Late-night phone call

It was 3 a.m. this morning when Les Miles’ phone rang.

Miles: Hello?

Tuberville: That you, Les?

Miles: What the …? Who is this? Do you know what time it is?

Tuberville: This couldn’t wait, Les. This is Tommy. Tommy Tuberville. We’ll be gettin’ to know each other real good real soon. You’re gonna be my beyotch.

Miles: Your what?

Tuberville: Beyotch! Damn, Les, get with it! This is 2008! The days of huge heads are over! Big ears are all the rage now! Big ears and the spread and the smell of toasted corndogs!

Miles: Are you on drugs?

Tuberville: Amped up on anticipation’s all, Les. I can’t wait to kick your lightweight hind end clear to Lake Charles on Saturday night! You seen my defense, Les? You best tell Harvard Boy Hatch that, as of Saturday night, he’ll have a new position. Fetal!

Miles: Tommy, I’ve seen your offense, too.

Tuberville: You haven’t seen shit, Les! You think I’m gonna waste a perfectly plump playbook on some rural Mississippi mutts? Nosiree, bobtail cat! We’ve had you guys in our sights since we licked the last drops of Clemson’s blood from our hands. Ain’t no last-minute miracle gonna save your ass this time. You really should’ve taken that cushy Michigan gig. Would’ve saved both you and Richie Rod a whole lotta hurtin’!

Miles: Tommy, I don’t underst --- …

Tuberville: Here’s all there is to understand, Lester. I’m in your noggin’ and there’s plenty of room for me to move around in here. In fact, Sen’Derrick Marks is up in here with me chillin’ til he can chomp down on a Hatchburger ‘bout 6:45 on Saturday. And, by the way, you are cordially --- ‘cause I’m a cordial kind of guy --- invited to Mario Fannin’s Coming Out Party. You’re welcome to wear your hat and, if you want, one of those pansy-ass purple shirts. It’s an all-purpose affair, so don’t be surprised if 27 runs over your Bengal butt, passes gas in your general direction and or throws you slam outta Jordan-Hare. I’ve got about 200 APY in mind, but Mario’s pretty pumped, so it could be more. Dude, you’ve been soooo punk’d!

Miles: Tommy, I gotta get some --- …

Tuberville: Sleep? Who are you kidding? You ain’t gonna sleep a wink with your pea-sized brain rollin’ around in that gargantuan hydrocephalic sphere atop your shoulders filled with thoughts of murderous blue bandits that shoot your wideouts and fondle your majorettes! You know, Les, gas is expensive these days. Why don’t y’all just stay at home? You’d accomplish the same thing, really.

Miles: (shaken, not stirred) Tommy, what’s this about?

Tuberville: I’m just being a nice person, Les. Letting you know what’s in sto’! See, I don’t lose to ranked teams at night in Jordan-Hare. It just doesn’t happen, Les. Call that bait-breath Gator down in Gainesville, Oscar Meyer or whatever his name is. Ask him. ‘Course I whip him anywhere, anytime. It’s sort of a hobby now.

Miles: Who you gonna start at quarterback?

Tuberville: Lester, I could start Lindsay Lohan at quarterback and it wouldn’t matter. You’re done! Toast! Blackened Bengal at my Saturday night picnic. God, Les, if you only knew how bad this is gonna be. In comparison to the fate I’ve in store for you, Abu Ghraib is a theme park with 17 rollercoasters! Tray Blackmon is merely amused by Trindon Holliday. Charles Scott makes Tez Doolittle snicker. Demetrius Byrd? He’s Jerraud Powers’ junebug on a string. Lee Ziemba can’t wait to clobber Tyson Jackson. It’s really simple, Les. Your ass. Our grass. My masterplan has worked devilishly perfectly! It’s time to dance! Pump up the Clifton Chenier, baby!!

Miles: Who in the hell is Clifton Chenier?

Tuberville: That's really sad, Les. Never you mind, Les. You need know one name and one name only. Mine. Tommy Tuberville. But, you know what, Les?

Miles: What?

Tuberville: Come Saturday night about 10 o'clock, you may as well call me Daddy!