Taking care of NPC business with Dan Surchezk

Hola, I’m Dan Surchzek, former Senior VP, Adidas Minority Pussy-Ass Sports Division, Pacific rim. Me and Adidas had a little falling out when the partners actually dragged their sorry asses into the building and saw my new office. My $134,000 new office. You know, taste is an extremely personal thing – if you can’t handle sculpture of a gargoyle raping a goat, that’s your problem, not mine. Ces’t la fuckin’ Vie amigos.

I needed time to think, so I bought a ranch in Arizona. Got me a porch, a sniper rifle and a bluetooth headset. I can sit in the shade, take calls and nail baby Armadillos all day long. I’m a consultant now.

So yesterday I just finished a 25 mile run when the phone rings – it’s New Zealand on the line. No, they don’t wanna fit rocket launchers on NZL92 to make that shit interesting. It’s the Rugby Union. They’ve got a problem with the NPC. Sheesh. You ring the Surchzekenegger and interrupt his warm down with a Rugby problem? The NPC? What is that, the National Pussy Championship? Fuckin’ Rugby.

Anyhoo, it’s their money. They got three problems. Number one: The crowds don’t give a shit about the NPC. Number two: The players don’t give a shit about the NPC, they all want to be in France. Number three: The Rugby Union don’t give a shit about the NPC. Turns out they get more money for showing porn. Whatever. They need a plan to kill this piss-ant competition once and for all.

They came to the right place. The Surchzekinator always has a plan. When Pi Lamda Kappa had a situation, and everyone was screaming ‘I can’t believe a spine can do that!’ and ‘But I’m the Governor’s son!’ it was me who got the paddling pool and the wood chipper. I’ve had more great plans than Paris Hilton’s had freakin’ morons. I needed some time to think. I chugged Power-shakes with Jack chasers. I shot a few Armadillos. I went on a crying jag on the kitchen floor. When I came to I had all the answers.

Turns out it’s real simple. You got a competition you don’t want? No problem, you make it self destruct like a Surchzek Senior parole hearing. The crowds don’t give a shit? Screw ’em, we’ll have security rough the fans up when they enter, rough ’em up during the game, and rough ’em up on the way out. You want a drink? Drink goat piss. You want food? Eat shit on rye. $25 bucks each. Oh, and we’ll be playing ‘Barbie Girl’ all day long, as loud as it goes. You gotta be careful what you wish for, right?

Players wanna go to France? Whatever, there’s more Rugby players in New Zealand than crabs on my ex-wife. Actually, fuck those guys, we’ll force some midweek lady golfers to play for freakin’ Tarankai. How you like them apples? Three or four weeks of humanity-sapping action like that will bury the NPC once and for all. It’ll be like an Armadillo in the Surchezk cross-hairs. People will vomit when they just see the LOGO. The NZRFU can concentrate on makin’ money in the Super 36. Yeah, I’m consulting on that one, too.

So, the Surchzeker has solved all New Zealand’s problems and I’d only been consulting a week. Only thing to do, friends, is load the rifle, pour a Martini, and start thinking about breakfast. Catch you on the flip side, Amigos.

What do you MEAN ‘the jerseys were hard to tell apart’?

I’m Dan Surchzek, Senior VP, Adidas Minority Pussy-Ass Sports Division, Pacific rim. Last night, Dan Surechzek slept like a fuckin’ baby. A heavily sedated baby. But this morning… it’s 7.15am and there I am, takin’ a shower after my 14 mile run to the office, and the phone rings (yeah, my fuckin’ iPhone’s waterproof). I take the call – it’s New Zealand on the line, but this ain’t some some hairy-dick hobbit wanting his ring back, no, they’re screamin’ “Dan! We got ourselves a fuckin’ SITUATION!”.”You can’t tell the jerseys apart!” they’re sayin’. “The All Blacks and the only other team in the world with similar colors are playing, and you fucked it up, Dan!” they’re tellin’ me. The thing they don’t realise, right, is that Dan Surchzek NEVER fucks up. Sure, there was that one time in college, but if you wanna join Pi Lamda Kappa, man, those are the risks you take. No-one FORCED the kid to run off that car park roof in blind terror. He chose his own path. He’s gotta look at life in a wheelchair as an opportunity, am I right? It’s up to HIM now.

Anyhoo, as we all know, when the shit hits the fan, El Surchzekio goes straight into solution mode. I get Vantella-May to bring me a triple shot mocha no cream, with some Avocado on toast on the double so I can think, and roll the tape. If New Zealand has got a problem, my 8.30am Racquetball game goes right out the fuckin’ window, lemme tell ya.

Here’s the deal. On one side, we got Richie McCaw and the All Blacks. On the other side, we got some bunch of fuckin’ pussies from Scotland. Hang on… hold the fuckin’ burrito – Surcheckarino’s spotted the problem straightaway – you Kiwis just don’t know how to watch Rugby. Sure, the whole thing’s a mess of grey and black and blue and grey, but you gotta forget about that. Forget it. Listen close. What are the All Blacks wearing? That’s right, a three fuckin’ dimensional garment with bodymapping technology. Made out of ClimaCool. IT! DOESN’T! FUCKIN! MATTER! About the color! And I haven’t even mentioned the Powerweb. Are you guys blind, or what?

And Scotland? Scotland got Canterbury jersys. With piping. And a chest-zone-separate-and-lift-power-strip. And what are those jerseys made of? That’s right, Temex Polycotton. You guys got me out of the shower for this? You’d have to be retarded not to tell the difference. AND a fuckin’ moron. Temex! ClimaCool! Temex! ClimaCool! It’s not so hard, is it? Sheesh.

I am so fuckin’ on. I get New Zealand back on the line, and after a bit of the ol’ Surchzek hairdryer treatment, they’re soon seeing things my way. Lemme tell you guys, we don’t spend an absolute shitload on R+D for some shit for brains with three sheep in his ass to interrupt my shower and tell me they can’t tell a ClimaCool from a fuckin’ Temex. Fuck me. Sideways.

Still, that fire’s out, and I can still make my 9.45am Pilates class. And hey – I mean, this is Rugby right? At least it wasn’t Hockey, or Basketball, then we’d have a REAL fuckin’ situation on our hands. Hasta manana, amigos.