I'm an SEC-Football-Turned-Bumble Coach and Your Offense Is Trash

Take a knee, champ.

You’ve dated online a few seasons now. You’ve cracked the skull of a heart or two, and you’ve had yours busted in return. You’ve poured blood and sweat into this game. Sometimes, you’ve even scored. But most Saturday nights you’ve trudged home alone, slump-shouldered and tore up, to an emotionally overburdened cat who’s bone-tired of compensating for your lack of human intimacy.

Why?

Your game plan is dogshit.

I haven’t seen an operation this shit-tier since my first job at Southwestern Louisiana A&M Poly Tech State. And that practice field was a swamp. We ran plays in airboats. If somebody fumbled our only ball into the muck, they went in after it with a one in ten chance of never coming back up. Tell you what, though. I drug the SLAMPTS Gator Wrestlers to their first winning record in 96 years, and by God I’ll whip this Bumble shitshow into shape or die of stress-induced cardiac arrest trying.

First, let me ask you a question. You like losing?

Do you enjoy slugging vermouth from the bottle and cry-shoveling Cherry Garcia with a Wheat Thin after yet another potential life partner skedaddles? Is that fun? ‘Cause when I look around at how you’ve been running things, that’s the only explanation makes any sense.

I didn’t retire my whistle at Mississippi State to come here and lose. I want dubyas.

For that, we need talent.

Recruitment forms the foundation of any successful program. We only get one shot at it, and unfortunately, it already happened. One forgettable Tuesday night of apathetic, side-style intercourse, nine months before you were born, our only player was recruited into this world. Scouting report? One star. With fractions on the table we could rank you even lower, but hell, I’m willing to round up. Best we can do is offset your inherent suckage with a dynamite game plan.

That starts with offense.

Pass me that iPad, Roy.

Recognize this? Your profile. Though “pro” doesn’t belong anywhere near this god damn amateurfile, does it? When my O.C. showed me this travesty, I thought it was a joke. I said, Roy, where’s the real one? ‘Cause this ain’t it. This looks like a made-up profile for the “How to Swipe Left” section of the Bumble FAQs.

What’s wrong with this picture? Let’s appraise. It’s you, in a dirty-ass mirror, smirking at your reflection like you’re trying to seduce your own clone into following you behind a dumpster. Classic bathroom selfie, in other words. Let me ask you something. Do you want romantic prospects associating you with a toilet? Cause you’ve sure accomplished it.

What do we want from our profile pics? Warm, flattering and prosocial. We follow that up with a charming, concise bio. Look at yours. Notice how I’m still scrolling? Old Proust had nothing on you. How many ironic Yelp-style reviews of yourself is enough? The answer is negative one—meaning you should always strive to remove one from the universe if you can. “5 Stars: Great for a snuggle. -My Cat.” Excuse me while I puke. Ain’t nothing captivating about a god damn Cathy cartoon. Move. The ball. Forward.

We should talk defense next. Right?

Wrong. No need. Your defense is world class. Alabama’s D-line, on their best day, couldn’t push attractive singles away as effectively as you do.

Bottom line: you need a comprehensive overhaul. Up the budget, clean these facilities, eat a god damn vegetable and detach your ass from the couch. Develop small talk tactics a neutral observer might have a shot in hell at distinguishing from an H&R Block job interview.

You with me?

Good. ‘Cause it starts now. Meet me on the yard for some blocking pad drills, then we’ll hit the salon and fix that pile of shit on your head.

Alright, hands in. “Soulmate” on three, ready? One two three SOULMATE!