FanPost

The Secret Life of Ron, Part Deux

Ron wiped the the sweat from Peanut Munnerlyn’s brow and handed him an electric blue, painted coconut whispering, "Good job. Good effort."

"Gentleman, that was a tough loss, especially for me," he confessed to a defeated 53 men. "I’m not sure I know what to say anymore. There’s an old phrase in Italian ‘Insalada transforum chudsinkitorum.’ Loosely translated it means, ‘when you play to win the dog eats your hair, becoming constipated.’ This is what is happening here. I’m at a loss for words, so I’m opening up the floor. This is my prized mallard. Whoever is holding him may speak.

Cam Newton raised his hand. A now naked Ron Rivera began walking toward him. The duck was grazing on his chest hair. Cam awkwardly took the gorgeous green-headed beast in his arms. "Sir, um…"

"It’s okay to speak your mind, Cam. Whoever holding the duck can say whatever he wants," Rivera said.

"Well, I just question some of Coach Shula’s playcalling." Mike Shula, at the time, was too busy crapping in a shower stall, then smashing it down the drain with his foot to hear Newton’s concerns. "I just think if we called some plays to get me in space, maybe it would help mitigate some of the pressure I’ve been facing." Byron Bell began crying into his vanilla ice cream. "Byron, I think you’re fantastic. I’m just asking that the coaches maybe help us all out, that’s all."

Ron scoffed. "Cam, I think you’re delirious and it hurts me for you. If you were some fast, strong armed, big quarterback than maybe, maybe we could call plays like that. It’s not like you’re Andy Dalton." That’s when Rivera took his prized duck back. "Does anyone else have a serious solution?"

There was a long silence. Shula came out of the shower and took Ron’s prized duck to himself. "Guys, I’m at a loss for words here. We had an opportunity on 9th down with 6 meters to go to score a run. I called for a corner kick and Cam got called for traveling."

Ron, realizing he was in over his head, walked to his office. He sat down at the typewriter to write an email to Stephanie. It read, STEPHANIE. WHY CAN’T I JUST BE A DEFENSIVE COORDINATOR. He pressed send.

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