Listen to me, Texas: We are not going to Target for a toy. We are not getting a new toy. We are not going to have Goldfish, because goddammit that's not even food, much less something you can eat in bed. We are not going to go to bed without brushing your teeth.
Put on your pajamas, Texas. The right way this time. Clean your room, and don't make me say it twice, and take the toothpaste out of your mouth. How much of it did you eat? Half the tube? Are we calling poison control again, just so your mother can hear "He'll either poop it all out or die, and there's nothing we can do about it either way, lady?" We're not going to eat any more toothpaste, or cry from the bedroom about how you need water or socks.
You are going to wake your baby brother up like that, and Texas A&M over there needs their sleep. He's growing. Rebuilding. Whatever.
Daddy Charlie is tired. We are not going to the park at 8:30 p.m., because there are teens smoking weed and getting handjobs in it. We are not going to the park, not eating crackers in bed for dinner, and I swear, Texas, we are not going to the national title game this year.
BUT I WANNA GO TO THE NATIONAL TITLE GAME. Do you pay rent here, son? Do you keep the lights on? Do you think you can just go wherever you want? You can go to San Antonio by yourself, and I'm very proud of that. You got on the plane and everything by yourself! But son, when you're ready, you'll go. And I'm your dad. I love you very much, little Texas.
But dammit I am the parent here. You are going straight to bed. And you are not going to the national title game. Not now, not this year. Not until you are grown, son.
And no, I don't care what Grandpa Mack said you could do, or how much candy he let you eat in bed. I don't care. That's why you had all those cavities. We floss in this house and we don't eat candy and we don't do five hours of TV a day while texting Matthew McConnelly or whoever. We're not going to be happy about the Holiday Bowl, we're not going to watch Spongebob on the iPad under the covers after dark, and we're not going to the national title game this year no matter how many times you ask.
I mean, you can't even beat Uncle Art in a game of---
[/Uncle Art goes to a national title game]
DAMMIT ART I'M TRYING TO SET AN EXAMPLE HERE---
Anyway, get back in bed, kid. No, I'm not going to snuggle with you. I'm not going to lie to you and tell you what you want to hear. You get one story book tonight, my pick. It's called 4-3 Under Playbook 2014. It's a great story. Try to have it memorized by breakfast. Which won't be McDonald's. I know Grandpa Mack took you to McDonalds every morning. I don't care. I'm your real dad now, and you're eating steel cut oatmeal and eggs from now on. Win a few games, and we'll start talking Egg McMuffins. You eat that stuff every morning, pretty soon BYU's running for 300 yards on your fat ass.
But we are not going to McDonalds' anytime soon, Texas. And we are not going to the national title game.