Let's play a little game. Your ex-wife was a shitty cook, smoked in the house, let her froufrou dog shit on the carpet, and on top of that fucked a man of a miscellaneous but altogether different race apart from your own and got pregnant. Kid pops out, you have the marriage annulled. Now let's say you're the the most important man in your state. Lot of media hype, right? It'd be a pretty big deal if The Governator gave Maria Shriver the heave-ho (Ha!), right?
For my people, today has been the inverse of Ice Cube's "Good Day." Rather than a complementary pick me up, the lights of the Good Year Blimp today read: "Current Coach May Be Cheating Liar; Ex Coach to Make Ass of Himself and All Involved."
I'm not going to get into the Calipari disaster because 1) it's a moving target and the NCAA cleared him before UK hired him and 2) I'm too pissed to express my feelings in inteligible English. And to the folks who questioned my fanhood when we hired him, "I told you so, dickhead."
Now the Gillispie thing on the other hand, is just a complete shitshow and I don't really care. Condensed version:
- Man hired by UK at a little more than $2MM/yr for X# of years.
- Man never signed contract, operating for 2 years under a "Memorandum of Understanding" while his attorneys fought UK over minutia in the contract heretofore undisclosed to the public.
- Athletic director publicly upset at lack of signed contract after year 1.
- Worst team in 25 years in year 2. Public relations disaster on TV. Pisses off every important booster, media outlet, and administration member.
- Fired.
- Now he wants to take his ball and go home. And he wants alimony. And he wants to keep the house.
Too fucking late, you Texan piece of shit. UK's selling that bitch, and your buyout is coming via Western Union; just wait outside the Thornton's on Broadway, and they'll call you inside once it clears. You may even earn enough pocket change for a Dr. Pepper if you hold your hat out. It'd do your worthless ass well to sober up. Now go the fuck away and follow Hal Mumme into the sunset where you can coach at some rando' D1AA school out in Odessa where, like space, no one can hear you scream.
Except you have no fucking dignity. You're the knocked up tramp who drags your boyfriend on to Jerry Springer so you can put out a cigarette on the sofa cushion in the green room and "feel like a star." 'Why are they all yelling at me? They must be jealous; I look DAMN good in this spandex moo-moo truckstop hooker overall outfit. Fuck all yall, yall don't know me!'
Billy Clyde, we know you all too well, albeit well too late. You were too drunk or too high or too stupid to sign your contract, and now you're pissed that you aren't getting a buyout.
At issue? Whether they had the right to "break the contract" that bound your employment.
- There was no contract.
- Beyond #1, the only thing on trial is the just cause UK exercised when they fired you.
Read: It's going to be a months-long indictment of the trainwreck of your tenure, all in the public, all for everyone to see, chew, digest, and excrete into anecdotes about your complete inability to lead a team with an all-american and an all-conference player in your starting 5 to a tournament featuring 64 teams.
If Nolan Richardson is surprised that he hasn't been given a job offer since he went off on Frank Broyles, you can bet your ass that five years from now, Billy Clyde would fuck a cactus for a shot at high school gig in Idaho (because Idaho is our Siberia).
Hope you feel pretty on TV you damn drunk fool, because once it's over, you're over.
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