Bill Parcells has done it again.

He has systematically revived a losing team and left it on the verge of greatness.

Herm Edwards was the beneficiary in New York and this time around it is Wade Phillips in Dallas.

Me, I am about finishing the job once it has started, so this Pacellsian logic is way beyond my grasp.

Duane Charles wastes all his god damn time metaphorically jacking off (blank) franchise — really working up a lather upon his Jersey brow by drafting the players and hammering out the foundation for a fresh system. He probably develops an acute case of tendinitis in his elbow during the process, thereby taking it out on all the innocents that surround him. It is a pretty miserable existence if you ask me.

But since Parcells exhibits this trait in football, it leaves a gaping window of exploration and bounding hypotheses into his life off the gridiron.

In what other areas of life does he display such tendencies?

Taking a shit

After storming through a bread bowl of chili and cheese, Bill really feels the pressure mount upon his anus. He follows it up with a double shot of espresso and sits in a perverse doggy style manner upon the floor — allowing the gas to seep from the orifice deep beneath his starched, pressed khakis. As the turtle head starts to protrude and poke into his 1980s Hanes, his asshole just fucking shuts down code red style. The gates to the Willy Wonka’s chocolate paradise cannot be opened without a golden ticket. Enter Jason Garrett, the present day Charlie Bucket and a human mother fucking laxative.

Waiting in line at Six Flags

All fucking day you have been waiting in line to ride the newest “Cheat your fucking existence” ride at Six Flags. Parcells is there, wearing some fucking bogus shirt about his cock being able to penetrate a pussy better than the 3-4 defense penetrates an offensive line. Anyway, as you approach the front of the line, Parcells starts fucking whining about a fear of heights and all this bullshit. He demands a Chinese ransom of opium in order to board the ride. T.O. comes to Bill’s aid with a special blend of “My grandma was was fucking crazy” drugs.

Carving the turkey

Parcells has baked the bird all day. It is seasoned with a special bled of parmesano and oregano, lifting it to the ethereal level of a Dirty Jerz bird. Bill, equipped with Reebok oven mits, reaches for the oven door and just fucking stares at his reflection. Tears begin pouring down his face and he thinks of the millions of birds slaughtered each year. He then thinks of the thousands of Indians that were scalped and begins to crawl into the fetal position.

“SOMEONE CLEANSE ME OF THIS PAIN!” he screams as the bird blackens in the oven.

Doing a power hour

Parcells, equipped with a cooler pack of Coors Light bottles, starts shooting off at the mouth about Wichita State and all the bald beaver he ravaged there. The 59th song of the power hour, which is titled This Is the End Of The World As We Know It, begins to blare over the speakers. Parcells, clothed in a Giants sweater vest, climbs on the coffee table and starts nailing the verses.

The power hour begins to tick down.

5 … 4 … 3 …

** Parcells takes his fingers and jams them down his throat. Puke starts absolutely rocketing out of his mouth **

Aikman comes in and fills up two cups with the vomit, grabs a video camera and takes it to Arenz Battle’s house.

So, what other activities can you see Parcells exhibiting such cut-and-run behavior?

This entry was posted on Saturday, November 24th, 2007 at 6:52 pm and is filed under Parcells, football. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.