You can't handle the truth! Son, we live in a world that has
motorcycles. And those motorcycles have to be ridden with girls with
blonde hair. Who's gonna do it? You? You, Paul Finebaum? I have a
greater responsibility than you can possibly fathom. You weep for
Arkansas Football and you curse my needs. You have that luxury. You have
the luxury of not knowing what I know: that this wreck, while tragic,
probably saved our season. And my sexual desires, while grotesque and
incomprehensible to you, saves our season...You don't want the truth.
Because deep down, in places you don't talk about at tailgate parties,
you want me on that blonde. You need me on that blonde.
We use words
like pig & sooey...we use these words as the backbone to a life
spent defending something. You use 'em as a punchline. I have neither
the time nor the inclination to explain my erection to a bunch of
psychos who rise and sleep under the blanket of the very football
success I provide, then question the manner in which I provide it! I'd
rather you just said thank you and went on your way. Otherwise, I
suggest you lose some teeth and become an Auburn fan. Either way, I
don't give a damn what you think you're entitled to!