Gator Nation, this is coach Urban Meyer here. First, I’d like to personally thank you for all your support this year. The heart and passion of our fans really helped us through the rigors of our schedule. You’re as much to credit as anyone associated with this program for our success. A salute to you, fans.

Second, I’d like to go ahead and announce that I’m totally slacking off for the year 2007. Yup. With a roster full of blue-chip babies, a national championship under the old belt, and a sweet black leather Members’ Only jacket to boot, Urb’s officially announcing the old phone-in for the year. Waitress, this Ohio boy needs some more boat drinks, please.


Urban: needs more boat drinks.

I’ve said differently, sure.

“I wish I could say we’re going to make another run,” Meyer said. “I have no idea. That’s so farfetched, but rebuilding the defense is obviously the key to us having success. Our coaches on defense are going to have to earn their stripes this year.”

Lick it up, poindexters. You really just a bunch of reverse Ron Burgundys, aren’t you? You’ll write anything I say. Like I could walk out there, make a few remarks that I carefully constructed in between texting recruits, and I could read this in the Tampa Trib the next day:

Meyer said: “The reporter writing this is completely gay. Kissing other men ’til he gets beard burn gay. Dancing nancy, Haddaway What-Is-Love, half-tee-wearing, HGH-takin’ circuit boy twirling glo-stick gay. In case you don’t understand: the person writing this sleeps with dudes.

Sometimes, I really believe you’d print that. Especially you, Bianchi.

Like we’re going to do anything anyone remembers this year anyway. You know what’s going to happen: first we’ll be overrated, then we’ll lose some crackass game we should have walked away with, someone will figure out our key weakness, and the rest of the season will be a wash while I scream a lot, threaten to fire coaches, and lose weight like a meth addict to stress. Completely uncool scene that you just know is gonna happen.


Look like I’m having fun? Because I’m totally not.

I know it’s coming, so why not pre-empt and just hoist the slack flag on the S.S. Meyer’s mainsail here? Look…there it goes…yup. Up and flying. ‘Case you can’t see it, it’s my middle finger, people. Urb’s out for the year. If the phone doesn’t ring, it’s me.

If not working on being the slammin’ coach of the Florida Gators…what am I going to be working on? Being the organized person I am, Urb’s got some ports to call on, goal-wise.

1. Drink more margaritas. All species thereof, sir. I’m burning through a few blenders this season, so maybe I’ll get an endorsement deal with Oster or something. Have you had a Texas Margarita? It’s got Cointreau in it. I have no idea what that is but it tastes freakin’ awesome. I’ll rely on the frozen concoction to keep me alive until everyone realizes how much losing sucks again. Then I’ll dry out for a week, hit the treadmill, and resume domination in ‘08.

2. Get my groove on with Shelley. Mrs. Meyer’s been getting the free pass in the lovin’ department, what with all the me winning national titles, recruiting, and watching tape ’till my eyeballs crack and bleed. In case you’re wondering, I’m leaving the jacket on the whole time, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

3. Catch up on my Buffett. There’s just so much to listen to, I have no idea how I’ll catch up. Oh, wait, I do–I’ll listen to it by the pool, with a drink in my hand and wearing nothing but a speedo and the aforementioned champions jacket. The man’s catalog is just so deep. I’m going to focus my studies on his neglected early ’80s work: One Particular Harbor, Coconut Telegraph, Volcano…though I’m stopping short of Somewhere Over China. That shit sucked.

Think I’ll grow a fat walrus ’stache just to get the right vibe, too.


Yeah, dude. Like that.

You can’t run a Ferrari at 150 mph all the time, people–it needs some garage time, and that’s just what 2007’s gonna be people. This machine’s up on blocks, so to speak–get your shots in while you can. If you need me for anything, just call. I won’t answer. I’ll be on the back porch, hitting golf balls into Billy Donovan’s windows with the blender crankin’. This sailor just pressed the fool button, and there’s no telling where I’ll land after this volcano blows.