Alright, you sad excuses for athletes, listen up.
If you were expecting some uplifting, motivational bullshit, too fucking bad. Go cry to your goddamn mom. What’s that? You’re all orphans? Go fuck yourselves, this isn’t a pity party, this is a fucking Bowl game.
This is my tenth goddamn year coaching the championship game, and I came here to win. Each year I’m stuck with a fresh team of you rookie assholes, chasing your tails and sticking your taints in the end zone water dish like it’s fucking playtime at the doggie day care. Well, not this year.
I’m fucking sick of listening to this ref call penalties for excessive cuteness year after year. If you came here today to be called “cute” and get on TV, you can walk out of this fucking locker room right now, move to L.A., dress in drag and model for goddamn page-a-day puppy calendars.
We came here today to play the game, and we came here to win. I don’t give a damn if you’re only ten weeks old—when their linebacker hits you in the face like a bag of dicks, you need to get up, nip him in the belly, and run the ball down the fucking field.
There’s no excuse to roll over and give up a single goddamn touchdown today. Are you scared of the Bernese Mountain Dog just because your whole body could fit in his fucking mouth? Suck it up, candy ass. You still have your balls, act like it. If I have to get the Bissel out here to vacuum your tears off the field, I swear I will neuter you myself during the next time out.
I know those fucking petting zoo cheerleaders have shit for brains and can’t spell a goddamn thing, but what they’re trying to tell you is to be fucking A-G-G-R-E-S-S-I-V-E.
Let’s make one thing clear: the only pussies on the field should be the stars of the Kitten Halftime Show. You want a fucking forever home? Bring home that championship ring.
Now let’s go out there and beat those sons of bitches.