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Jerry Glanville is in the building! And Jerry Glanville is excited, so to hell with Jim Grobe getting a ten-year conference extension at Wake Forest. They suck so much they only get one A in their division.

Jerry's grabbing hisself a job coaching the 1-double A football at Portland State, baby. That's Portland State, people, and twice as many A's. Learn it, know it, and love it because it's gonna have you all shook up when we put the college football world in a ring of fire!

What victory looks like: Jerry's got hisself a job.

Things were looking pretty dim for Jerry there for a hot minute. First, Ol' Jerry was walking the line not for some hotshot car dealer who bought an NFL team on a lark--no, The Man in Black was walking the sidelines in some shithole called Hawaii and working for my old flunky June Jones. He's the guy who screwed up the best quarterback this ol' coach ever saw, Jeff George. God, he was a young James Dean, except not bisexual, with a weaker chin, not blond, and most definitely not with the same eyes. But except that and George's rocket of an arm, they were essentially the same person, right? Hey!

Jerry's working for June Jones, right, and June's changed, like, majorly. With Coach Jerry in Atlanta he was always fun and easy-going and down, you know? I'd say something like, "Hey, June, nice dress," or "Have dinner ready at six and your pants down at eight, June!" Because he's got a woman's name, right? A real lady of a man, that's what Jerry called him. And it killed every time. When he worked for Jerry he thought it was funny, anyway.

In Hawaii, it was like Jerry had some kind of charisma leprosy.

June wouldn't even have dinner with Jerry. Okay, he did once, but it was a quick stop for fish tacos. Who the fuck puts fish in their tacos? Jerry wants slag meat scraped from the drains of the slaughterhouse for his tacos, just the way the good people at Taco Bell make 'em.

Fish tacos? Jerry says no to fish tacos.

And they didn't even have dirt-track racing in Hawaii. Just fucking drag-racing, where you strap your ass to ball of gasoline and wonder what went wrong when the whole thing lights up and you're turned to a suckling pig wrapped in a melted drag chute. I even tried this whole "lava-sledding" thing they've got going on, just because the beast in me needed to feed on a rush, and leaving tickets for Dog The Bounty Hunter at the will-call window and stealing welfare checks out of strange mailboxes in my apartment complex just wasn't cutting it anymore, you know?

Jerry Glanville, though, got a suspicious mind once he lined up and saw what lava-sledding's all about. First, they make you race on a ladder. A fucking ladder. A ladder doesn't even have a paint job, and it certainly doesn't have brakes. And you can't paint it black, which if you know Jerry is just par for the course. Brother's gotta have cowboy boots, and he's gotta have his sweet black duds. Riding a ladder in a fruity-ass Hawaiian shirt down a cheese-grater was never, ever part of the deal.

Jerry rode a ladder down a cheese grater for fun. Hawaii sucks, people.

The Hawaiian kids on the team--you wouldn't believe how many freaking Hawaiian kids they've got out there--were all like, woooo Coach, you're a total badass, go go go! And I don't want to nut out and look like a coward or anything, so Ol' Jerry goes a hunka-hunka down the lava flow, falls off the little assrocket of a sled they give you, and watches his black pants and french-cut silk underwear fucking explode off my kiester.

The sum total? It looked like someone had run the Gritz Blitz on Jerry's chassis, y'all. Little Elvis and his two buddies Red and Sonny? Waxed clean and abraded. Hell, Sonny and Red looked like two peaches who'd lost a fight with a sandpaper dragon. Jerry donated a good chunk of my ass to the fire goddess Pele on the way, too, but Jerry will tell you that a few weeks after the accident, Jerry's cheeks were smoother than a Tennesee Flat Top Box.

Anyway, do you know how hot it gets wearing black in Hawaii? They don't even play Bob Seger on the radio down there. And if Jerry can't get at least the manly grumble of Bob Seger talkin' about how sweet it was to bang someone in the woods in the '60s--you know, back when in-woods bangin' was in fashion--then Jerry's gotta skip and get hip somewhere else.

Portland State, hope you're ready for Jerry. Because you're not. This much burnin' love hasn't come your way since Mount Hood last erupted.

Jerry has left the building.