I'm Never Leaving: Big Cat Confirms Nikki Smokes Has a No-Trade Clause

Look, I’ve got nothing but love for the folks at Barstool New York. I’ve built some solid relationships there. But if we’re talking about the *city* itself... yeah, it’s not exactly my vibe. Too many Knicks fans walking around like every season is finally their year. Too many Jets fans acting like Aaron Rodgers is the second coming of Joe Namath (even though he’s just a glorified Zach Wilson). And then there are the loud, obnoxious Rangers fans—though at least they had the guts to roast their own franchise for hanging up a regular-season banner.  

I’ve got nothing against New Yorkers—my mom’s whole family is from New York. My issue is with New York sports fans. I don’t like them, and they don’t like me—and I’m perfectly fine with that. When it comes to New York sports, the only thing I know is hate. Watching the Knicks and Jets fold like lawn chairs every year brings me immense pleasure. Honestly, it’s better than sex. So, when I heard Brandon Walker was trying to trade me to New York, my heart dropped to my asshole. There’s simply no way I could survive among those fans. But regardless of how I feel about it, I’m staying put. Why? Because of that beautiful little thing called a *no-trade clause*.  

A no-trade clause is like the golden ticket of contracts—it’s the ultimate power move. And if you’re lucky enough to have one, you use it. No asterisk, no wiggle room. If they try to move you, you just sit back and say, “Nah, I’m good right here, thanks.”  

Here’s the thing: every company has people who somehow fail their way to the top, and I guess I’ve managed to pull that off, too. I’ve tripped, fumbled, and douched my way up the ladder—straight to the point where they can’t even *pay* someone to take me. That’s right. New York could be sitting on a million dollars in cold, hard cash, and I’d still be here sipping my Stella Blue coffee, popping my 20-milligram Addy, staring at my screen doing nothing all day.  

In all seriousness, though, I wish that were true. My brain won’t let me do nothing—it’d eat me alive. A lot of people say I do nothing because I’m not Rone, Caleb, or one of the OG Barstool legends who built this place. But I’m trying, and I’ll keep trying until the boss man tells me, “No thanks, we’re good.” I know I’m not the best writer, and I know my content isn’t for everyone, but what you see is what you get. Remember, I got hired off the street with 8,000 followers because I won a bet with Dave Portnoy. And even though I’m not an elite, I’ll always give everything I’ve got—even if Dave (who’s here once every six months) interprets that as me “picking my ass.”  

So yeah, this is me saying it loud and clear: I’m not leaving. No matter how much they sweeten the deal, no matter how many Jets fans glare at me on the subway. A contract’s a contract, and this seat? It’s mine.  

And Brandon Walker? Stop telling my girlfriend you’re trying to trade me so she’ll break up with me, you old freak.