Federal Agents, Mad Cause I'm Flagrant

Tressel here. Coach Tressel, if you do. And you will, if you don't want a helping of my patented ass-kick salad.

Straight up with y'alls gangsta-ass bitches
I'm the Coach with the Roach, that keeps em in stitches.
You best not mess with Jimmy T,
There ain't nothin you chumps can pin on me.
I'll smoke your herb and stuff your bitch for free,
Cause you know I'm exactly who you want to be.
Don't hate the playa' just hate the game,
cause i do it all in Jesus's Name.

A little celebratory rhyme for beatin' the rap.

I couldn't talk about this until now, because my lawyers said it would be a "bad idea," but fuck them. This is such a good story. Last weekend I had all these flat-footed fucks all up in my biznits, showin' up here at the Tresselrosa with a warrant pullin their CSI bullshit. They're all like “The forensic team will need to drain your pool, Mister Tressel,” and “This investigation of your home is a serious matter, Mister Tressel,” and "you have the right to an attorney, Mister Tressel." Nevermind the fact Mister Tressel was in the middle of a little alone time with little Tressel, hell, Mister Tressel could barely find time to rub one out with all the bacon nosin around, I had to duck into the laundry room with a copy of National Geographic and a bottle of Jergens.

Seriously I need to stop masturbating.

Anyway wouldn't you know it, but Johnny Gumshoe had to go and find that hooker Troy Smith accidently strangled. So as it turns out, dead hooker parts turning up in the mulch pile are a slightly bigger deal than I anticipated. I mean dead hookers are what wood-chippers are for, am I right or am I right? It's not like I left her in the fuckin' pool. I thought I was being responsible, but I guess not responsible enough for ole Gene "my son is a coke whore" Smith, Athletic Directory, who felt the need to bring this up to the board of Trustees.

Fuck that guy.

I mean, yeah, things got a little out of hand around ol’ Jimbo’s place during the Fiesta Bowl Bash, but c’mon, it was like a month ago. Fucking get over it. That prick's probably the one who called the Feds in the first place.

Bottom line, I spent a lot of time smoothing shit out with the boosters this week, not to mention I got Gene "I think I'm so high and mighty cause no one knows I like to beat off to amputee porn with a trashbag over my head" Smith, Athletic Director on my case.

Fuck, do I miss Geiger. He never used to give a shit about dead hookers.

Yeah, so Thursday, I was craving some serious stress relief in the form of a fat sack of cheeb. Normally, Krenzel’s my go-to guy for some tasty herbage. He usually rounds up some serious skunk and doesn’t mind stopping by the ol’ Casa Jimbo to smoke me up free-of-charge. I think it's cause I have the NFL network.

But this week he was bone dry, so I cruised by the Hayes Center to see if I could get a pinch out of T. Smith’s bag. No such luck. Troy told me to acks A.J. Hawk, who told me to ask Santonio, who finally told me that Clarett met this guy in the pen who would hook you up for a tossed salad or some OSU Football Tickets. Guess who's goin to openin' day? Sorry make-a-wish kid, Coach is Jonesin'. Try Disney World.

Now, me and Mo haven’t talked much since ‘the incident,’ but by then I was hankerin' so hard I figured it couldn’t hurt to call him just once. Shit, it was either him or Herbstreit--who despite his name, is a total douche when he’s high.

Anyway, so I wind up all the way over at his shithole apartment off Chittenden and North 4th, where he gives me a free rip off his 4-footer and we watch some Golden Girls on Lifetime. Now I’ll smoke anything in a drought, but these lungs are used to the kind, you know? I mean, I'm a National Champion, a Coach of the Year, I got standards. Anyway, so now I’m stuck with a whole quarter of this shit, I’m completely tweaked, with an Athletic Department board meeting in half an hour.

Well I’m sure you can imagine how that went. In the bathroom beforehand, I realized I was all out of Visine, and my eyeballs were completely fried, like the worst pinkeye you've ever had. I couldn’t concentrate at all. My fuckin' heart felt like it was gonna explode. I just sat there the whole time thinking, ‘They know…they know…they all totally know…’ I kept my head down, hoping I wouldn’t have to talk, but then Gene "my breath smells like shit because I'm rotting from the inside out" Smith piped up and was all like, “So what’s up with the dead hooker situation, Jim?” Everyone was just staring at me for what seemed like at least an hour, and as I was searching for an answer, which sucks because I was totally ready for that, and totally had the best comeback, but I was drawing a blank, you know? That’s when my hand slipped down into my pocket, as they usually do when I'm nervous, and I suddenly remembered that I had a quarter-ounce of brick-packed, meth-laced Mexican dirt weed on me in the middle of a board meeting.

Now a lesser man might have completely lost his shit in a situation like that. But this is Coach Jim Tressel we’re talking about here, kiddies. The fuckin' chosen one. So I just told those assholes that we’d distract the press from the hooker thing (which thanks to more well placed opening day tickets, is still just an allegation, and not a full indictment) by leaking another Maurice Clarett armed robbery story. He still hasn't returned my copy of The Guyver, so we embellish and say he broke into my house and stole some electronics. While we're at it, maybe pin the dead hooker thing on him too, that way Troy Smith doesn't have to sit out...again.

Serves the prick right for selling such shitty grass. So all in all, I guess my week shook out OK.