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Oh, blank godless sky: why rain on precious me?

Welcome to the press conference, journalists and assorted nincompoops. Your mongoloid brains probably don't understand the words coming out of my mouth, but first, I will assure you in your own barbarous tongue that I am no threat to you.

HEY! ME PERSON TOO! NO HURT! NO HURT! (Tosses candy and beer towards the reporters.)

Also allow me to assure you that the folding chairs laid out in front of you mean you no harm. Sure, you may perceive their strange forms to be some form of predatory plant, like a Venus Flytrap waiting to gobble your tubby buttocks up in a single snap and gulp. Again, I address you in a form of speech you can understand, cretins.

CHAIRS NO BITE! CHAIRS FRIEND! SIT! (Reporters sit, and more beer and candy is tossed.)

Good, good. You know, I could have been so much more than a football coach in real life. I could have written coy anthropological/neurological texts examining the interactions between the overmanned human mind and its hostile environment. I could have engineered clever and daring arctic expeditions, like being the first man to cross the polar caps on a riding lawnmower. I could have gone to law school, dammit.

Instead, I damn myself to this. Why? Oh, the eternal query, no? Why does man make himself his own worst enemy? Why did Hamlet hesitate? Why did Darwin wait so long to publish Origin of Species? Why can't Duncan Sheik make a new album? All great questions you can't possibly understand.

For example, examine this quote of mine from this week's press conference:

Question: What kind of adjustments could you have made?

Callahan: Oh, I think it's probably too technical for you, but I think in the broad spectrum of adjustments, just playing the quarterback a little bit better on the zone read in terms of the front assignments... I don't want to get into coachspeak, but there were a lot of things in terms of front adjustments that you have to deal with. I think our coaches were dealing with that to the best of their ability.

You see, sometimes people need great lies just to make their little brains work. I bring my attack and my pared-down, merely 600 page playbook to the burnt-out, hollow damnation that is the middle of the country, and what thanks do I receive? Merely millions of dollars and constant bumptious bumpkin blather about my "results."

Heels! Results are not art. At my soul, perhaps that is my greatest quality. "A creative man is motivated by the desire to achieve, not by the desire to beat others." That's Ayn Rand, and that in its quintessence is the collection of magnificent flesh and whirring brain cells you see in front of you, Bill Callahan! I don't win--I achieve. Look at my record for proof of that, as it's chocked full of winless achievement.

So go read The Fountainhead, corn syrup worshipping dotards. I'm off to the archery range. And to bid you adieu, I speak in your own degraded patois, which I lifted from the flickering box of images you worship in place

NO FIRE! GETTING BUYOUT! SUCK IT! (throws candy and beer at reporters, who shuffle out befuddled.)