On hearing the news that Joe Pa hobbled down to Louisiana to talk to LSU coaches about using a big-armed, possibly thick-skulled quarterback effectively….

Scene: LSU football offices. Located behind LSU’s Sausage Research Center and Chicken Rape Facility, just past the Earl K. Long Institute for the Study of Blooping and Beeping Highway Rest Stop Gaming Devices. Joe Paterno, Penn State Football Coach, walks with cane up to Les Miles door, mopping his brow.

JoePa: Hiya, Les. Joe Paterno here AIIIGHHHH FUCKING JESUS WHAT IS THAT?

Les Miles: Hi, Joe. Never mind him. That’s just an alligator on a leash.

JoePa: That’s not even your mascot.

Les Miles: A tiger on the loose? Please, we’re not crazy down here.

JoePa: Does he like that? I mean, how do you…

LM: He’s drugged to the gills, Joe. Placid. Watch if you don’t believe me. (Winds up, kicks alligator with tremendous force.)

JP: That’s really somethin’ there. How often you feed ‘em?

LM: Live chickens, three times a day. First you gotta stuff the drugs in the chicken’s rectum, then you toss ‘em in. They haven’t figured it out yet. Then again, neither have our defensive lineman and linebackers, and they’ve been on this shit for years.

JP: They take the same stuff?

LM: Yup. Dose of horse tranquilizers in there, too. We dry ‘em out on Friday, though. Makes them mean for Saturday. Withdrawal and everything.

JP: Pretty sure that’s illegal there, Les.

LM: Aw, we get by. Hey, Joe, check these out. (Lifts shirt, exposes belly and chest.) WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!! Yeah! Give me what I need, daddy!

JP: Jesus, Les, you’re not exactly making me comfortable.

LM: Joe, chere, just reach in the big tub of beads right there and toss a few this way. Come on, I’m working it here. (Shakes self side to side violently, his skin exactly the color of uncooked boudin.)

JP: Um, yeah, here ya go. (Tosses beads in fistfuls until Miles puts his shirt down.)

LM: Hey, don’t you have something else for your friend here, Joe? Little extra lard for the roux, you know, if you’re gonna be cribbin from Papa Les’ mental kitchen here?

JP: Honestly, I’m havin’ a hard time understanding what you’re saying here. Can I have some water? It’s awfully hot in here.

LM: (presses intercom) Hey, Lucille! Bring that twenty pounds of fine, gumbo-fed assmeat in here and jiggle up JoePa a 48 oz. Hurricane! Vite, my sweet! So like I was sayin’, Joe, a little lagniappe before we yap…

JP: Just some water will do. And what are you talking about again? Italian’s my first language, you know.

LM: It’s French, Joe. It’s our mother tongue around here.

JP: You’re from Ohio, Les.

LM: Ce n’est pas tres importante, ami. What you do need to know is that you’re in my gator wallah now, and that if you wanna talk about that special hunk ‘a quarterback you got and how to turn him from bone dumb to done bombed a thousand touchdowns on the othah team.

(Lucille enters.)

Ah, Lucille! You fine piece of fuckslam…I want to make love to your sugar brown ass right here on this desk in front of 2005 Walter Camp Coach of the Year Joe Paterno. Strip it off for me, you mindbending assmagical she-devil.

Lucille: Hm.

(Leaves drinks on desk, steps over drugged alligator, turns and exits with ass floating in tractor beam wobble behind her.)

JP: She know you’re talkin’ to her like that?

LM: Ah, that voodoo octaroon GONNA BE THE DEATHAHME YET!!! (Spills drink, collapses in chair.) Lady Claire told me she like to got a piece of my hair when I got here, used it to put the loveroot on me. Now I got to keep my hair under this protective hat all the time. White’s the color of protection in santeria.

JP: So, um…you doin’ her?

LM: NO! I wish. (Slurps down half of Hurricane.) That would at least be something. She just swishes around here and makes me give her raises. She gets real…close to me when she asks.

JP: Whatcha payin’ her now?

LM: Four hundred and fifty-three thousand dollars a year for four hours work a day.

JP: That’s terrible, Les. You’ve…you’ve let yourself get carried away with all this, you know?

LM: Ah, Joe, but that ass is my will to live, Joe. What’s that worth to you, ami?

JP: I’m eighty-one fucking years old, so I’d guess ’bout fifty-eight dollars as of this morning. You still askin’ me for a bribe?

LM: No, sir! Why would I do that? Now a testament of our solid and venerable friendship presented in cash form, perhaps…

JP: I got two hundred thirteen dollars in cash and a thirty dollar gift card to The Wing Zone, Les. And I only crave brains, so it’s of no use to me.

LM: Ooh, spicy! I’ll take it all. (Snatches it from Joe Pa’s hand.)

JP: So whaddya do to make a big lummox like Russell work? Morelli’s gonna make me rip my own balls off at this pace.

LM: Oh, a few things, friend.

JP: (Takes out notepad.) Okay, go.

LM: First, make sure you click train him. He does something good, give him a click.

JP: With what?

LM: This (click!) little clicky (click!) thing. Got ‘em (click!) at PetSmart and everything, right next to the (click!) collars I buy for Lucille.

JP: You buy collars for her? Does she wear ‘em?

LM: I’M PAYING HER ALMOST A HALF MILLION DOLLARS A YEAR YOU’RE DAMN RIGHT SHE WEARS ‘EM!!!. (Miles pauses, then turns to window, grows quiet.) Actually I wear them on Fridays for her.

JP: I’m really, really just wanting to talk about Morelli and Russell here…

LM: If I do, she gives me clicks when I don’t touch her. Like this. (Click!)

JP: …

LM: So you click when they do something good. They love it.

JP: Uh, all right. Clicking. Gotcha.

LM: Also, you should let ‘em have a rabbit. But call it a bunny. They like that better. But don’t actually give it to them, since they won’t actually get to keep the rabbit. You keep that in your office.

JP: What’s that do?

LM: You threaten to kill it every time they do something bad. They win a game, you let ‘em pet the thing for five minutes. Even if it hates them and bites them, they’re too big to feel it.

JP: Ah.

LM: Listen, goons like these two have a genetic weakness for bunn–I mean, rabbits. They just do.

JP: That’s like something out of Steinbeck.

LM: There you go with your readin’, again, Papa! You need to loosen up, Italiano? Wanna go ride my airboat and talk this over? Hey, look, you know what’ll cheer you up? (Hits intercom) BOOP! Lucille! Bring in the physical therapy interns! NOW YOU MOCHACCINO DOUBLE LATTE OF EVIL VOODOO TEMPTRESSNESS!!!

Lucille, via intercom: Hm.

(The room fills with buxom young interns. They see JoePa, and immediately lift their shirt to bare their breasts. Miles leaves room momentarily to grovel to Lucille.)

Interns: WOOOOOOOOOO WE’RE DRUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNK!!!! WOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!

JP: (Reaches frantically for bucket of beads, tossing pounds at a time.) Please, god, please, you’re gonna kill me with those.

Interns: WOOOOOOOO!!!! (Exeunt.)

LM:(returns.) That woman…OOOOH, THAT woman.

JP: (Toweling sweat of geriatric lust and fear off his forehead.) Where were we?

LM: You tell me. Hey, Chuck Amato!

CA: Les, babeeee! (Flashes moobs.)

LM: Yeahhhhh, Chuckee!!!

CA: Laissez les bon temps rouler, Les!!!

JP: Couldja just put, the, the shirt on…(throws more handfuls of beads from the nearly empty bucket.)

LM: Whoa, Joe, watch Izzy down there. I think he needs some more sedatives.

Izzy, the Alligator (thoughts:) Holy shit, I am so fucking hungry that I’m gonna eat that old guy who smells like Vitalis. And I hate the taste of Vitalis.*

Izzy, vocalized: RRUUUUUUAAARRRGGGGHHHHHHHghghhhhkikikikikik….

JP: Les, I, uh…

LM: Yeah, I have no idea what to do here. (Hits intercom) LUCILLE!!!

Governor Kathleen Blanco: (enters) Les, babeee! WOOOOOOOOOO!!!! (exposes breasts)

LM: Kathleen! Chere, I hate to tell you, but my pet gator’s feelin’ frisky.

Izzy The Gator: She doesn’t smell like Vitalis. ssssssSSSNAPPP!!!!

Governor Blanco: aaaAIIIIIIGGGHHH!!!!! (Is eaten.)

LM: Well, that’s not hard to explain.

JP: Good Christ! (Genuflects, prays.)

LM: So you wanna know what we did?

JP: My god…what the hell are you talking about?

LM: With Jamarcus. Last year, with our big ol’ dumb quarterback.

JP: (Shuddering, praying.) Yeah. Whatever. That guy. Morelli. Yeah.

LM: Just have him throw it as far as he can and have your guys fish jump balls out of the air.

JP: That’s it?

LM: Uh-huh. Click training. Bunnies. Throw the fuck out of the ball, Joe. Back in Madden 64, it was the play called “All Streaks.”

JP: I hate you , Les Miles

LM: Hey, nothing personal. Might wanta look out, Papa. The governor might have been just an amuse bouche for Izzy there.

*Izzy winters in Florida. Eats plenty of retirees.