Now Pinch Hitting for Mrs. T...

Tressel here. Coach Jim Tressel. How are all my little Buck Nuts? Good? Yeah, well I've been sleeping at a goddamn Motel 6 for the last few days thanks to this stupid blog, so you can all rot in hell. I hope you guys enjoy this. I hope it was worth it. Because apparently Mrs. Tressel doesn't enjoy the World.

I guess she found a link to this blog on some message board for baking, or laundry, or cooking dinner, or whatever the hell it is she does for fun when I'm at work paying the mutha fuckin' bills. Needless to say, she didn't take to kindly to the photos from Spring Break.

But I guess that's the risk you take with this new and exciting medium that is the blog-O-sphere. No-Holds-Barred Truth, that's what this blog is about. I'm not pulling punches. I'm not holding back. There's a truth inside me, and it needs a place to breath. This blog is that place.

That being said, what a crazy weekend. So with the Mrs. not talking to me, I needed someone to take to Ken Blackwell's Key Parrty/Fund Raiser this weekend. I've said it once and I'll say it again, thank god for prostitutes. Sure enough no one attending, not Bob Taft, not Wally O'Dell, and certainly not Ken Blackwell or any of Ohio's other prominent Republicans noticed. Let's just say Shanta earned her twenty bucks. Unfortunately she gave everyone crabs. Still, it's not like its AIDS, and it's certainly nothing a little topical ointment can't take care of.

Honey, if you're reading this. Let's stop the fussin' and get back to mussin'. I miss you.

I also need you to pick up my drycleaning.

Penny Pinchin' Pointers

Hey there truebelievers, it's me, Tressel, Coach Jim Tressel. This week, I'm going to start a new segment I'll be calling Coach's Penny Pinchin' Pointers for Particular Pals. I'll be sharing all kinds of new and exciting ways for you to stretch that dollar the extra mile. Lord knows we could all save a few bucks what with the price of gas going through the fucking roof and all.

So just last week my wife put filters on our AOL to keep me from being able to download pornography. I know, I know, what a cunt. Well, rather than spend tens of thousands of dollars on Pornographic videos and magazines like I did in the old days before the internet, I came up with a little scheme to get a nce spank without breaking the bank.

I visit fertility clinics pretending to be interested in making a deposit. Not only do I leave with an extra hundred bucks, but I also take the porn with me, by sneaking it out under my jacket. Now, I know what you're thinking, "But coach, I don't want my seed out there floatin around. What if some kid comes knockin' at my door in 18 years wantin some money or a hug or something?"

Don't worry, I already thought of that. Keep in mind I don't want any more illegitimate children, myself. That's how I wound up addicted to porno in the first place. Believe me, I could get a real woman if I wanted to. I just can't afford the paternity suits. Also, I got an image to maintain. What I do is real simple. I sneak a couple mayonaise packets in my pocket. Simple, easy, and effective. It's also kind of funny when you picture the look on Susie Man-haters face when she shoots a load of Helman's up the beave instead of Coach Jimmy's man-juice. Ha! Nine months and out pops a tuna on Rye!!! Better yet, next time marry a real man, instead of some Nancy who shoots blanks.



That'll teach ya, to bypass naturual sex!!! Man, there's nothing more beautiful than a man and a woman fucking. Mmmm Mmmm. Nature.

Well, that's this week's tip. Tune in next week when I'll tell you how to feed a family of six with just a box of Shake 'n Bake and a half cup of Crisco. Mmmm Mmm can't wait. See ya then, and keep on pinchin'!!!!

:)

Scarlett vs. Who Gives a Flying Fuck

Hey kids, it's your old pal, Tressel. Coach Jim Tressel. Yeah, I know it's been a while since I've updated. Sorry I guess I've just been busy coaching the greatest football team that ever emerged from god's vagina. Hey! Who likes ice cream. So, yeah last weekend....about that giant waste of time you assholes call an excuse to get drunk, the Scarlett and Grey Game. whoopity fuckin do. Seriously, who get's off watching a team play themself? It's a fucking scrimmage you jerk-asses. The real deal don't start till August, so simmer down for I bust out my thongs and serve up some ass-kick salad. So who were you cheering for? "Oh, I just like to see our boys out there givin it their all." Hey, fuck you. You just want an excuse to eat bratwurst and drink Beast in the back of your lame ass Winebago, maybe score some underage cooch with the offer of some contra-band skunk brew. Did you even pay attention to the score? Oh, wait, there wasn't one. You people make me sick. I had to be there, It's my job, but you dicklicks could have been out enjoying a beautiful spring day. Riding bikes, or hoovercrafts, rock-climbing, going to Home Depot, whatever it is lame-ass whiteys do on their day off. Still, make sure you buy plenty of our new jerseys. Every jersey we sell goes to my favorite charity, The Buy Jim Tressel a new Hoovercraft Foundation.

So what's with this band OAR. They fucking suck. I guess it stands for Of A Revolution, but my guess is, the only revolution these cheese dicks are interested in pertains to rennovations at their local Gap. I've always said, the only thing that sucks more than Dave Matthews is people who want to be Dave Matthews.

I think they should be called TWG...Turds With Guitars. Seriously. What about these guys says revolution. Oh yeah, like, I'm gonna listen to a bunch of Frat Douche's try and play reggae music, and that's gonna inspire me to overthrow the corrupt oppressive regime that won't legalize pot. Way to rage against the machine there, boyos. Bob Marley's tumor ridden, maggot infested corpse is wailing in his grave. God, bring on the Steeley Dan for Chrissakes. How come all those guys from Skynnard had to die in a plane crash,(at least the one's that didn't suck) but these scrotes are still struttin' around my town bogartin' all my snatch!

That song, Crazy Game of Poker...it fucking sucks. How can you jam for 20 minutes about a game of poker. If these fuck-holes ever attended one of my crazy games of poker, they'd probably get stabbed...or shot. It's re-fucking-tarded. It'd be one thing if this poor excuse for a Steve Miller Band could actually play their instruments, but they suck. At best, I would describe them as a Spin Doctors tribute band.

Speaking of assholes...

I was watching the NBA playoffs this last week, and I just want to say, fuck you, Brent Musburger! Go Cavs.

Down and Out on Spring Break

Tressel, here. Coach Jim Tressel. Man, what a couple weeks I've had. Haven't updated much in the last two weeks. I was headed down to the Winter Music Conference in Miami Florida. Wanted to show off some of my fat beats, switch my plates with my good friend Carl Cox. Some of you might know of me by my stage name, DJ Galactic Star Crunch. Unfortunately I never made it there. That's cause, like a dumbass, I agreed to carpool with Skeete, who was headed down to Panama City for Spring Break. Needless to say, I wound up partying with him for two weeks and doing quite a bit of drugs. Most of the last two weeks is a blur. I remember very little between March 28, and yesterday morning at about 3am, when I woke up face down in a pool of someone elses vomit, wearing nothing but a sweater vest, in a parking lot of a Chick Fil-A in Huntsville, Alabama. There was a syringe in my arm with half a speedball still in it. Needless to say, I pushed the rest through, cleaned the blood off my ass, and then after waiting in the bushes for an hour, beat a trucker unconsious, took his pants, and wallet, and hopped a Gray Hound to Ohio. Needless to say I'm now home safe, back with the misses, in Columbus. Wouldn't you know it, but tucked into the front pocket of my sweater vest was a disposable camera. Here a some of the pictures. I don't know what the fuck I was on, that I decided to wear this shirt, but I do remember that the woman behind me could bounce on a stick o' meat like nobody's business. Man, the things that lady was willing to do for beads, there's nothing like an experienced woman.

Still, one of the best things about going down to spring break is reaching out to the young people. Check out these skanks. All I remember about these girls is they really liked to listen to OAR. What a fucking terrible band.

Somehow, I'm not sure how, but somehow I wound up on a boat.

Did I mention I did a lot of coke?

So needless to say, it's a miracle I'm still alive. I think next year, I'm gonna take it a little easier.

Some Space Poetry

Yeah, what's up, fuckers? It's Tressel. Coach Jim Tressel. Last week I was up in Cleveland on a recruiting mission. Caught a free Andrew Bird Show up in Cleveland. It was fun. Fuck you. I had so much inspiration. I wrote some poetry.



space, space. So fuckin big.
I'm a worm, you're a pig.

Space space so fucking deep.
I think about you in my sleep.