Misrepresented? The boob grab looks pretty unmistakable, bruh.
Jerry Jones is the King of Chump Ass Bitches. He's a behemoth of sport as industry, an architect of dreams manifested as $1 billion stadia, a Champion of the National (No) Football (Fun) League (League). This guy shits uranium and pisses refined oil. He has to do better than this.
There's a point in every man's life, at least those men for whom the world is a playground and the rest of us are human foam wood chips assembled to break their inevitable fall, when they are faced with the opportunity to account for their misdeeds; to cop to the absurdity of their existence, even if just in passing; even if just to recognize that they are governed by a set of rules undeniably separate from those rules that govern the wood chips.
Jerry Jones hung out with some strippers and now there are pictures and now we're gawking and civil decency suggests a mea culpa or some sort of humble two step when confronted with scandal-via-jpeg. Though, in a world reflective of the kind of pedestal on which a Big Dick like Jer Jer resides, the amount of shits that he should reasonably give follows an asymptote, steadily approaching zero as each dollar is collected and sewn into the pockets of his highly priced suits. For once, I want our Barons of Unfathomable Industry to take their place as straight-talking cowboys who fear not the trivialities of common men; who scoff at the idea that they should not be groping strippers in the lens of a camera phone.
What a disappointment.
It's bad enough that you live in a world that the rest of us will never have access to, and that your plane of existence keeps you in a place untouched by real consequences, but the least you can do is not be such a massive pussy about it. The least you can do is not pretend that you actually need to lie to us about your affinity, if even just for a night, for the joys of stripper grab ass.
So, Jer Jer, next time please take the opportunity to admit what the rest of us know for sure: that you can get down with attractive ladies-for-hire and still own one of the premier franchises in a sport built on blood lust and sketchy medicine, not to mention values, and do it all while filling another cave with your surf-able mountains of gold coins. Hiding from that just embarrasses all of us.