1. (n.) The emotionless, expressionless, possibly thoughtless coach of the Indianapolis Colts.
2. (n.) Any dead guy with a headset on.
3. (v.) To botch a perfect thing for no reason at all, and in the process to tear the scrotum off an entire city, while alienating one's comrades--and the rest of the nation--in the process. To do the aforesaid with utter lack of feeling.
"Is that a negro mannequin on the Indianapolis Colts' sideline, standing near Peyton Manning and Joseph Addai?"
"No, that's Jim Caldwell. He's Tony Dungy's successor."
John brought Melinda back to his apartment Friday night. She looked staggeringly sexy in her new burgundy dress, and was laughing heartily at all his jokes. "I think we're both in for a VERY enjoyable evening," she whispered to him, her breath smelling faintly of gin. All the guys at the office would've flipped to know he'd scored with Melinda, who was impossibly picky, and John knew it. As they crossed the threshold and walked inside, however, a mysterious, robotic look came over his face.
"On second thought, I think we ought to just call it a night," he said. "I don't normally do this outside relationships." Melinda looked utterly bewildered.
"Well, okay," she sighed. "If you insist." She kissed him on the cheek, turned around, and disappeared into the night. John walked into the bathroom and masturbated, then, showing no emotion whatsoever, put on his pyjamas and went to bed.
The next day his co-workers looked at him, aghast, as he related the story dispassionately. "Dude, you fucking Jim Caldwelled her? What is your goddamn problem?"
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