Al Davis’ Ghost: “I’m Haunting the Fuck Out of Lane Kiffin”
BOO! Hahahahaha. (Cough, spit). How ya doing, folks? Remember me? ‘Course ya do. You wouldn’t HAVE the modern NFL without your dearly departed Uncle Al. Before I took a road trip to that great end zone in the sky, I was one of the most influential figures in league history. The AFL-NFL merger back in ’70? Wouldn’t have happened without me. The current obsession with vertical passing attacks and high-octane offenses? I started that craze. All these former players and disgruntled ticketholders suing the NFL? I PERFECTED THE ART OF SUING THE NFL. THAT WAS MY SIGNATURE MOVE.
So what have I been doing now that I’m dead, you ask? Well I’ll tell ya. Ive spent the past two years haunting the FUCK out of that worthless little shitstain Lane Kiffin. And oh sweet Christ, I have loved every second of it. AHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAWWWWWWGGHHKKKK (Cough. SPIT.)
And he deserves it too, that slimy cuntnugget. Remember when I made him the youngest coach in NFL history by giving him the keys to my precious Raidahs in 2007? And he repaid me by going a pathetic 5-15? And then when I fired him, he tried to make me pay him $2.6 million just because I’d contractually agreed to do so? I WIPED MY SCAB-COVERED ASS WITH THAT CONTRACT, KIFFIN. YA GOT NOTHING.
So every morning while he’s brushing his teeth, I do that thing with the bathroom mirror. You know, where he looks at his reflection for a second, opens the medicine cabinet, then when he closes the mirror again he sees that I’M STANDING RIGHT BEHIND HIM GRINNING EVILLY AND HE’S ALL OHFUCKOHFUCKOHFUCK but when he turns around I’m GONE. HAHAHAHA.
They teach ya how to do that shit on the first day of ghost class.
Then during the day, I wait until he’s all alone in the USC film room, and I start making the walls bleed. Big, thick drops of reddish-black glop, slowly dripping down those bright yellow walls. Oh, that usually makes him wet his pants, the little bitch. But the best part is when he looks back at the movie screen and sees I’ve scrawled “JUST DIE, BABY” in five foot tall bloody letters. His face turns as white AS MY WRINKLED GHOSTLY BALLSACK. HARHARHARHARHAR COUGH COUGH (spit).
Naturally, he runs screaming from the room like a sissy little Bronco. And when he drags his assistant coaches back a minute later, the walls are all squeaky clean. He’s all, “Buh-buh-but it was just right there. You h-h-have to believe me!” NO ONE WILL EVER BELIEVE YOU, YOU INCOMPETENT BOOB.
Of course, I save the best for last. Late at night, when he’s lying in his bed, I make the wind start howling and the rain start falling and I throw in a few bolts of lightning for effect. Then, I cause his closet door to slowly creak open, with a faint sound of spooky children’s laughter coming from inside it. Well let me tell you, Mr. “Oh-and-three-versus-the-Chargers” is pretty much shitting his pajamas at this point. But he gets up, walks over to investigate, and right at that moment he hears a scratching at the window, looks over and he SEES ME LAUGHING AND THE LIGHTNING FLASHES AND THE WINDOWPANE CRASHES IN AND HE’S SCREAMING AND ALL THE LEAVES ARE FLYING AROUND HIM AND THE AUTUMN WIND IS A MOTHERFUCKER, KIFFIN. HARHARHARHARHAR COUGH COUGH (spit).
So there are two lessons to be learned here: 1) being dead fucking rules. And 2) DON’T FUCK WITH THA RAIDAHS. Because I will haunt the shit out of you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go rattle a bunch of chains down the hallway at Marcus Allen’s house. MUHAHAHAHAHAHA COUGH COUGH (spit).
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