clock menu more-arrow no yes mobile

Filed under:


New, 38 comments

See this if you want to make any sense out of what follows.

New Michigan Athletics Consultant: The Bishop Don Magic Juan

Rich Rodriguez sips at his drink and looks around the bar.

Bartender: Another, ma'am?

RR: Yeah, make it another Jack and Coke.

Bartender: If it's on his tab, it's gotta be well brand. Sorry, but that's what he said.

West Virginia's in the corner playing darts and yelling out WOOOOOOOOOOOOO! for no particular reason, and not paying attention to RR, who's wearing a low cut top and tight blue jeans.

RR: It's like he doesn't even love me sometimes.

Bartender: What?

RR: Well's fine, man. Just pour it.

Bill Martin, Michigan Athletic director, walks into the bar. He is wearing his customary captain's hat, but has eschewed his old suit and tie for a frilly blue shirt, skin-tight yellow pants, and a full-length chinchilla coat that extends to the floor. At his side is a woman dressed in a matching chinchilla coat, hot pants, and a Foxy Brown top.

Bartender: What the fuck is that?

The bar stops, and the sound of a needle being dragged across a record is audible in the background

Bill Martin: What is up,

Martin: You trick bitches and skank duffel bag boys. Bow...(swallows) a pimp!

The bar goes silent. Bouncers flex quietly and crack their knuckles.

Mary Sue Coleman, Michigan President, leans into Martin's ear and whispers.

MSC: sotto voce Try to sound less mincing when you say that. Use the pimp juice, Bill!

Martin: Right-o. BOW....TO A PIMP!!!

He fumbles in his pockets and pulls out fistfuls of money.

MSC: Bill, you have to throw it in the air. It's called "making it rain."

Martin: Why would they call it that?

MSC: Because you're "making it rain money," that's why.

Martin: My, but that would be a tremendous waste of money! Why on earth--

MSC: Just throw it, Bill. Trust me.

Martin throws the money, and the floor is covered with bar patrons scuffling on the dingy concrete for Martin's money. Bouncers leap in to break up fights and attempt to scrounge some lucre for themselves.

MSC: Now, just walk right up to her. Go ahead.

Martin: And just...I can't just throw money at her. That's so...vulgar!

MSC: Trust me on this one.

Martin: Whatever happened to a nice conversation, or perhaps sharing a malted shake at a diner, even? A bit proletarian, I know, but the slumming was what made piquant, you know.

MSC: Bill, treat a ho like a ho. Remember what I told you earlier today?

Martin: (Sighs, recites.) Pimpin' ain't easy....

MSC: Go on.

Martin: But it got to be done.

MSC: That's my streetstalkin' hustler, Bill. No go treat her like the ho she is.

Martin approaches RR, who is already turned toward him and staring.

RR: Who the hell are---

Martin: Please, um. Shake it?

MSC: Jesus, Bill. It's a command, not a question.

Martin: Oh, yes. SHAKE IT, BITCH!!!

He tosses money at RR, who seems stunned.

RR: What the hell are you doing?


RR: boyfriend he's....

MSC: Just keep throwing the money. He'll trick for treats if you keep going.

Martin: (now feverishly throwing money) LIKE IT'S HOT! I DEMAND YOU DROP IT LIKE IT'S HOT!

RR, as if under a spell, instantly drops his ass to the floor and starts scrubbing said ground and popping it like it's hot. . MSC digs in her pockets as well, and begins peeling off money and making it rain on RR.

MSC: It's all a matter of the price. Do the rabbit in a hat trick!

Bartender: Wow. A sighting of the rare she-pimp!

Martin: My, this is invigorating! COME WITH ME TO

MSC: The crib, Bill. The crib.

MARTIN: To the CRIB! Where you will assist in MAKING YOUR DADDY RICH!!!

RR: Anything you want, daddy. I'm yours. You like that?

Martin: Oh certainly!

West Virginia, finally noticing the spectacle unfolding at the bar: GET YUR HANDS OFFA MAH WOMAN, PREPPIE!

MSC: Bill, let's go.

Martin: I got no patience, and I hate waiting. Bitch--and I only mean that in the colloquial sense, and certainly mean no professional disrespect to you, ma'am--get your ass in here and let's ri-ai-ai-ai-ai-aide.

RR: Anything you say, daddy.


MSC: Floor it.

Martin, being dragged out of the door, pops his head back in for a farewell.

Martin: Thank you all, and we out like Clay Aiken, y'all! Get money!