Dear Mr. Holmgren:
I hate your guts.
Please do not confuse this for a small dose of Appendicle Anger or a smidgen of Liver Lividity, you see it’s the WHOLE package I hate. Even your Pancreas (yeah, I’m that mad). All of it.
In an Ice Cream world of coaches, you my Useless Bastard friend are the Vanilla in a sea of Rocky Road. Many suspect that you could not inspire a sneezing fit in a pepper factory and I have to agree with them.
Totally and without exception useless. We should have known something was up when Green Bay was contacted for a reference and the nicest thing they said was “Mike?, sure many, many times he exited the restroom and his fly was ALREADY done up”. The impression you left on the front office staff should have tipped us off too “Who?, you mean that fat guy who always had food in his moustache?, is that who you mean?” replied Lois the receptionist when quizzed on your personal skills.
But that’s O.K, really because when it is all said and done and your sad pathetic career is over you will be forgotten.
In case someone does remember you, it will undoubtedly be Carl from the Sobey’s in LoDo who, sick and tired of hauling your copious grocery order to your car while you insist he take an autographed receipt from “Big Tony’s: Where the Very Round get Great Suits at Really Great Prices” as a tip, will quip “I hated that Fat Bastard”.
I also hate flavoured coffee but that’s another story…
“Being in politics is like being a football coach. You have to be smart enough to understand the game, and dumb enough to think it’s important”
~ Eugene J. McCarthy