Weekly Asheville Disclaimer Page: 09/05/07

If football really was religion, I’d burn you boys at the stake for heresy

An inspirational post-game locker-room speech, by Coach T

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!


Nontraditional student adjusting to dorm life

UNCA, MONDAY — Jim Bailey, like a many freshmen at UNCA, is making lots of friends in his new dormitory, but is also having to adjust to sharing a closet-sized living area with a stranger.

“My wife thought it would be nice if I took some courses in my spare time,” said the 54- year-old mortgage lender from his twin bed. “I thought, ‘Why take just one course a semester? Why not take one course a semester and live on campus?’”

When not downing espressos to fuel his late-night cramming sessions for the Tuesday/Thursday freshman seminar class he is presently enrolled in, Bailey likes to stroll around the Quad in his Crocs and search out fellow freshmen to toss around the ol’ Frisbee.

“I’ve come very close to meeting some other nice students,” said Bailey, who often sits outside the computer lab with his acoustic guitar and picks out Bob Marley tunes. “Surprisingly few people want to help to sing these songs of freedom.”

Bailey’s roommate, 18-year-old Scott Thompson from Charleston, S.C., wishes that “Mr. Bailey” would stop waking him in the middle of the night and asking if Scott wants to get under a makeshift fort made of bedsheets with a flashlight and talk about girls.

“I don’t mean to be a dick, but this guy has a huge home like two miles from here,” said Thompson. “It’s not all bad, though. He keeps these hard butterscotch candies in his fanny pack, and he gives me loads of them, so that’s cool. And buys liquor for everyone, so, you know.”


Ron Paul’s support runs gamut from wild-eyed to sweaty and out-of-breath

ASHEVILLE, MONDAY — A wellspring of support among slightly sweaty, wild-eyed voters has given a boost to the presidential hopes of Sen. Ron Paul, the maverick Republican iconoclast who is striking a chord with alienated, frothy-mouthed voters.

Paul’s support runs deep. He has received endorsements from the neo-Christian offspring of Montana’s early settlers, several online September 11 conspiracy groups that blame the government for the attacks, and suburban families who worry that Republican fiscal policies will create an economic depression that will make it very difficult to replace Y2K food stocks that are dangerously close to reaching their expiration dates.

One out-of-breath local supporter aggressively insists that Ron Paul is a perfect blend of Ross Perot, Teddy Roosevelt, Tyler Durden and David Lee Roth.

“Ron Paul died in 1962, but has returned to Earth to lead the faithful into the White House,” said Scott Frederick, who likes to lift weights while talking about Ron Paul. “I have a Ron Paul tattoo, I’m going to name my first son Ron Paul Jr., and when I make love to my wife, we call each other Ron Paul.”

Coming next week:

The shocking unedited, uncensored Disclaimer interview the Xpress doesn’t want you to know about!

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