If football really was religion, I’d burn you boys at the stake for heresy
Well, we came up a little short against our opponent tonight. So what, right? It’s only the biggest, oldest high-school football rivalry in these entire daggum mountains.
But before you go feeling sorry for yourselves, Coach T just wants to say a few words to you.
Christ almighty! The last time this many people without one ounce of collective work ethic got together, the Rhododendron Royal Brigade was hosting a Monday luncheon.
Now then, where’s my star quarterback. Trick question, Johnson — I don’t have one, so put your hand down. Tell me, Johnson, are you throwing a football or a bouquet at your wedding, boy?
Good Lord, you did more panicky intentional grounding tonight than an air traffic controller on 11 September, son.
Nobody’s taken a dive like that since Greg Louganis broke his damn head open. Musta got tripped up on your petticoat, I suppose. Turn in your pads and leave. You’re finished.
Where’s my other quarterback? Ramirez, you show about as much calm in the pocket as Michael Jackson at a Cub Scout meeting. Get out. I said go, boy!
Wilson, son, you catch a football about as often as your daddy catches promotions down at the paper plant. The guest-ofhonor at a bat mitzvah could keep a tighter grip on a fistful of live spiders than you do on a football, boy. You’re off the team, son. Now go.
Smith, Lord almighty, son, what are you so fat for if you ain’t gonna’ plug up the wide-open holes in the line after every snap, huh? Got-dam! You got enough mass to make the moon wobble, boy, but you’re about as tough as a lacy antique neckerchief. Clean out your locker and go.
Chambers, you willowy son-of-abitch, our opponents fear you about as much as my grandma fears a nice bowl of fiber every morning.
I didn’t realize I had Mahatma freaking Gandhi coaching all my linebackers the last three months. Should have noticed that. Well, have a bowl of rice, son, and get your ass up out of this locker room before ol’ Coach T says something he regrets.
Richards, only difference between you and that little Chinese fellar stopped that tank in Tina-man Square is that you got yourself plum run over tonight. Guess standing straight up and not moving a muscle doesn’t always work out, huh. Beat it.
Stevens, are you playing football just to keep yourself in shape until grab-ass season comes around? Get.
Davis, Christ almighty, son, your body has the structural integrity of hot butter. Your bum knee goes out quicker than a teepee’s candle in a Cherokee farting contest.
I expect you to play through a little pain, son, not roll around on the ground screaming for a doctor. Sweet Jesus, rub a little dirt on it and play ball! You can get medical attention on your own personal time, which you got lots of starting now because you’re cut, son. Don’t trip over your kneecaps on your way out. Then crawl. That’s OK, we’ll wait.
Chandler, I got more faith feeding my infant daughter Chinese dog food than I do counting on one of your extra-point kicks. I haven’t seen someone have so much difficulty staying between the uprights since Wedge Antilles took on the Death Star. Now move it.
Now then, where’s Harris? You better hang your head, son. My cat’s got a firmer grasp on algebra than you do on a piece of pigskin, boy. Got-dam, is this my son’s second birthday or are we in Times Square on New Year’s Eve? No? Then how come nobody’s upset about the ball-dropping we seen tonight? Good luck in life, Harris. Go.
Nice tackling tonight, Gomez. You rehearsing for the father/daughter dance? Good thing you’re light enough to stand on his shoes. Listen, were you keeping your distance behind their tailback in case he got bored while running his 85-yard touchdown and decided to just turn around and start chasing you back to the line of scrimmage? Disappear now.
Taylor, did Goose hit the got-dam cockpit canopy or is there some other reason you refuse to engage the enemy, boy? You put up about as much resistance as a hungry French hooker at a Nazi formal ball. Leave.
Wilson, Williams and Peters — Jesus, Joseph and Mary! You must be in debt to a local bookie who’s got himself a shoebox full of your X-rated home videos, a broadband connection and his finger on the send button. I ain’t seen six hands play that much grab-ass since the baker and the candlestick maker made room for the butcher. Now go. Go!
Who’s left? Jones — good game. Too bad it wasn’t football, but I’m sure whatever game you were playing was real good fun. Goodbye.
Carter — you got about as much hustle as a framed Texas atheist making his way to the gas chamber, boy. Scram.
Bennett, you move down the field just fast enough to make me wonder if you got yourself a secret husband back in the tundra who’s sitting on a frozen penguin egg for you.
Now, the rest of you are still on the team but helmet privileges will be suspended for practice next week. Alright, now, hands in the middle … and two, three … Teamwork!