We join Jim Tressel in mid-press conference on the Big Ten Network. Let’s pop in and see what he’s saying!

Jim Tressel: We’ve got a lot of people to replace on this team. Can you imagine how you guys would feel if you lost a third of the people in your company?

Tressel: Yeah, except we can replace our guys.

Reporters: [silence]

Tressel: Wait, there really are fewer of you. I just thought you were all out filling out law school applications, getting gastric bypass surgery, but good great googly moogly–it looks like someone served plague for dinner last week in here.

Reporter1: It’s been hard.

Tressel: (Laughs.) I’m sure! (Laughs again.) Yes, I’m sure it has. Hey, what happened to your little dictaphones?

Reporter2: We’re taking notes by hand now. More cost-effective.

Tressel: That looks like one of those pencils you write down a golf score with, Tim.

Reporter1: [holds up the pencil. It reads "Franklin County Municipal Golf Course."]

Tressel: Yeesh. Not even the good ones. So no photos either? So if I did something really quickly–

Reporter1: Nope. Didn’t get it on our cell cameras, either.

Tressel: How about if I talk really fast and put on a cheerleader’s outfit real quick? Like this?

CRAIGKRENZELWASTHEBESTPROSPECTIEVERHADATQBMAYOROFCOLONOSCOPISTANIMANIAC!

Too fast? Need me to say it again?

Reporter2: That would be nice, coach, if you could, and keep the cheerleader’s outfit on…

Tressel then slides into a one-piece sweatervest and slacks jumpsuit in seconds.

Tressel: Ha, I have no idea what you’re talking about, Bob. Didn’t hear a thing! Hey…will you guys do things for money now? You have to be poorer than I can ever remember being now that all this has happened.

Reporter3: I’m insulted by this, Coach. This is–

Reporter2: Shut the fuck up, Ed. What kind of money are we talking about?

Tressel: Attaboy, Tim. What I’m going to do is make you dress up in my burro costume. Then together we will ride. Like a loyal, sweet burro! That’s what you’ll be. And the rest of you are going to sketch it on your stolen La Quinta stationery and put it in the paper tomorrow.

Reporter2: I’ll do it for $1,000.

Tressel: Twenty bucks.

Reporter2: Fifty.

Tressel: And you’ll wear this saddle?

Reporter2: A hundred and I’ll sing in Spanish.

Tressel: 75 and you’ll take orders in American, son.

Reporter2: [sighs and grieves for all he once thought he would be] Deal.

Tressel: Giddyup! To old Mexico, my little grey friend!

Reporter1: Come on, xanax. Work, dammit. Now.

Reporter3: [Wishes self out of existence with an audible 'POP']

(HT: The good doctor.)