Weekly Asheville Disclaimer Page: 11/12/08

An inspirational post-game speech from Coach T

Settle down and shut up, men, Coach T has a few words he wants to say. All of you gave 110 percent tonight, which is 10 percent more than “not enough.” The good news is that my optometrist can fit me in this week, because I need to have my damn eyes checked after leading this sorry lot onto the field of battle.

This team showed a lot of heart tonight, because the other team ripped our damn ribcages wide open

It wasn’t entirely your fault — it’s tough to win in a hostile environment, especially when you’re the home team. Plus, we got beat by a very good team today, which is refreshing since we’ve been beaten by so many bad teams.

I don’t like to point fingers after a loss, so I’ll just name names. Here we go.

Smith, Johnson, Williams and the rest of the offensive line — I want to make sure you’re all on the same page, and that the page is a formal resignation letter. Get out of my locker room.

Where’s Jones? You gave the other team a lot of different looks tonight: fear, bewilderment and misery. I know there’s not an ounce of quit in you, there’s a gallon, so don’t spill any on your way out. Bye now.

Jiminy Christmas, is Brown still here? I’ll be damned. You played with a lot of confidence, and I can’t figure out why. Adios.

Wilson and Moore — feel free to recover those fumbles, boys. I’ve seen people get on the ball faster at a Pritchard Park job fair. You defend a zone like an excited puppy defends a patch of grass from a water sprinkler. Skidaddle!

Where’s my linebackers? Boys, I’ve seen more hits on a Right Said Fred box set. Kind of hard to sack the quarterback when you have a full erection, isn’t it? Save it for wrestling season. Giddy-up!

Taylor — you’re having a storybook season so far. Too bad the story is “Taylor can’t play football: A true story.” Oh, Taylor says he cracked his little vertebrae — rub some dirt on it, boy! I don’t see your spine coming out of your skin, and even if I did, I’d just rub a little dirt on it and put you back in the ball game! Wait, I see it now. Accept my apologies while you crawl out of my sight. Open the door for him, Anderson, and close it behind you because you’re off the team as well.

Jackson, I’ve seen more action at a labor strike inside the Zen Buddhist temple. GO! Thomas, do what you do best and stick like glue to Jackson’s back side as he leaves this locker room. Out, out!

Must be hard to hit full speed in a skirt, Martin, but I wouldn’t know. Last time I got in a skirt, your mom was trying and failing to get out of one. If I had a dime for every tackle you missed, I’d have 50 cents. If I had another 50 cents, I’d pay someone a dollar to kill you. Now beat it.

Thompson, what’s your excuse — a broken arm? Rub some dirt on it! I haven’t heard so much girlish squealing since the F.B.I. bugged the hotel room of Martin Luther King, Jr. What? I did not say it because you are black, it just came to mind. No, I did not. Fine, I’ll try again. Say it again, that you have a broken arm. Good. Oh, a broken arm, you say? The last time I heard something that sappy, the O’Shea brothers, both dying of cancer, had just scraped together their last four quarters and shoved them into the jukebox at Mulligan’s Bronx Irish Pub & Firehouse Supply on Eleven September of 2001, son! Now get out of here before ol’ Coach T says something he regrets.

Where’s my kicker? Garcia, I haven’t seen someone have that much trouble getting it through the uprights since Muhammed Atta tried to split the difference. Because I’m on a theme, boy, that’s why! I can’t believe they iced you with a timeout. It takes more time for Rainman to count a single matchstick than it does for you to lose your nerve before a field goal. Just go.

Where’s that punter, Robinson? That was the most pitiful kick since Jack Kerouac popped half a diet pill and hitched a ride with his mother to his grandmother’s house next door. I’ve seen more focus in a pre-school algebra class with kittens, balloons and confetti falling from the rafters. Goodbye.

Where’s my wide receiver? You drop more balls than the state lottery. The only way this team could have scored any lower is if you took the S.A.T.’s at halftime. I’ve seen better hands on a day-laboring kleptomaniac left for dead in the dumpster behind a Congolese diamond mine. Connect the dots! And get out.

Cornerbacks, rise! Lewis, I haven’t seen that many missed assignments since North Carolina introduced cultural awareness lessons in public high schools. Scat!

Walker, Hall and Allen — football is not a game for cowards! The last time this many yellow-bellies were in the same room, the Little Shanghai Railroad Company was treating its workers for jaundice in a makeshift clinic with walls made out of honeycomb and banana peels. Allen, did Moses turn your spine into a snake and forget to turn it back? Hell yeah, it just got biblical. I haven’t seen so little enthusiasm since Pontius Pilate felt a sharp pain in his left shoulder, looked up and saw a tunnel at the end of the tunnel. I’ve seen more aggression in a Pagan hand-fasting ceremony. Best wishes and good riddance.

Lopez, you block fewer kicks than Bob Dole in a karate tournament. I haven’t seen so much grab-ass since my 4-year-old daughter sat on an anthill. Go.

Where’s my running back? A Ford Festiva with a leaking oil pan and a busted radiator has more success in the red zone than you do, son. I’ve seen more offensive yards in the Biltmore Forest Parade of Homes. I’ve seen more misleading head movements in a double-booked submarine bunk bed. No? In a YMCA steam room then. No, I know that’s not funny, just go!

Adams, you call yourself a nose tackle? The way your future on the gridiron is looking, you might as well show up next season with two Maxipads taped to your shoulders and a bucket on your head. You stay on your feet about as long as my grandmother when she’s ice skating in her diabetic nylons after they’ve been sautéed in butter. Hit the deck and slide out of here, son.

I’ve got a quarterback controversy on my hands, because I can’t decide which one of you to strangle first.

Gonzalez, the idea is to play like Broadway Joe, son, not Off-Broadway Joe. I haven’t seen someone choke so badly in a clutch moment since my Aunt Eva landed a bit part in a movie as a reporter and John Holmes was the microphone. Please leave this room and do not look back or return or touch a football ever again.

Nelson, you call yourself a quarterback? I haven’t seen someone have that much trouble passing since my Uncle Alfred sprinkled powder sugar on his pure-calcium omelet. All-American, huh? I can see it, because you take a knee faster than Abe Lincoln in a secluded log cabin full of drunken lumberjacks. Go!

Who’s still here? Just me? Well, don’t get down, Coach T. It’s just a game, after all. Put my left hand in the middle, and stack my right hand on top,

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