you know what I mean.

Jones: Are you callin’ my wife a whore?

The Devil: Jesus, Jerry…Do I have to say the word here? They all want Genie down in hell because even the guy who runs limbo is pretty sure he can get her to gurgle a steamin’ hot load of piss after a couple Tanqueray and 7-ups.

Jones:  (mumbles incoherently)

The Devil:  Here’s the thing. The Ol’ Devil here’s got plenty of dick down in hell…It’s a major fuckin’ sausage fest goin’ on down there.  Those poor bastards need some action so bad…I mean, they can’t keep waiting for a Kardashian to die.  Shit, look at this (shows his phone to Jones)…I got Saddam Hussein texting me about when is Lindsay Lohan finally gonna have that overdose the boys have all been waitin’ for. So you gonna let OJ let loose the juice on Genie or what?

Jones: Ahhh, fuck… (defeated)

The Devil:  Sweet!  (dials phone)

Jones: Who the fuck are you calling?

The Devil: (gives Jones the “wait a minute” gesture) Mr. Johnny Cochrane! How’s Lucifer’s Lawyer today? Say, listen.  You know that deal we had set up for OJ? Well, it’s a “go.”

Jones:  Wait a goddamn minute! I didn’t say yes!

The Devil:  Yeah, well you didn’t say no either. You want another Super Bowl or not? It’s the money and your wife pulling a train with OJ, the Village People, and anybody else I see fit!

Jones:  Alright, alright…you win, Goddamnit!  I’m not going to try and pussy-foot around this anymore.  I built this city on Super Bowl trophies and I’m not gonna die in a hospital with a bunch of tubes up my ass before I see me another one.  You can have the money and my wife.  Besides, she’s been all pissed at me anyway ever since I let Tony have her seat on the flight to London.

The Devil: (into his phone) It’s a done deal, Johnny. Fax everything over to Shithead’s office here.

Jones:  (mumbles incoherently)

The Devil:  You know the funny part about this, Jer? I already got you a Super Bowl. Did you know that? You think shit like Neil O’Donnell just happens?  You think shit like Larry Fucking Brown as a Super Bowl MVP just happens? You’re just lucky I’m in a good mood today, otherwise I’d have Barry Switzer down here and make both of you suck Joe Theismann’s cock!

Jones:  Never mind that shit. When do I get my Super Bowl?

The Devil:  Just hold yer wad, fella.  There’s just one more thing you need to know.

Jones:  You can’t get anything else from me! We have a deal here!

The Devil: This is just a fun detail…remember, I didn’t tell you how it would happen…Shit, I almost feel bad telling you this.

Jones: Well, what the fuck is it?

The Devil: It’s about your quarterback…

Jones: Now Goddamnit, I didn’t say anything about Romo in this deal!

The Devil: You’re right. Romo isn’t part of this deal. You won’t win with him.

Jones: Wait a minute! I just gave that smirking fuckwad $120 million dollars. I have to win with him.

The Devil: I’ll take care of that for you.

Jones: What do you mean?

The Devil: You insured his contract extension, right?

Jones: You goddamn right I did!

The Devil: Then it’s easy. See, that asshole lied to you when he told you about the deal he made with me. Part of it was about golf, but the other part was about getting some back-door action from that country singer he was porking.

Jones: I fucking knew it. Lying little bastard!

The Devil: Yeah. Anyway, Mr. Butt-Sex didn’t hold up his end of the deal, so he’s going down in a tragic, yet hilarious golf cart accident in that Pro-Am up at Tahoe he loves so much.

Jones: OK, so who’s my new quarterback?

The Devil: (chuckles) This is the best part… (makes a pointing gesture to a spot on the floor, the room erupts in smoke. When the smoke clears, Jones is treated to the following sight).

Jones:  (grabbing both sides of his face) NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!