The erotic tale of Chris and Jerry


I’ve been called many things by readers of this column, but never “original.” Continuing the tradition of stealing the best ideas from other people, I recently read about the publishing of an erotic novel about the tight end (no jokes, please) of the New England Patriots, Rob Gronkowski, otherwise known affectionately as “Gronk.” The novel — “A Gronking To Remember” — has given your columnist an idea for his own piece of erotic fiction about the recently disclosed man love between New Jersey Gov. Chris Christie and the owner of the Dallas Cowboys, Jerry Jones.

In recent weeks, Christie has been a prominent visitor to Jones’ private stadium box during Cowboys’ football games (editor’s note: this column was written before it was known whether Christie traveled to Green Bay for the NFC Divisional playoff game against Dallas or if he proved a good luck charm again). On the matter of Christie’s being a good luck charm, would it be unkind of me to believe that Jones could have chosen a smaller good luck charm such as his grandfather’s wedding ring?

In my novel, I plan to trace the unfairness of complaints by Christie haters at the governor’s attendance at Cowboys’ games paid for by Mr. Jones. Warning — to those of you who dare gripe about Christie’s affection for Mr. Jones and his team, I hope you don’t have to travel frequently on a traffic artery into the state of New Jersey. Some nitpickers claim that Christie (whom I refer to in my novel as Lap-Bandito, a Mexican nickname given to him by David Letterman) violated the ethics code of New Jersey. Your columnist admits to not being familiar with the Jersey ethics code (although it has a kind of a ring to it that may make it into a Bruce Springsteen song in the near future), but if it is at all like the ethics code in our own state, it is impossible to violate. It is true that these same Cowboys are part owners of Legends Hospitality, operators of the observatory at 1 World Trade Center, which is expected to open soon. The edifice will be operated by the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey, which is jointly controlled by Christie and New York Gov. Andrew Cuomo. However, how can anyone believe that two years ago Christie threw the contract Jones’ way in the hope that he would get a trip to Cowboys playoff games? The word “playoffs” and the Dallas Cowboys didn’t go together in the same sentence since 2009. The governor of New Jersey may be larger than life (or at least the Hindenburg before his lap band surgery), but he is not clairvoyant. But enough political tomfoolery, let’s get to the plot of my fictional novel.

The novel opens a month before the ’14 season at Cowboys preseason camp. Jones is leaving a porta-potty when he spots a large man in a bright orange sweater inside a hospitality tent daintily fingering a rack of ribs. It turns out to be Christie, who rushes over to hug Jones and gets barbecue sauce all over Jerry’s $1,000 gray suit. Jerry’s mind is in a tizzy — Is there such a thing as man love at first sight? Has anyone else looked as good in the color orange? Will I be able to get barbecue sauce off my suit? These are the thoughts that almost cause Jones to become weak in the knees. It turns out that Christie has been a lifelong Cowboys fan ever since he first saw a video about the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders (“Debbie Does Dallas” was about a Cowboys cheerleader, wasn’t it?). The governor has decided to spend his vacation at Dallas training camp in the hope that he would be able to get an autograph from quarterback Tony Romo. Almost in a swoon, Jones finds himself asking Christie, “Aren’t you warm in that orange sweater in 95-degree heat, big boy?” No men ever bonded more quickly except for maybe Damon and Pythias or Siegfried and Roy.

The two men talked long into the night — Jones with his bourbon and water — Christie with his double thick chocolate milkshake. Jones talked endlessly about the virtues of a flat tax. Christie about the art of traffic management. After that night, both men agreed that if by some stroke of fortune Romo managed to get through December without choking in close games and the Cowboys made the playoffs, that Christie would have a place of honor during the playoffs beside the Dallas owner. Jones thought he was making a joke when he added, “And make sure you wear that sexy orange sweater.” Christie, being a serious sort, responded by sending the sweater to the dry cleaners.

My novel ends in the owner’s private box at the stadium. Dallas has just won the Super Bowl (this is fiction, folks). Christie and Jones are embracing amidst pernicious rumors that their man love is something more. The Dallas cheerleaders are adorned in orange sweaters, but still manage to look slutty. Christie thinks, if only the Republican primaries would be this easy. Jones thinks, the guy still has barbecue sauce on his fingers.

I have already been offered big bucks for the film rights by the Lifetime Channel. 

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