Men! Shome of you may not realize it, but in addition to a world class coach and motivational shpeaker, I'm also a poet and a hopeless romantic. Thish holiday sheason I'm offering an original recap of my Christmas Eve, audio performed by me, with a transhcript below. It's set to the original cadence of 'Twas the Night Before Christmas, so don't jump offsides on the snap count.
‘Twas the day before Christmas, I was lost in my house,
My dentures were shooting the spit from my mouth.
Football was over, most fans didn’t care,
They had hopes that old Lou Holtz, would soon coach there.
The old folks were propped up in their Sleep Number beds,
While visions of Sugar Bowls, danced in our heads.
My whistle on the bendstand, with a flat-billed cap,
I’d just shettled down, for a long morning nap.
When on the TV, there arose such a clatter,
I adjusted the bed to see what was the matter.
Mark May was on ESPN, he’s always a gas.
I turned up the volume, he just talks too fasht.
What he was saying, I’ll never know,
It was cut off by the scrolling news ticker below.
When, what through my trifocaled glasses appeared,
But the names of great coaches, so highly endeared.
I’m a little old Coach, still lively and quick,
I knew in a moment, just whom they should pick.
Like penalty flags, the faster they came.
I threw things, and spit things, at some of their names.
Now Bryant, now Bowden, now Paterno and Neyland,
On Spurrier, on Switzer, on Coker and Saban.
Hogwash! I yelled with a sharp whistle’s call,
In hopes the name Hotlz, would be there after all.
And then, in an instant, I felt my bowels move.
I hustled and shuffled my way to the louvre.
As I dropped trow, and was turning around,
Down the chimney my breakfast came out with a bound.
Large and satisfying, ‘twas the length of a foot.
Waffles with fiber, and somehow a peanut.
To Jesus I cried, as I arched my back,
That my defense withstand this rushing attack.
I begged my wife, fetch me, some Pepto Bismol Cherry.
And as I blacked out, I saw the Virgin Mary.
Football season’s so short, it’s everything I know.
She smiled at me and said, 35 bowl games still to go.
I smiled as I wiped, and out popped my teeth,
And plopped in the bowl of the toilet beneath.
They stuck atop the trophy, forged from my belly,
This was a Heisman, and it was quite smelly.
It was chubby and plump, I was pleased with myself,
No way to put, this piece on my shelf.
To Mary I looked, but she turned her head,
Her Blessing I sought, she threw up instead.
She spoke not a word, so I went back to work
My pants and my buckle, came up with a jerk.
Defense victorious, from the throne I rose,
To see my wife entering, and holding her nose.
Sacrifices were made, when I launched that missile,
I’d lost my teeth, but I still had my whistle.
And my wife exclaimed, as I shuffled out of sight,
Happy “Bowel” games to all, and to all a good night!
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