Lane Kiffin explains his wrecked car and pink pillow

Hey, it was late, okay? Way. And I'd just been working so hard, you know? It was like, what, the 10th or 11th day of camp or something, and I hadn't t seen Layla or the kids in forever.

So when Chaney tells me I ought to go home and watch my kids wake up, it sounds like a good idea, you know? He even says he'll take the morning meetings, and we all know how intolerable Ed is at that time of day, right? So good idea, Chaney, I say.

But I'm just so tired. And Orgeron's got his pallet of Red Bull locked in a freakin' vault somewhere, so what am I supposed to do but drive home in the dead of night in a fit of exhaustion and stupor with only the open windows and the periodic John L. Smith self-slaps to keep me fresh and alert for Life's Great Competition Against Fatigue. Because fatigue is evil. And wrong. And . . . and evil.

So yeah, I nodded off and drove into the ditch, right, but it was definitely, positively and without the faintest shadow of a whisper of a meager doubt all part of the plan. I mean, how do I know how the car is going to respond to running into stuff unless I run it into stuff? Am I right? Yeah, you bet I'm right.

But now Chaney's confiscated my car keys and given me this pillow and a pile of blankets. What? It is not pink; it's purple; don't call it pink when it's not pink but purple. It's purple. Which is better than pink.

Anyway, Dad says I sleep here now with Chaney's pretty pink pillow, so that sucks. But at least now I know that the car can handle it.