[Outstanding.--OPS]

I'm sure you hearda me, I get more shit from Iowa fans about me than a Kinnick Stadium crapper. Look, do you think I WANTED to be put on this dude's leg? I know he played football for the Hawks, but that ended over fifteen years ago. NOW look what I'm stuck with! Have you seen what Bret looks like these days? Like a gopher. Like a 275 pound chipmunk-cheeked bright red big-ass gopher.

Life didn't start out so bad. In the early nineties, when I was born--man, it fuckin' rocked. It was all metal bands and big-haired chicks--some nights back at the apartment I was just SWIMMIN' in big hair, GNR and the Crue blastin' on the stereo. Got tired looking at the ceiling some nights, bouncin' up and down like a yo-yo, but after a Hawk win--I don't have to tell YOU that gravity pulled the Hawkeye Vodka in my direction! Loved the Hokey Pokey, too; I was center stage then, bein' "shaken all about"! Oh, I had chicks kissing me, putting their tits in my face, licking me all up and down. Those were some times, man. I was the TATTOO. Bret Bielema's HAWK TATTOO. I was king.

Look at me now. Connective tissue only lasts so long, dude. I'm stretched like a 45 year old vagina after a litter of nine pounders. And Bret ain't exactly a workout addict; fuck, have his calves gotten fat. I never seen a guy with such fat fucking calves; sometimes I think they're about to bust wide open like that guy's belly in Alien. If they did, I bet that Stretch Armstrong red goop would ooze out, he's so mushy inside.

To be honest, I don't know how long I got for this world. I've been covered with about everything: socks, band-aids, adhesive tape, ticket stubs, liquor store receipts, pregnancy test labels, leaves, poop, condom wrappers, a bird's-nest; you name it, I had it on top of me at one time. Summer's the worst--goddamn shorts weather. I know I'm gonna take it right on the nose, then. Could be duct tape, could be a smooshed eclair from the trash. Who knows?

Just last week I ran across a receipt for a belt sander; scared the livin' pigment right outta me. Once--I think Bret was looking at Shon Green game film at the time--he looked down at me and just started screaming: "Shit! Shit! Shit!" Fucker took a Sharpie to my faded black and gold ass. He drew BLOOD, man! Real BLOOD. The guy's a maniac. He hates me like that disease that's worse than cancer.

It's gotten so bad around here, sometimes I wish he'd just see a dermatologist and end it, I really do. How much can a little tattoo take? So the next time you're ragging about Bret and his Hawk tattoo, think of me, and say a little prayer. Some people make their own destinies, but I'm just along for the ride. And my ride is definitely the wrong kind of phat.