So it's media day. Time for you jackals and mongrels to fight over the rancid table scraps of information we've carefully selected for you. What a joy this must be for you.

This is the part where I get up and say my thing about the kids and how much we're looking forward to competition and doing things the right way, right? Is that how this goes? Hell, you guys have been doing this longer than I have. Is that the deal?

Because I think we're going to do things a little differently this year.

 
Say hello to Nile.

Calm down, stop screaming. I mean it. I'm not going to pull a Bud Dwyer, even though that guy knew how to hold a press conference. But I'll say this: if one of you takes one step out this motherfucking door, we're going to make Columbine look like a pillow fight. Barta's got the women's crew team armed with Kalashnikovs right outside anyway. Those girls are fucking intense.

Now, listen. I'm not going to hurt any of you. Not necessarily, anyway. It's all up to you. We've just got some new ground rules now, and ol' Nile here doesn't like it when rules get broken.

What's that? You have a family? Oh, well then unless Junior and Daughter want their daddy to come home as a jar of chunky salsa, you're going to do exactly what I fucking tell you.

Step one, cameras off and at my feet. We tried this openness thing and you ungrateful swine called for my head. Like I wanted a coverup. You know how Kirk McGurk, the Ol' Dirty Ballcoach does coverups? With burlap sacks, strychnine, and a trip to the motherfucking Everglades.

God, I need some coke. Rule two: A pile of fishscale in front of my nose in five minutes or that cocky little fucker from Waterloo gets it. NOW!

Here's how it's going to go down. Your stories come from me now, and what do you know, it's all great fucking news. Iowa's a lock for the Rose Bowl this year, comprende, madrefuckers? I'm sick and fucking tired of recruits reading our papers and wondering if my head's on the line. The only lines my head's seeing are made of pure Colombian nose candy and where the fuck IS IT, people?!

Also--the next time one of my boys gets arrested, instead of "disorderly conduct," it's for "banging four supermodels on a pile of money in the middle of the Pentacrest." The last thing I need is some widespread notion that the cops are up my players' puppet holes every time they set foot downtown. That shouldn't be a problem anymore, though, and if everyone cooperates, I'll let the Sheriff's wife free in 18 months, just like we agreed.

So are we clear on this? No more arrests, no more bad news, everything's fucking perfect in the River City, and the next time you speculate about my job future, you're going home in a motherfucking casket.

Now get out of here, candyasses. But leave the crew team. I bet I could use one of those she-commandos at safety.