First, I'd like to thank the finest fans in America for supporting me. I always called the home crowd at DKR the taxman: you put in four quarters, and they showed up for two and left without saying thank you.
I'd like to thank Bob Stoops for his rivalry over the years. He gave me six games, and I gave him nine, and that puts me three under on the day. If this is golf I'd be winning, Bob! But this is life, where I'll be getting paid more in a retirement year than you'll make in ten. When they ask you if dinosaurs were the devil's house pets, have fun realizing you gave your children Oklahoma educations on purpose. I hope Alabama knocks your butthole sideways and makes you shit pappardelle noodles.
I'd like to thank Mike Gundy for his competition over the years. He's a fine young man who's chosen to spend his life in Stillwater riding out frack-quakes and bumping his head on a 10-2 ceiling. He won't regret that, or living in a mansion beneath a flaming natural gas vent. You tell that atheist oncologist who believes in "science": It ain't a tumor if you've got the right attitude about it.
(It is amazing what T. Boone Pickens has done with that program. He spent millions of dollars to win one meaningless Fiesta Bowl. West Virginia did the same thing with cup holder change and a copy of Lowrider Magazine, so you tell me which one's the hillbilly rube.)
A letter of thanks will be sent to Lubbock. Without digital communication or phone lines, it should get there in one to two weeks, provided the horses don't freeze to death or get eaten by the Dust Creature of Abilene. They do an amazing job out there, mostly by simply keeping the players from being skeletonized by the horseflies. When that letter arrives they'll see how much I respect their sportsmanship over the years, provided they find someone to read it for them and recognize the petrified hand of Buddy Holly I'm returning to their possession. That belongs in a museum, Lubbock, but since I'm sending it to you just put it in the glass dessert case at Texas Roadhouse in the meantime. (P.S. Don't get it wet.)
I can admit this now: I've missed the Texas A&M rivalry. It's not often you can find an opportunity to beat the hell out of another man in his own house without searching on Craigslist for hours. But I'm sincerely happy for your success Aggies. We always did have something in common, and that's losing games thanks to Case McCoy.
To be honest, we only brought TCU into the conference so DeLoss and I could settle a bet on how Gary Patterson keeps his pants up. Turns out that's just body paint, so DeLoss won. I owe him a country now, so goodbye summer home. Belize. Whatever.
Congratulations, Baylor. You finally managed to embrace Art that isn't in Reader's Digest or an Amy Grant cassette. Your big moment was removing a tarp, but that makes sense given that most of your graduates go on to work part-time tenting for termites. I'm sending a copy of The Golden Compass to all your kids to let them know that talking polar bears are real and God isn't. Hail to the Redskins.
Iowa State! What can I say about you that hasn't been said about Iowa State?
Y'all know Bill Snyder only takes juco transfers because he was born before the SAT was invented, right? That's the Sumerian Aptitude Test: catching a goat with your bare hands, looking in his eye to make sure he's not an Uttuku or evil demon/spirit, and then carrying him back to your house in under six hours while being chased by wolves. It's the same as the Kansas high school competency test, but then again Bill's always gone where he feels comfortable. That's why he sleeps in a giant urn of ancient honey each night, breathing through a reed from the banks of the Euphrates itself. Feel his amazingly soft skin, and you'll believe every word I just said.
To hell with Nebraska. You pick up a pair of rescue dogs like the Pelinis and everyone in the kennel's gonna get worms. Frank Solich was too good for y'all. Oh, but Mack, Frank Solich really isn't that good, you say. Well. I just took you to the beach. You see the ocean for yourself when you're good and ready, sweetie.
Oh, and to hell with Colorado. I don't remember much about you. Then again, neither do you on any given day, and that's what makes you special.
The Kansas Jay-what? Can't say I'm familiar with his work, though I do still love that Beyonce. To hell with Missouri, too, though I appreciate how many graduates their fine journalism program has placed in TGI Friday's. Nothing like having your order taken in AP Style!
And screw you media types, too. Whinin' about how Longhorn Network's a whole channel with only one football team but never saying a word about the Big Ten Network, which has zero. You complain about me blaming my assistants, but Greg Robinson was an improvement over Manny Diaz. I can't say anything worse about someone than that. You go on and try. I can't, and I watched Greg Robinson fight with a three ringed binder like it was a giant clam for fifteen minutes this morning.
Finally, I'd like to close with a message to the fans, taken from a letter Charlotte Bronte sent to Emily Dickinson.
(puts on reading glasses)
"I got a ring and you don't, trick."
P.S. Dear god I'm so incredibly wealthy.