When Michigan loses, the children suffer.
“Do you see, Lloyd? Do you see what you made me do? The fire consuming the favorite possession of my daughter, my own flesh and blood who sprung forth from my wife and I’s loins, is the fire of hatred that burns in my heart for you producing an underachieving football team.
Her tears, her cries in the endless black where I used to keep love, they are futile attempts to extinguish the rage and fury that smolders deep within me, as well as on this hat. Appalachian State may have yielded the spark, but you, Lloyd Carr, you heartless abyss of mediocrity, you provided the kerosene-soaked timber that will burn and build inside of me until you take leave from my beloved football program.
So help me, Lloyd Carr, if you lose to Notre Dame this weekend, I will have no choice but to strap my daughter’s Dora the Explorer doll to the back of my truck and drive it through a medical waste landfill, which are plentiful in Northern Michigan.
Your inability to field a competent defense have made me a shell of a man, a desolate husk of antipathy, a pupae of despair. Lloyd Carr, you bastard, you’ve killed any and all caring and affectionate facets of my being, leaving my daughter with an unfeeling nightwalker where her Daddy used to be. Your lack of coaching acumen has not only destroyed all hope for my generation, but has tainted any future for the generation that follows, as I cannot possibly be expected to adequately raise a child when I have no reason to believe in faith, justice, or that good in any form can exist in this godforsaken world. The irony of my “World’s Greatest Dad” T-shirt would require scientific notation to quantify.
I now crack open this Bud Light in a desperate attempt to numb the agony that haunts my dreams and darkens my days. And I hope that God, despite his infinite mercy, is unable to conjure a modicum of sympathy for your hopeless plight.”
