A Eulogy for Les's Career

(For best results, read in cliche mournful, droning eulogy cadence)



We are gathered here today not to mourn, but to celebrate the end of a good man's struggle against game clocks, 50 yard lines, the English language, and most all collegiate-level coaching innovations of the last four decades. Les Miles was a brave man, charging into battle each Saturday of each Fall, his lock of Bo Schembechler's chest hair concealed under his oddly-worn hat, with no fear whatsoever of perennially-stacked tackle boxes. Plucking blades of grass from fields both near and far, sustaining his passion for the sport on chlorophyll and pesticides both domestic and foreign, he tongued bits of turf like a modern day Tim Leary dropping acid, displaying all the poise and clear-mindedness that the aforementioned chemical is known to induce.



Clapping like a seal with his digits spread eagle, he willed his men to victory after victory, not counting conference games over the past several seasons of course. Overriding countless calls with his secret playbook, the streamlined genius of which would make the developers of Tecmo Bowl blush, he toss-dove and short-side-optioned his way into the annals of college football history, grinding out some of the most thrilling and closest finishes of all time, his oft superior players be damned.


From Auburn '07 to Ole Miss '09, from Florida '10 to the catastrophic maelstrom of surreality that was 1/9/2012, he for better or worse impacted the lifespans of Tiger fans the globe over, something for which the cardiologists of our world will always sing his praises. And while there may be a want for sadness and uncertainty in this time of interim coaching and the unknown hire to follow, I for one say let us take this time to heal the long-standing schism between the Negatigers and the Sunshine Pumpers, uniting the ever-warring factions under a banner of Purple & Gold, once and for all. Be it in the rapturous joy of the arrival or Tom Herman or the glow of the torches and gleam of the pitchforks which will descend upon the Athletic Department given a subpar hire, we must come together as LSU fans, students, and alumni as we look toward the future. But whether the horror of the 90's or the glory of the 2000's await us, we shall always reflect fondly upon our goofy, windbreaker-and-khaki-clad Uncle Les for the memories he made for each and every one of us. He has instilled his name in history like the splinter scars upon Jarrett Lee's arse cheeks.



May the memory of his career live on long after it reaches its final resting place 'neath the Indian Mounds, like the sun finding its home in the Western Sky. And when night descends on Deaf Valley, and future foes unknown threaten to eke out a victory between its hallowed walls, I pray the first notes of Pre Game and the roars of the bloodthirsty Coonass masses stir a familiar spirit to our aid. May the specter of Les in his glory days stalk the sidelines once more, our enemies petrified by the sight of levitating and vanishing blades of grass, just before the next Jacob Hester or Leonard Fournette smashes his way across the goal line, aided by the help of an unseen blocker. And afterwards, may the team and fans sway in unison, like Spanish Moss on stately oaks, as the Alma Mater reverberates throughout the stadium, echoing with just a hint of an all-too-familiar Midwestern accent.




We now commit the memory of Miles's tenure to the Earth. Now, he belongs to the Ages. (Or ESPN, if they offer him an analyst gig.) Have a GREAT day and Geaux Tigers.








Oh and inb4 alter



ETA: more spaces