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Robot Story of the Week: Jerry Jones Watches the Eagles Raise the Super Bowl Banner Right in Front of his Face
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As the Philadelphia Eagles’ 2025 schedule slowly leaks onto the internet, going drippity drip like a faucet your kids didn’t turn all the way off, we keep our focus for now on Week 1 and the Dallas Cowboys.
As you know, the last time the Cowboys went to the NFC Championship Game, Serbia and Montenegro were not yet countries. Bill Clinton was in office and American children were playing Goldeneye 007 on the Nintendo 64. (EDIT – I am wrong, Goldeneye 007 was 1997, the MOVIE was in theaters late 1995/early 1996).
With Dallas in town for Week 1, Jerry Jones will have a front-row seat to the Eagles’ Super Bowl banner raising, so we asked ChatGPT to write us a story about it:
“Jerry’s Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Eagles Night”
September 4, 2025.
Lincoln Financial Field.
The air was thick with cheesesteak grease and vengeance.
As the Super Bowl Champion Philadelphia Eagles prepared to raise their freshly stitched Lombardi banner into the heavens, the cameras cut—like a knife—to the saddest man in football: Jerry Jones.
He sat high above the field in his owner’s box, dressed like a villain from a Texas soap opera—white suit, blue tie, a tan that hadn’t been earned under any real sun, and a face pulled so tight it looked like it was trying to escape his skull. Botox glistened under the lights like freshly zambonied ice.
He sipped something brown from a glass far too fancy for Philly. The only thing older than the bourbon was his last Super Bowl win, and both had aged terribly.
Below, the stadium shook. 70,000 maniacs in midnight green bellowed as the banner began its slow climb.
“WORLD CHAMPIONS – 2024”
The Jumbotron cut to Jerry.
Boos rained down so violently they might’ve counted as precipitation. One guy in Section 120 had brought a full-on papier-mâché piñata shaped like Jones’s head. Another held up a sign:
“HEY JERRY, NEED BINOCULARS TO SEE YOUR LAST RING?”
Jerry blinked. Slowly. Sadly. Somewhere inside his jacket, his pacemaker adjusted its settings.
A children’s choir began singing “Fly, Eagles Fly” with angelic intensity. Fireworks erupted. Confetti cannons fired green and silver paper into the air. One rogue Eagles fan paraglided into the stadium trailing a banner that read:
“Still Dem Boyz… Who Watch Us Win.”
Dak Prescott looked on from the sideline, visibly wondering if he could pull a hamstring right now and get out of there.
Back in the suite, Jerry reached for the remote. Maybe if he turned off the screen, it wouldn’t be real. But alas—he wasn’t in Dallas. In Philly, there is no escape.
Sirianni gave a wink to the crowd. Hurts pointed to the banner. Fletcher Cox hoisted a Wawa hoagie like it was the Declaration of Independence. Somewhere, Brian Dawkins screamed into the sky with no shirt on.
The banner reached the top.
The crowd reached a new decibel record.
And Jerry Jones—billionaire, emperor of a paper star empire—sat frozen in his glass castle, watching it all. A single tear may or may not have rolled down his cheek. But we’ll never know, because that part of his face doesn’t really move anymore.
The season had begun. The Eagles were kings. And Jerry?
He was still waiting for 1996 to call back.
Great story, don’t you think? Somewhat savage as well. We did not put anything about botox or pacemakers in the prompty. ChatGPT spit that out on its own. And then the line about Dak and his hamstring? Brutal! Go Birds.
Kevin has been writing about Philadelphia sports since 2009. He spent seven years in the CBS 3 sports department and started with the Union during the team's 2010 inaugural season. He went to the academic powerhouses of Boyertown High School and West Virginia University. email - k.kinkead@sportradar.com