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Lloyd Carr asks Chad Henne into his office. Henne sits down.

Carr: Henne. You need to jerk it up a little. (HT: Larry Brown Sports.)

Henne: Um, sir?

Carr: Jerk it up.

Henne: I...I don't do that sir. And isn't that a bit personal. I mean, I'll do anything for Michigan football, but I can't see how that'll win...(Blushes.)

Carr: Jesus, I'm not talking about badgering the witness.

Henne: Oh, heh. Sorry.

Carr: Burping the worm.

Henne: Yes.

Carr: Squeezing the toothpaste.

Henne: Sir, I get it?

Carr: See, that's what I mean. Always with the sirs, the pleases, the ma'ams.

Henne: Well, sure , sir. It's--

Carr: It makes you a total pussy, Henne. And total pussies cannot play quarterback in the Big Ten, Chad.

Henne: Jeff George played for Illinois, sir.



Carr: Anyway, you've got to drop the civil shit and really get a cocktail fork into some nutsacks out there. That's the only way you get 'em to perform for you, Henne.

Henne: Fear?

Carr: Better--hate.

Henne: Lemme put this on my ThinkPad, here, I just want to write this down--

(Carr seizes the Louis Vuitton bag and slams it to the ground, laptop and all.)

Carr: Son, you can't have a Louis Vuitton bag and start here. You can't.

Henne: It's a European carry-all--

Carr: Say that again and I will shoot you like I shot JFK and Hitler, son.

Henne: ...

Carr: Okay, now. We'll have to review some terminology.

Henne: Fuck You!

Carr: What did you just say to me?

Henne: Sorry, trying to get in the spirit of the whole thing.

Carr: Oh, well, then...that's a start now, isn't it. Okay, the X receiver?

Henne: Yes?

Carr: You will call him "Shitbag." Got it?

Henne: Yes...assface!

Carr: Don't get cheeky, son. Remember: I shot Hitler.

Henne: Sorry. This is fun!

Carr: (stares stare promising a fiery, painful death. Flames from a Berlin bunker flicker in his eyes.)

Henne: (Shudders.)

Carr: Your Z receiver? You will now call him Fuckley Shitmahpants.

Henne: Check.

Carr: And the protections? We have five of them, each paired with a direction.

Henne: Names?

Carr: Fumbletits, Whorechum, Fartslap, Cockbiter, and Assmaster.

Henne: Gotcha.

Carr: So gimme a standard pass play to practice.

Henne: (at top of lungs) Delta Fuckley McShitMahPants Tango Z-slot Shitbag Whorechum Roger 5 Hut! (giggles.)

Carr: Just like that, son. Just like that. But don't giggle.

Henne: Awesome. (stifles giggle) Anything else?

Carr: This is Glengarry Glen Ross. Go home. Watch it. Memorize it. For the next five months, only respond to people in phrases that are said by Alec Baldwin in this film. Do you understand that?

Henne: Yes, sir. What else?

Carr: You know Manningham's girlfriend?

Henne: Oh, she's really pretty. And nice, too!

Carr: Impregnate her. Or at the least, have a good firm baby muscle-tussle with her one night. You're the qb. Tell her you know Tom Brady, and she'll be begging for it.

Henne: Um, okay.

Carr: And Jake Long's new car? The one he got with his NFL-guaranteed loans?

Henne: Oh, yeah. He's really proud of it. You shoulda seen him the other day, he was just glowing riding around in it.

Carr: I want you to stand on the hood and piss on it in ten minutes in the parking lot or I'm benching your ass.

Henne: But I could get arrested, sir...and it's his new car and all...

Carr: SILENCE!!! You don't need to be nice, Henne. You've got to be a jerk. And being a jerk sometimes means urinating in public on a man's new ride. And if he interrupts, give that daisy a little water and tell him all about it while you're doing it.

Henne: Jake could kick my ass, sir. Like, to the moon, I'm pretty sure.

Carr: BUT HE WON'T!!! Don't you understand? They want you to pee on their cars and impregnate their women. They want a dictator, son. They're little people, son. They crave order.

Henne: Really?

Carr: Yes, son. You're a god among insects. Don't let anyone tell you different.

Henne: Yes, sir.

Carr: Now go piss on Jake's car. Mark your territory, son.

Henne: Are you sure this is going to work? I mean, who acts like this? Impregnating women randomly? Pissing on cars?

Carr: I call them Tom Brady and Brian Griese son. Other people call them champions.

Henne: Heading out right now, fuckface.

Carr: That's my boy.