10/22/18 MNF Press Conference Transcript
Coach Lord enters the room, skips the podium and just sits down at one of the folding chairs. Sound of camera shutters whirring, flashing lights. Coach raises a hand dismissively.
Coach Lord: Evening. First question…
Coach Lord gestures toward an area of the room where no one is sitting. One of the reporters volunteers, anyway.
Reporter 1: Yeah, Coach Lord — you were, like, I don’t know —
Reporter 1 looks at notes, revealing what is clearly a blank page.
R1: Basically worst in the league, and now you’re…
Reporter 1 falters. Someone else leans in and whispers unintelligibly.
R1: What? 6 wins? Are you fucking serious?
CL: Next question.
Reporter 2 raises hand. Coach Lord nods, though unclear as to what he’s agreeing to as he’s not looking at Reporter 2. Or anything, really.
Reporter 2: How do you respond to Coach Berg’s comments that you are, quote, “the softest 6–1 in the league”?
CL: I’m a little drunk so why don’t you save me some time and just make up a good E.D. pun and attribute it to me. Next question.
R2 (mumbling, as she sits down): That’s not how this works…that’s not how any of this works…
Reporter 3. Idk, probably a reporter. They’re at a press conference so *shrug*.
R3: Are you concerned about Sony Michel or Royce Freeman?
CL: Nah not really. Sony went out when Mack broke out. Perfectly balanced, as all things should be.
Coach Lord lifts his hand from beneath the table. Since sitting he has somehow donned what appears to one of those novelty The Thing foam hands, to which various beer caps have been affixed. The gauntlet (really?) bumps the edge of the table as he brings his arm up, triggering a tinny pre-recorded voice to shout, “it’s clobberin’ time!”
CL: Plus If Royce doesn’t get healthy I can always keep him next year for a 2nd or something.
Coach Lord slowly turns his head, stares directly into the camera, and does his best Dean Martin.
Reporter 5: Any comment on turning your last 2018 pick, George Kittle, into a top 5 Tight End?
What? Where the fuck did that guy come from. Coach Lord is already standing to leave, swaying only slightly, growling his answer out the side of his mouth like a palsied Dick Cheney — or as we call it in the Biz, the “Bill Belichick”.
CL: I told you all I was a fucking alchemist.
Coach Lord exits the room, dragging his giant foam glove over the tops of all the chairs on his way.
Giant foam glove: It’s clobber — it’s clobberin’ — it’s clobb — it’s clobberin’ ti — it’s clobberin’ time!!
The sound follows Coach Lord into the hallway, echoing silently on the cold concrete. Silence in the press room.
Coach Lord (from the hallway, shouted as if over one’s shoulder, loud enough for press room to hear): Oh yeah, GOOD GAME, COACH HALVERSON —
Loud crash. Coach Lord has clearly struck something and knocked himself unconscious while simultaneously walking and looking over his shoulder.
Giant foam glove: It’s clobberin’ time!