It’s finally that time of year when it is considered normal for heterosexual males to become completely enamored with other members of their own gender. It’s the time of year when grown men arrange annual get-togethers to giggle, gossip, and scream emphatically about the boys they like and don’t like in an event called the Fantasy Football Draft. For those of you who have never participated in one of these emasculating bashes, it's honestly a lot like being at a miniature Jonas Brothers concert. In the audience you have a tall, chatty girl who insists she knows more about the band than anyone else, a girl who is dressed head to foot in apparel featuring the band and has completely abandoned her social life in order to attend every concert, a chaperoning mother who organized it all and is having trouble controlling her daughter’s crazed friends, and a heavy-set girl with Cheeto crumbs on her shirt who won’t shut up about how underrated Kevin’s guitar playing is. After the draft is all over, each participant skips away and immediately brags to friends, family, and coworkers about the men they have picked to share the next 4 months with them as if they were prom dates. It’s simply adorable.
With all of this man-love blossoming, I thought it might be a good time to pay tribute to those who truly represent manhood in its very essence. Keeping the football theme in mind, I would like to make my case for a man who has demonstrated throughout his entire life everything it means to have external gonads. In my book, the manliest man alive is none other than Bill Parcells.

With his newly found persona, Bill Parcells could have done pretty much anything he wanted with his life. After deliberating between such pursuits as becoming a real life G.I. Joe, the dictator of a third world nation, and a serial bear rapist, Bill Parcells finally decided he would set out to become the greatest coach in NFL history. He started the pillaging by taking an assistant coaching job with his home town team, the New York Giants. On the morning of his first training camp, Bill Parcells woke the team up at 4:30am and made them run about 600 wind sprints up and down a small mountain. Afterwards he served them liver and raw eggs for breakfast, and sat at the front table eating shards of glass. Management heard the story, and immediately hired him to be the Head Coach of the team. Bill Parcells quickly made sure that their decision would not be a regrettable one. Equipped with his diabolical defensive schemes, he led the Giants to back-to-back playoff appearances for the first time in 20 years. In just his third season, he gave the Giants their first Super Bowl victory, and didn’t even bother to crack a smile.


Bill Parcells’ next challenge came in the form of the pathetic New York Jets who had amassed a combined record of 4-28 in the two seasons before he got there. In two seasons under Bill Parcells, the Jets went 21-11 and reached the conference championship in 1998. It was a miraculous turnaround, but after reviewing the incredible progress he made, Bill Parcells remembered that nobody really cares about the Jets and that they’re not supposed to win anything. He retired for a second time and left the team to suffer in eternal mediocrity.
For the next 3 years, Bill Parcells spent his free time trying to dig his way to hell so he could beat the living piss out of Satan. All the while, he was harassed daily by calls from Dallas Cowboys owner Jerry Jones. His team was awful, and he begged Bill Parcells to have mercy on him. Bill Parcells did not know the meaning of the word “mercy” but agreed to coach the team as long as Jerry “didn’t pull any gay shit.” Jerry played it cool at first and left Bill Parcells alone to effortlessly earn a playoff birth in his first year there. The next year however, Jerry made the foolish mistake of crossing Bill Parcells and signed the infamous egomaniac Terrell Owens. Bill Parcells had no interest in associating with this clown, and refused to acknowledge his existence on the team, referring to T.O. as “that player.”

When that miserable season was finally over, Bill Parcells walked into Jerry Jones’ office, took a blow torch to his face, and left his resignation on the desk. The damage done, and the extensive surgery it required, serves as a reminder to all of us that you cannot dick Bill Parcells over and get away with it.


Minus Taylor, most Dolphin fans believed that the season was doomed. But what those fans were not aware of is that Bill Parcells is oblivious to the concept of failure. After picking up some free agent castoffs and hiring a mob boss as head coach, the Dolphins went 11-5 and won their division. Given the Bill Parcells' track record, it should come as no surprise that my pick to be Super Bowl champion this year is the Miami Dolphins, simply because Bill Parcells is all that is man.

Great Post, I like the way you chose to leave out the fact that Parcells had Tom Brady whacked for saying Bill Bellicheck was the Godfather of the NFL.
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