i decided to compile my (with guest sarah) dumbass little stories about bret bielema in one place for the hell of it, let's see if this makes any kind of sense at all
Bret Bielema woke up groggily, smacking his greasy, fishlike lips as he groped for his vomit-soaked Whitesnake t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. His team may have looked utterly befuddled and amateurish against an Oregon State squad that went 3-9 last year, but dammit, he was gonna look classy. Shaking Montee Ball's godawful 4.1 ypc average out of his head, Bret (the Jet, as his friends surely would've called him if he had any) belched a sulfur cloud of hot dog gas and shame as he stumbled out the door of his basement-level apartment.
"Today's the first day of the rest of my life," intoned Bielema, as he lurched slowly in the direction of the nearest Speedway, zipper down and freeballing.
Bret Bielema lumbered into the Speedway, head throbbing. He didn't want to think about an underwhelming performance from his retrospectively hilarious Heisman candidate running back, being a missed FG away from a loss, or even the Scotsman. He just wanted some scotch, man. Suddenly, Bret's head jerked to the side as he heard some kind of creature gnawing and rustling in the salted snacks aisle. Craning his head to his left, he saw the unmistakable outline of Barry Alvarez stuffing Funyuns into his mouth while surrounded by half empty bags of various chips and candy. His porcine face was greasy with the remains of ding dongs and Lay's.
"HHEEEEYYY BRET!" Barry waved happily at his protege, who had only now noticed the clerk emerging from the bathroom. Grabbing Alvarez by one of his many neck folds, he used his free hand to shove as many items in his pants as possible as the two men hurled themselves through the exit and towards the salvation of Barry's '81 Trans Am. Briefly stopping to look at their haul of 14 Slim Jims, 3 hot dogs, a few boxes of chewy Spree, a travel size shampoo bottle, and a magazine titled "KNOCKERS," to his horror Bret realized the situation they were in. No booze.
"We need to find a party," intoned Bielema, as he gunned the car down the dirt and gravel road toward Madison.
Bielema's head was throbbing. He screamed the foul-smelling car down the road as his mentor and idol, Barry Alvarez, lay splayed out in the backseat, the worn drawstring on his sweatpants holding on for dear life as it fought back a sweaty belly full of candy and gas station hot dogs. Bielema and Barry both had one goal in mind: a slammin' party that would help the Wisconsin coach forget that his now-ironically-nicknamed Heisman candidate running back was lost in a lackluster win over UTEP.
But there, off in the distance, Bielema saw it. Like so much glitter on the bosom of a 47-year-old stripper, he was inexorably drawn to its siren call. "Crazy Ira's House of Craps," Bielema whispered to himself. He began to sweat profusely in anticipation, and after wiping his brow with a meaty paw he turned into the near-vacant lot that led to the loosest slots in town. "Maybe tonight," thought Bielema, "I really will Party Naked."
Bret Bielema looked down the craps table at his partner in crime, Barry Alvarez. Barry, he jealously noted, was already swimming in coked-up barflies as his chip stack began to match the size of his sweaty balding dome. "Your bet, sir?" Bielema squinted, as he often did when trying to comprehend a situation beyond his control (like when confronted with long division or Taylor Martinez mounting a 17 point comeback in the third quarter to tie and eventually win a game that seemed firmly in Wisconsin's grasp), and bet his last chip.
"If I don't win this I swear to Hayden Fry I will fire another coordinator," muttered Bret into his appletini, as a single tear rolled down his cheek.
Bret Bielema walked out of the casino a new man. He had an extra 13.50 in his wallet, an acceptably glittered middle aged lady of the evening on his arm, and his chief bro Barry Alvarez in full hulk out mode. No longer obligated to hold in the cheese fry gas that had built up in his large intestine, he let it go as freely as his heart felt while watching Montee Ball finally round into Heisman form a mere seven games into the season.
Kicking the Trans Am into fourth gear, Bret roared down the gravel road and pulled out a crumpled flyer that told him his new destination: "CELEBRATE SAMMY'S BAR MITZVAH WITH US!! 3-8PM, 286 OAK GLEN AVE, MADISON, WI. PLEASE INFORM US OF ANY ALLERGIES YOUR CHILD MIGHT HAVE. LOVE, THE HERSHLAGS". Bret turned to his new companion. "Hey baby, you can eat peanuts, right?" Kandi flashed him a semi-toothy smile and coughed loudly. "Good enough for me!" crowed Bielema as he put a sweaty, hairy paw around the woman of great experience and slammed the pedal to the metal.
With Terminator-like precision, Bret Bielema made an instant analysis of the dope-ass party he was about to partake in. Buffet? Check. Fly honeys? Single moms everywhere, and some lady with a nametag reading "Aunt Liz" looks game. Double check. Thumpin' beats? Bret glanced at the karaoke machine set up to "Kidz Bop 28." BIG ol check. "Hershlag Bar Mitzvah, get ready to be rocked."
Bret quickly took control of the dance floor, gyrating his size 52 hips to the beat of "Call Me Maybe" as the Hershlag family's small children and elderly ran for safety. As sweat poured down his bloated face, he noticed Melanie Hershlag staring at him with same kind of disgust and admiration that often appeared on his face as he watched James White and Montee Ball completely take over a game against a hopelessly overmatched Minnesota team. "I'm crushing it," thought Bielema, as he began to flap his arms in time with the teen pop hit, revealing both his soaked armpits and an odor not unlike spoiled ham left out in the sun too long.
Finally, as the last strains of Carly Rae Jepsen's ode to calling her maybe floated across the room, Bret noticed that his compatriot Barry Alvarez had taken a break from stuffing his pants full of kosher mini-weenies from the buffet, and with the help of their escort Kandi, was now shirtless and glittered. Bret shut his eyes because he knew what was coming. "Oh no..."
It was all falling apart for Bret Bielema. A nearly naked, beglittered Barry Alvarez had begun a deadly dance with death he called the "Badger Frenzy." Bret has only seen it twice before. Once was at his wedding. Then it had it been fun. The other time had been in a shared jail cell in Oshkosh after they had been rung up on public exposure charges. That was less fun.
Alvarez began pinballing from one bar mitzvah guest to another, screaming "HIGH FIVE ME IF YOU THINK I'M SEXY" before sending guests flying with an unsolicited belly bump that sent them flying, glittered, and incapacitated. Per Berry's orders, escort Kandi was throwing assorted pocket change in the air and yelling lyrics from Poison's "Nuthin But A Good Time." The scales fell from Bret's eyes, just as they would've if Wisconsin had lost to Michigan State in overtime and Montee Ball had only accounted for 46 rushing yards in a weak, facile effort.
"...I'm not gonna see any bar mitzvah boob, am I?" thought Bielema sadly.
Leaving the bar mitzvah dejected and alone, Bret Bielema feared he would never live up to Barry Alvarez. He had to find a way to get back to the Rose Bowl and really win it this time, so he could prove to Ol' Barz that he was just as good of a coach and that he wasn't the boss of Mac Daddy Biel (except for the part where Alvarez is actually his boss, but Bielema was in the midst of an Oepidal moment and failed to recognize this).
Knowing he had to get his swagger back, Bielema had three choices: Ho-Chunk Gaming (besides being a casino, the name always made him guffaw), the sweet tunes of Warrant, or...oh yes, the third option was just what he needed. Hailing a cab, Bielema instructed the driver, "Buds, take me to the nearest Dave & Busters. And step on it!"
When he walked into the joint, Bielema smelled the familiar scent of cheesesticks and desperation and knew he was in element, then headed straight to the bar. "Give me an MGD for Maverick," he ordered the bartender, holding out his left hand. "And a D&B TNTea for Goose."
With a drink in each hand, he scoped out the place until he set eyes on his target: Daytona USA, named after his second favorite city in the U.S. of A. Sitting behind the wheel was a towheaded kid around the age of 10, and Bielema pushed him aside, telling him, "get ready for me to own you, you little twerp."
And racking up the points he did, just like Wisconsin against an Indiana team that, mirroring the students, seemed way more invested in the start of basketball season. Montee Ball and James White helped the Badgers set a new school record of 564 rushing yards, and while Bielema steered his way to a personal best on the racing game, he looked over at the 10-year-old who was about one-fifth his size and boasted, "Hoosier Daddy?"
Hours passed. A Himalayas worth of Dave and Buster's signature Mountain O' Nachos were consumed. The Natty flowed freely. Bret Bielema's shirt was inevitably ripped off and thrown on the ground as he lowered himself into a three-point stance to take on the crane game which had taunted him all night."I WILL HAVE MY SONIC PLUSHIE!" roared Bielema as he took the 1,200-pound box of glass and metal head on. In an effect not unlike a greasy jell-o mold thrown at the window of the Madison Big and Tall Gentlemen's Clothing Store (which Bielema had been banned from for going on three years), the porcine coach thundered against the side of the machine and, being even more sticky and sweaty then usual, slowly slid down the side, leaving a trail of crumbs and spittle in his wake.
Down but not defeated, Bielema pulled out his trump card: a solid gold business card from Donald Trump he had earned by way of nearly single-handedly keeping Trump's casino afloat. Smashing it into the glass, Bielema forced his way into the crane game and retrieved his prize, holding it aloft over his head and sobbing as if he'd just lost to Ohio State at home. Again.
As he sucked in precious oxygen through his pursed and flabby lips, the Wisconsin football coach looked through his beady, squinty eyes and saw that the Dane County Animal Control had once again been brought in to end his fun. As he felt the familiar sting of the tranq darts in his neck and began to fade to black, he knew only one thing. It had been the best Sunday he'd had in months.
Bret Bielema sat alone in his jail cell, naked from the waist up and beglittered. Like a sweaty, oafish Christmas tree, he lit up cell block d in his own flatulent way. Heaving with sobs, the large, puffy man kept his fellow inmates at bay, remembering how a guy named Zach Zwinak had outplayed Montee Ball, rushing for 179 yards to Ball's 111 en route to an overtime win over Bielema's Badgers.
"BIELEMA! YOU GOT VISITORS"
"Wuh??" exclaimed the porcine coach, as a mixture of snot and tears dripped from his face. "Who?"
At that moment, Urban Meyer and Bill O'Brien walked in, and with them they carried an expression of exasperation and disgust. After a long sigh, Urban spoke.
"We're bailing you out, Bret. NCAA orders."
"B-but I lost! To both of you!"
Bill O'Brien clinched his teeth. "Yes, Bret. We know. You're still going to the Big Ten championship."
"Really? No foolin'?!? Oh happy day!" And with that, as the shackles were taken off and the handcuffs unlocked, the grossest, most irritating, most petulant, most clearly overrated coach in the Big Ten sprinted off into that BCS sunset.
oh my god what have i done