Schmidt: Let me give you a scenario. We land the Bronco Blue Jeans account and install Brett Favre as its face. You receive a call from a nosy maître d'. It appears that Brett has been spotted at the Ritz-Carlton eating a salad, dressed in a tuxedo. The paparazzi are on their way. You rush in to alert me. You find me dead. What do you do?
Jeremy: I find a honky-tonk bar near the Ritz Carlton. I leave a pair of perfectly broken-in Bronco Blue Jeans in Mr. Favre's size, as well as a grass-stained T-shirt on the floor of the bathroom. I get on the phone, rent a tractor, drive it directly into the swimming pool of the Ritz-Carlton. When the staff is distracted, I physically subdue Mr. Favre under the weight of my full body, look him in the eyes and tell him to repeat after me: "I got drunk playing football and remember nothing since. I would never knowingly wear a tuxedo, drive a tractor into a swimming pool or eat a salad. And I would never knowingly leave my Bronco Blue Jeans behind."
Schmidt: And the maître d'?
Jeremy: I rented the tractor in his name. The next call he'll be making will be from the police station.
Schmidt: Welcome to Ass Strat.