You want to fight? I'll fucking fight.

Real cute, Wiz. Thanks Marc. Why am I not feeling any heat? Why is my job not in danger? Because I'm the Master of Disaster, the Pennsylvania Strangler, the Jackhammer Fuckmachine, Kirk Goddamn Ferentz. That's why, motherfuckers.

Yeah, my kids screw up. Good. You should see what happens when the police aren't looking. I gave Mike Klinkenborg a chainsaw and told him to take out the next professor who gives him any shit. Sure enough, some cocksucker in Psych tells him his thesis on pain is unacceptable, mainly because it was just a t-shirt he got off eBay that said "pain is weakness leaving the body" and it had the Tasmanian Devil in Army fatigues. Sure enough, Klink took that fucker right out. Took out half his own hand too. Sure, we said it was a broken hand, but we really wanted to get him out on the field wielding a giant concrete club. That, friends, is an "upgrade."

I don't give a fuck what you say. Did you see what I did in 2002? Orange Bowl, bitch. 2003? Kicked that loopy bastard Zook's ass. 2004? New Year's Heave. I run this shit. They're not firing me. That is etched in stone. Hell, they'll be putting my visage--which, I might remind you, is immaculate--on the water tower.

See what happens if you start talking about firing me. Bowlsby brings it up in a meeting. Bowlsby immediately starts noticing black widow spiders and black adders being FedExed to his office. Bowlsby runs off to Palo Alto.

You think I'm fucking kidding? Skorton asks me why we lost to Northwestern. Skorton finds bullet holes perilously near the gas tank of his BMW. Skorton gets detailed death threats against him, his family, and people he doesn't even fucking know. Skorton runs off to Cornell. No more problem.

I'm the Keyser fucking Soze of the football world. I don't give a fuck. You want to put me on the hot seat? Try it. I fucking dare you. Float another bullshit question, Harty. Just keep in mind I'm giving my players AK-47s for the pressers next season. They'll be Mitch King, Matt Kroul, and Rodolfo the Angolan refugee. Rodolfo has killed to save his family on several occasions, and he no longer has any regard for human life. He's also 14 years old, he smokes, and he sharpens knives on the skull of the last asshole who looked at him funny. He doesn't speak a word of English, but I think you'll find his presence at Media Day quite striking.

Jake's got a cannon for an arm. That's not a figure of speech. It fires 70mm hollow point rounds. It'll turn your defensive end's helmet into a bowl of chunky salsa. Blitz, I fucking dare you.

I taught my Doberman how to fly an Apache helicopter. He's fucking good at it too.

Seventeen arrests is nothing. Seventeen arrests is a decent weekend at the Ferentz compound. I'm just upset none of the charges are manslaughter, arson, or federal drug trafficking. We're half-assing on and off the field, and I won't take any more of that.

Look out for 2008, boys. We're going to make the football scene from The Last Boy Scout look like fucking Snow White. Fire's going to rain from the skies. Murder murder fucking murder everywhere.

And you're going to tell me my job's in jeopardy? Your life is in jeopardy, you smartass motherfuckers. Watch yourself.