Maurice Clarett: Helping, not hurting

So, I’m pretty sure Maurice Clarett caught the trailer for that Mark Wahlberg movie where he tries out for a pro football team. You know, to live his dream and all that. Imagine how bitter Clarett is going to be when Marvin Lewis tells him his efforts weren’t good enough to make the 2006 Cincinnati Bengals.

Multiple guns, Clarett donning a bullet proof vest…is it really that surprising?

'Rice just doin' his thing
A talking head on ESPN, however, revealed that earlier that day Clarett had talked a friend away from suicide. What the hell does that guy have going on his head? Did he find his Cecil Collins’ prison cell and have a heart to heart? Thinking about it though, it actually makes sense. Clarett does need money, one would assume. The way I see it, he can either deal drugs to Ohio State kids, but that involves him walking away and picture those college kids behind the closed door giggling and going “man, that was mothafucking Maurice Clarett!” OR…he can start a suicide Hotline.


Maurice Clarett: Hello, you’ve reached 1-800-CLA-SAVE, this is Maurice himself, how are things?

Caller: I’m calling a suicide hotline, are you new at this?

MC: Bitch, please. Tell me about your suicide.

Caller:Well, I just lost my job. Outsourced to one of those countries, India or something. So, given that I figure my situation is similar to yours.

MC: You halfway through a bottle of Grey Goose?

Caller: No.

MC: Outfitted in a bullet proof vest?

Caller: Ummm…no.

MC: Then your situation is nowhere near mine.

Caller: Ok, but look, I lost my job, and that is just the tip of the iceberg with my life story. Everything is so damn bleak. I’m knee deep in depression. I’m going to end my life, let me tell you my story.

MC: Motherfucker, you running the show here? You the one who begged Lebron James to get him the cash money to start a 1-800 number? You even GOT Bron Bron on some speed dial? I don’t, but that ain’t the point. So what if I have to call four people just to get into contact with a childhood friend? You want to tell me your life story? How about this, I don’t give a fuck about your life story.

Now, listen.

Tonight. I’m half way through a bottle of grey goose vodka. Like we clearly established you are not. I’m the one in the bullet proof vest. I’ve got three handguns and an assault weapon. You know why? Don’t even try to slip in some joke about how I’m doing a 50 Cent video. Shit is not funny. Last that happened, fitty slapped me in the face and I had to cry a little bit. Like that shit?

I’m in this jacket because I don’t know why, dog. Because you seen what the media can do to me, haven’t you?

Caller: Not so much, no.

MC: You’re in denial. It’s cool. That’s just one of the steps that a suicidal jackass like yourself happens to go through. I ain’t been there, but that’s cool.

Caller: Wait, you’ve never considered suicide?

MC: Hell no. Life ain’t peachy as hell, dog, but Clarett ain’t about no damn suicide. Now, look, let me explain the grey goose and the weaponry. Listening? Good. People want me dead.

Caller: Who?

MC: Shh…Jim Tressell. See them sweater vests? Someone has this idea to steal them out of Tressell’s closet and sell them on the street for straight up cash money. A man come up with an idea like that, you might just have to bump off a man like that. Just the way the game works, dog, you know what I’m sayin’?

Caller: Not too much, but, wait…you want to sell Tressell’s sweater vests? You’re that broke?

MC: Hell yes I’m that broke. See this Arena football team I’m with? Ain’t even the Arena Football League. Bon Jovi does not own one of these franchises. Folks working for UPS moonlight in the AFL and I can’t even get a go there? I told some dude, Ron Jaworski or some shit, I could play linebacker. Knock some skulls, son, if I got in that AFL. Ain’t get a call back. Maybe got a laugh.

Caller: Wow, I didn’t even play high school football and last week I threw for 765 yards in an AFL game, you sure you actually talked to them?

MC: I don’t know. Hard to tell. Voices slide in and out. Sometimes try to catch me off guard, but I’m strong. Mentally. Had some trouble lifting the AK over my shoulder, not in game shape, but definitely have got a handle on the pistols…yo, let me put it to you like this…if I rolled up to Tressell’s home with a hatchet, you think I could get some of those vests?

Caller: Yeah, probably.

MC: See, yeah. That’s what I’m thinking.

Caller: You really that down on your luck that you are going to sell Tressell’s vests?

MC: My other idea was rolling through and straight FUCKING UP those witnesses in my robbery case. Still kind of debating how this whole thing is going to play out. But, let me tell you what, I’m never going to kill myself.

I mean, literally. Metaphorically and shit, I’m gone.

Caller: You know, I’m pretty damn sure my life looks like good after hearing this. Man, you sure you don’t want to consider this suicide thing?

MC: Hold up, did you hear me? I got a bottle of Grey Goose half gone. It’s not like I’m sitting here working over some plastic bottle of Vladimir.

Caller: Good point. Life could be a lot worse for you, Maurice Clarett.

MC: Life will be great when I’m locked up doin’ thirty for my baby. Realize that shit, son.

Business seems to be good.

  1. Becca said:

    I got a hatchet he can borrow…

  2. I had to pop in and post a comment . Your post caught my eye So i figured I would post a message to you and say nice work on a decent blog. Keep up the good work.

  3. man leave the poor guy alone . He has many things to ponder while he sits in his cell and wonders how he went from number one running back in the nation to a low life criminal.


  4. I’m pretty sure that even with only a year at Ohio State that our man Maurice knows that it was his own stupid ass decisions that got him off the depth chart and hoping for a spot in front of the parole board. Usually getting involved with members of the mob, showing up to camp in crappy shape and then ROBBING people are not ways to stay in professional sports. Unless you want the Trailblazers to pick you up, but no one really wants that.

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