We join Jim Tressel in mid-press conference on the Big Ten Network. Let's pop in and see what he's saying!
Jim Tressel: We've got a lot of people to replace on this team. Can you imagine how you guys would feel if you lost a third of the people in your company?
Media/survivors of massive newspaper layoffs, nodding and groaning: "Oh yeah...."
Tressel: Yeah, except we can replace our guys.
Tressel: Wait, there really are fewer of you. I just thought you were all out filling out law school applications, getting gastric bypass surgery, but good great googly moogly--it looks like someone served plague for dinner last week in here.
Reporter1: It's been hard.
Tressel: (Laughs.) I'm sure! (Laughs again.) Yes, I'm sure it has. Hey, what happened to your little dictaphones?
Reporter2: We're taking notes by hand now. More cost-effective.
Tressel: That looks like one of those pencils you write down a golf score with, Tim.
Reporter1: [holds up the pencil. It reads "Franklin County Municipal Golf Course."]
Tressel: Yeesh. Not even the good ones. So no photos either? So if I did something really quickly--
Reporter1: Nope. Didn't get it on our cell cameras, either.
Tressel: How about if I talk really fast and put on a cheerleader's outfit real quick? Like this?
Too fast? Need me to say it again?
Reporter2: That would be nice, coach, if you could, and keep the cheerleader's outfit on...
Tressel then slides into a one-piece sweatervest and slacks jumpsuit in seconds.
Tressel: Ha, I have no idea what you're talking about, Bob. Didn't hear a thing! Hey...will you guys do things for money now? You have to be poorer than I can ever remember being now that all this has happened.
Reporter3: I'm insulted by this, Coach. This is--
Reporter2: Shut the fuck up, Ed. What kind of money are we talking about?
Tressel: Attaboy, Tim. What I'm going to do is make you dress up in my burro costume. Then together we will ride. Like a loyal, sweet burro! That's what you'll be. And the rest of you are going to sketch it on your stolen La Quinta stationery and put it in the paper tomorrow.
Reporter2: I'll do it for $1,000.
Tressel: Twenty bucks.
Tressel: And you'll wear this saddle?
Reporter2: A hundred and I'll sing in Spanish.
Tressel: 75 and you'll take orders in American, son.
Reporter2: [sighs and grieves for all he once thought he would be] Deal.
Tressel: Giddyup! To old Mexico, my little grey friend!
Reporter1: Come on, xanax. Work, dammit. Now.
Reporter3: [Wishes self out of existence with an audible 'POP']
(HT: The good doctor.)