Which Version of Jim Harbaugh Are You?

Slipknot. And I want it so loud it makes my ears bleed!

Kanye's "Life of Pablo" is the trillest, son!

What's that cool, techno-sounding music the kids listen to these days called? EMD? That. I want that.

Probably something from my close personal friends: Migos.

I have my boy Ric Flair give him an under-the-table call just so he can shout "Whhooo!" anytime the recruit mentions my name.

I pick up his scent on the still, listless night air and track him, following his every move like an apex predator on the prowl.

Camp out on his floor. You know, just kick it. Netflix and ch-- (wait, you're telling me that means WHAT?!?!?)

I whip my shirt off, loosen up the old throwing arm and show him how a Michigan Man chucks the pigskin!

Whiskey, with a red bull chaser. Gotta keep my focus, even while drinking!

I'm having a Wolverine Dark Lager, brewed locally, artisanally, not like those mass-produced, un-hip sellouts from bigger markets.

I'm having a Hamm's. Delicious, cold, refreshing! What more could you ask for?

Straight poppin' bottles like I do with my famous homies from the West Coast!

My pen necklace that elevated me to the highest levels of NFL coaching fame.

Are there other pieces of clothing other than ill-fitting khakis that ride up to my mid-to-upper torso?

Gotta get that fitted hat, with the perfect curve to stay on fleek.

NOBODY GAVE A DAMN WHAT BO SCHEMBECHLER WORE AND NEITHER DO I.

A vine will surface of me vaping like a maniac while running on the treadmill barefoot in an attempt to see if I can accurately read Luke Fickell's defense with an elevated heart-rate.

I will tweet a picture of myself standing outside Eddie George's home with a ski mask and a crowbar and the caption #thepurge

I will get busted sneaking into the local morgue where I will be spotted by security guards practicing my ref-shouting on corpses until I have it JUST right.

I could be seen half-nude out in the rain, attempting to wash the previous season's failure from my skin in a Pagan ritual of soul-cleansing.

Googling "Brady Hoke" and laughing maniacally until my throat is raw.

Checking to see if Kanye or Kim have RT'd any of my anti-Taylor Swift posts.

Watching the starving college student I paid to dress like Urban Meyer and eat Papa John's while sitting in my living room.

Watching Rudy and choking back tears. Damn, that's a quality flick.