Disclaimer: 'The West Wing' and all related materials are the sole property of Aaron Sorkin, NBC, and various other capitalist strongholds. Fight the power, but if you want to pay for this, pay them, you fool.
Author's Note: Between Leo leaving him at the bottom of the stairs and the President apologizing, we have a missing inner monologue, kinda. Go Josh.
Spoilers: Manchester Part II-take heed!
Put Me In, Coach
By BJ Garrett
I'm good at my job. I'm brilliant, savvy, kickass, and undeniably good at my job. I am.
So why aren't you putting me in?
I need...I need to kick some ass, and you're not putting me in. You're all over CJ, and you're all over Toby, and if Sam hadn't suckerpunched you a month ago you'd be all over him.
Where's my professional love?
Granted, I can't write speeches. I can't fix marriages. I can't make the press shut up long enough to convince them we're okay. I can't keep going like this, either.
I know this is out of my hands. I know this is all up to the guys with pens and laptops and thesaurusi now. In the fight you're all fighting, right now, political operators are utterly useless.
But why can't I have my fights to make it easier for you?
You won't let me wave off the FDA.
You wouldn't let me kill big tobacco.
Okay, you were right about that. And now we're screwed.
Just give me something, tell me to do it. I'll do it, and I'll do it right. I'll make it up to you. Please.
I need to bite into something, I need to sink my teeth in and shake the life out of it. I'm Bartlet's pitbull. Come on.
Sic me on 'em.
What am I doing? What's the point of me hanging around being the polite one?
Pitbulls aren't polite, Leo!
I want to kill them. I want them to go down in flames so-so I...so I don't have to think about us going down in flames.
Let's have a blaze of glory, man. Let's ring the bells and burn the oil and wave signs and shout slogans until our throats hurt. Cuz we're not going to win.
Put me in, coach. Let me at 'em.
End.
Author's Note: Between Leo leaving him at the bottom of the stairs and the President apologizing, we have a missing inner monologue, kinda. Go Josh.
Spoilers: Manchester Part II-take heed!
Put Me In, Coach
By BJ Garrett
I'm good at my job. I'm brilliant, savvy, kickass, and undeniably good at my job. I am.
So why aren't you putting me in?
I need...I need to kick some ass, and you're not putting me in. You're all over CJ, and you're all over Toby, and if Sam hadn't suckerpunched you a month ago you'd be all over him.
Where's my professional love?
Granted, I can't write speeches. I can't fix marriages. I can't make the press shut up long enough to convince them we're okay. I can't keep going like this, either.
I know this is out of my hands. I know this is all up to the guys with pens and laptops and thesaurusi now. In the fight you're all fighting, right now, political operators are utterly useless.
But why can't I have my fights to make it easier for you?
You won't let me wave off the FDA.
You wouldn't let me kill big tobacco.
Okay, you were right about that. And now we're screwed.
Just give me something, tell me to do it. I'll do it, and I'll do it right. I'll make it up to you. Please.
I need to bite into something, I need to sink my teeth in and shake the life out of it. I'm Bartlet's pitbull. Come on.
Sic me on 'em.
What am I doing? What's the point of me hanging around being the polite one?
Pitbulls aren't polite, Leo!
I want to kill them. I want them to go down in flames so-so I...so I don't have to think about us going down in flames.
Let's have a blaze of glory, man. Let's ring the bells and burn the oil and wave signs and shout slogans until our throats hurt. Cuz we're not going to win.
Put me in, coach. Let me at 'em.
End.
