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|Gotta love that hair.|
The group is called Geniuses Anonymous. Since admitting weakness is terribly embarrassing for such distinguished men, they conceal their identities in these meetings by only using first names. "It's been hard lately. I just haven't felt like much of a genius lately," Charlie admitted. It seemed a strange admission. How could a man who built his own time machine -- where else would he get that haircut? -- not feel like a genius? "I started my job over a year ago, and I was the toast of the town. I brought my team back from the dead to a BCS bowl. We were beaten pretty badly in that game, but my genius persisted. "Then my team got smashed at home recently by a rival. It was like the other team was taking my genius and throwing it around. Usually to this guy named Mario." Charlie shook his head and muttered a few expletives, each enhanced by his Jersey accent. Then, he talked about the resurrection of his mojo. "The following week, we were down 16 points going into the fourth quarter. The rain was ruining my 'do, but it was like we needed that rain. Genius needs water to grow." What followed was a biblical tale of resurrection. His offense suddenly began firing on all cylinders. But more importantly, his defense arrived. Sort of. "It felt like every time this Drew kid made a bad pass, my genius started showing a little more. By the time he threw that last interception, my genius was back on display for all to see. "I'm back!" "How'd you do it?" yelled a Southern voice, his accent an Arkansas-Oklahoma hybrid. Charlie started by saying, "Well, Quinn " before he was interrupted. "Damn right it was Quinn," retorted the elderly man. He looked like the kind of guy that keeps a wad of bills in his sock and pays for everything with cash. His waistline bulged in a way that signaled he was well-versed in life on the other side of the tracks. "The name's Barry. Barry Switzer, and I don't give a damn if you know who I am. I'm no genius, but I'm just as much of one as you are." Reluctantly, the group welcomed him. "Quinn surely was what made you a genius. The boy can play. He was good under his previous coach, too, but he was young. You know this offense thing, Mistah Cholly. No one can take that from ya. But if you wanna survive as a 'genius,' you gotta know what it is you're talking about." "There he goes. Every time one of us talks about what we're going through, Switzer pops up with something about players," said Bill. It's impossible to describe Bill; his hoodie obscured his face, and his dour voice gave no indication of what his personality is like. "Hi, I'm Bill," barked the faceless man. "As you know, I'm a genius." "Hi, Bill," the crowd replied. "No real genius is limited by small matters like personnel," he said. "My best wide receiver's older than me. The next two receivers went to Florida, and you know what happens to Gators receivers in the NFL. And I'm gonna win the division. That's genius." "Winnin' that booty-butt division is like winnin' prom queen at a boys home," Switzer said. But Switzer knew he had to be fair. "Bill, you've got the gift," Switzer said. "And you'll look real smart makin' the playoffs with this team. But winnin' without receivers don't make you a genius. You're talkin' to the king of the wishbone, baby! Been there, done that. "You'll win because you got two studs at tight end. They ain't Keith Jacksons, but they can play. Give you better matchups against 'backers than that Branch kid would have given you against a corner. If I was still workin', I'd pay them boys whatever they wanted. Good thing the Big 8 never had a salary cap.
|How many hooded sweatshirts do you think he owns?|
|Barry Switzer has continued to enjoy success after football.|