Breaking News: Lane Kiffin's Letter of Apology to Urban Meyer Leaked

By R.K. McCoy

Dear Urban,

It’s the Kiff here. My boss told me that I needed to apologize for calling you a cheater, so here's the best I can do: You are welcome.

C’mon. You have to be grateful for the tidal wave of compassion you’ve gotten. Not only do you return an insanely talented defense, but you also bring back the quarterback-cyborg that is Tim Tebow. Add to all that two National Championships and your prime location in the nation’s recruiting hotbed, and yet you’re coming off as the victim in this situation. Crazy, huh?

Have you ever been to Tennessee besides when you play us? It’s not exactly flush with football talent. I’m plowing through scouting reports of Jim Bobs and Bubbas. Phil didn’t exactly leave me with a stocked fridge (and that metaphor extends both literally and figuratively in case you were wondering).

So of course I’m going to come out guns blazing. I’ve got to get us back on the map. I mean, you saw our QBs. Jonathan Crompton? Really? Peyton Manning isn’t exactly walking through the locker room door.

But admit it. You like it. You need it. Do you really want to be the guy who tries to throw down with Mark Richt? That’s like wrestling a Tibetan Monk.
Face it, Urban, I’m the most refreshing thing since the Tim Tebow circumcision story broke last fall. The Florida Gators and this conference deserve a better class of antagonistic coaches, and I intend to be that guy.

Be honest: When Phil was the coach, did you really feel challenged? Did you feel validated as a coach for beating a guy who was more familiar with a post-game spread than a spread offense?

I mean, I guess it was nice to beat Grandpa Spurrier now that he has one foot in the tee box, but please don’t tell me that you feel a sense of accomplishment for beating the ghost of Gators past.

You and I both know that you are one more National Championship away from shoving Charlie Weis out of South Bend and fleeing the mullet-headed mouth-breathers filling up the Swamp. With me around, though, you’re having second thoughts. Think of the pride you’ll feel in tangling with my dad’s proven pro-style defense. Kind of overshadows feeling good about torching Hawaii and the Citadel's defense huh?

Sure, you have Nick Saban as a formidable opponent, but he’s out West, and you guys may tangle once a year if all the stars align and everything goes according to plan. I give you the guarantee of a royal rumble every year and early on.

I know I come off a little chirpy, but you’ve got to like that I’m not so eager to kow-tow to the wave of Olympic-caliber sprinters you’re rolling out. Whether you like it or not, you're the Yankees now. You're the man, the establishment. Florida is Cobra-Kai now. You're John Kreese, and Timmy T is Jonny Lawrence. I am Daniel-San, and my dad is Mr. Miyagi.

And you know what, Urban-Myth? You may try to sweep the leg, but I plan on crane-kicking you and Timmy right in the face.

But that's not all, Urbie. I’m coming into your backyard. I’m going after your recruits, and I swear to Pete Carroll that if we are bombing you by 40 and I have all of my timeouts with less than a minute left, I will call all three timeouts while Ed Orgeron power-bombs Albert the Gator and the entire team gets Kiffy with it in the end zone. I have never been more serious about anything in my life.

Anyways, I've got to run. Got a study session on SEC rules and regulations. Nu'Keese and Marsalis send their best.

Subversively yours,
The Kiff