Oh, you want a fight? With me? Well, by all means, Mr. Big Shot, bring it the fuck on. You ass. You fool. Do you really think Satan's Regents would replace a candyass like Bowlsby with more of the same? Fuck no. I'm the motherfucking boss, King Beefstick of Mt. Thundercock, Kimbo Slice's angrier brother, Gary Barta himself.
You don't scare me. I came from Wyoming, fool. You know what else came from Wyoming? Dick Cheney and the only two parents capable of raising Dick Cheney: his parents, Pestilence and War. And I'll be riding them straight over your worthless ass right on the 50-yard line if you win any fewer than 10 games on this, the biggest gift of a schedule any BXI team is ever going to get fucking ever .
Scorpions? Spiders? Please, bitch. You know what we call those in Wyoming? Brunch. Oh, and we wash them down with a cool, refreshing cocktail of Wild Turkey, tabasco sauce, ethanol, and a punch in the fucking teeth.
You report to me, kid. That's never going to change. And watch what happens if you say one ill word to Bloodpunch Barta's face. That money of yours is gone. Those front four teeth are gone. And your precious snowflake's scholarship is somehow mysteriously going to get transferred to the University of the Center of the Sun, courtesy a one-way flight from Uppercut Airlines.
You put a gun on Jake Christensen? Isn't that like giving a Ferrari to Helen Keller?
You aren't a big man. I'm the big man. You yell at teenagers and call bubble screens on 3rd and 12 (which is every 3rd down--hell of an offense there, chief). I move more money in an hour than Enron ever imagined and there's twice as much yayo in my basement than Tony Montana blew up Miami's nose. How else did you think we got an athletic budget twice Iowa State's? Donors? Please.
Now if you'll excuse me, as an actual administrator, I have a very busy schedule, and I would hate to be late for my 3:00 Ass To Mouth On Your Mother appointment. Barta, bitches. Know the name, fear the game.