Lou Holtz has a new autobiography coming out, and despite this nelly nelly column in Whole Hog Sports bemoaning the release of the new book--who hasn't filmed a commercial for Jesse Helms?*--we're still ordering our custom-made author's copy complete with waterproof pages to spray spittle on sans abandon.
The excerpt from Amazon's advance copy says it more adequately than we can:
A standout is Holtz's long-term position at Notre Dame, of special importance not just because of his devout Catholicism but also his refreshing devotion to strict academic standards for the players. In fact, what stands out is his modesty and adamant belief that football is ultimately less important than education.
Stop laughing. Really, stop laughing. Your boss is getting suspicious. No, seriously--this is how people end up getting Baker Acted and put on serious meds. Unless that's what you're angling for in the first place, in which case you can just keep rolling on the floor until the paramedics arrive.
Approaching Insane Clown Posse crazy here.
The magic midget's new bio does contain a lot of juicy new anecdotes you may not have heard in prior autobiographies. Just a few:
--Grew up with John Nash, a fellow West Virginian who totally stole Holtz's elementary school work on Riemannian manifolds in Euclidian space and never gave Lou credit.
--Composed script for Blue Lagoon, envisioning himself in the role ultimately played by Christopher Atkins. "I just wanted to tell a story of innocence, pure, unviolated innocence," writes Holtz. "I also wanted to show the world what Lou Holtz looked like in a loincloth, which is a pretty special sight, friend."
--Participated in fight clubs at South Carolina, which Holtz admits was a mistake that ultimately led to the discipline problems plaguing the South Carolina program. Holtz, displaying scathing honesty, blames his lifelong bloodlust:
"Dondrell Dondrial spun again, reeling from my punches like a drunk man in a washing machine. A flap of his skin hung off his cheek, and my berserker genes went off. All my life there's been this point of no return in me, some indeterminate frontier where Lou the provider, the man with the whistle, the incisive commentator, the faithful husband...they all peel back to reveal my inner killer, the ape with the knife hungry only for blood, blood, blood. It wasn't me who killed that drifter in a back alley in St. Paul that night, and it wasn't Lou Holtz who beat a man to splinters in the flatbed of a truck in Oaxaca for seventeen pesos...it was the ape with the knife. It took seven men to pull me off Dondrell Pinkins; his face looked like a smashed jelly donut, and I was naked and covered in blood, war paint and feathers. God curse the beast inside me... may god damn him to hell.
Beware the ape with a knife.
--Met Bill Clinton once.
The book goes on sale in August.
*At least that's what he said it was. Why he needed us to take our clothes off for it still confuses us...but hey, it got us free tickets to the Boy Scout Jamboree!
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