Tuna Casserole

My recipe for a tasty tenure as Cowboys coach

Remember your words this time: I heard you say that the Cowboys' "most recent history isn't acceptable to Jerry, and losing, certainly, isn't acceptable to me." I also heard you say after leaving the Jets that it was your "last job" and that there wouldn't be any more coaching rumors about Bill Parcells. (By the way, you should never again refer to yourself in the third person. Too lordly.) You see where I'm going with this? Enough promises already. Stick around, see what you can do. Unless you win another couple of Super Bowls, feel free to immediately retire and rescuttle the ship. There's only so much I can take.

A final note on civility: We've all seen you snarl. That footage of you from your past gigs screaming at East Coast reporters is foreboding. When you don't get your way, you tend to pout or lash out. This time, don't. Suck it up; be a man, not a fish. You won't have much trouble with most of the local media--unless you have a particular distaste for warm puppy-dog slobber--but I can't promise the same for myself. I have a bit of a temper, and I've been known to strike back. So before you go and pick a fight with me, be advised that I'm 6-4, 240 pounds of steroid-fueled muscles. I have bad teeth and wild hair and I'm able to crush small autos and fat, surly coaches with my bare hands.

Also, you should know that I'm a devotee of pro wrasslin', a man who's well-versed in the art of the atomic elbow and who isn't afraid to drop one on rude bastards.

Beware and good luck.

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