Hey, Joe Bob! Looky, the boys is playin’ soccer.
Hey, Biff, don’t you mean fute- ball?
(all of the Jutes laugh)
Last time I checked this was a football field, not some South American, New World Order Soccer field.
Well, actually boss, they do put soccer goals up during the sum–
–Shaddup! Did youz forget you’re a Jute?
’cause when you’re a Jute you don’t have any patience for soccer.
Why not, boss?
Because!! It’s like this.
When you’re a Jute, you play ball with your hands,
while the chicks with big racks rouse the stiffs in the stands.
A Jute tackles hard. If you’re hurt, he don’t care.
They absolved him of guilt with an opening prayer.
We’re tackles and blocks.
We play to hurt each other.
They’re jerseys and socks.
Go cryin’ to your mother–
and kiss your brother!
Then you’re all set.
You’re a stud. You’re the best.
The boosters give urine in case there’s a test.
When you’re a Jute you play for pay!
But Biff, it looks pretty hard kickin’ the ball that far and doin’ those helicopter kicks.
Well . . .
Hey, guys, Pasty wants to be a socca playa.
I didn’t say that, Biff.
Well you better not. Cause there’s a whole lot more to bein’ a Jute than just sports.
I know, boss. Like what?
When you’re a Jute, you’re a Jute all the time
from your wife-beater tee to your white collar crime.
When you’re a Jute, the world’s open to you,
’cause your hair’s dirty blond, and your eyes baby blue.
We’ve more than our share.
We’re here and here we’re stayin’.
Although we’re aware,
our demographic’s greyin’–
Hey, I’m just sayin’!
If you’re a Jute you get your w-a-a-a-a-a-a-y-y-y-y-y-y-!!