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My favorite movies almost always involve revenge.

Whether it's Clint Eastwood (the patron saint of vengeance), or a sword-wielding Uma Thurman in "Kill Bill," or Schwarzeneggar dismantling everyone who tried to hurt him and his loved ones, or Russell Crowe laying waste to the emperor in "Gladiator," or even Michael Corleone settling all family business, I've always enjoyed watching people destroy the enemies who've harmed them.

To me, revenge is indeed sweet.

What's odd is that there's no reason for my bloodlust. None. Zero.

I had an extremely happy childhood. My parents told me they loved me, constantly. So did my grandparents. Heck, even my sister liked me. I had friends. I wasn't really bullied too much, not any more than most all kids are at some point.

All things considered, I generally felt the love from planet Earth, and still do.

But like everyone, I've had a few enemies here and there. There have been some folks who just didn't get me (and didn't want to get me). There are people walking around, right this second, who expect the worst from me and who want me to fail.

And I'm just a middle-aged writer who eats too many cheeseburgers and can barely walk to my mailbox without keeling over.

Imagine if I'd, like, won hundreds of football games, a boatload of conference championships and bragging rights for the next couple of decades. Imagine if I'd made sure to tell the people I'd beaten that I enjoyed beating them, and hoped to keep doing it.

Imagine if I was one of the most well known figures in the most popular sport in America.

You think I might have a few haters?

Steve Spurrier knows he has a few. And as his fascinating, strange, unforgettable press conference last week told us, he's going to make sure THEY know that HE knows they're his enemies.

It's probably not going to shock you to learn that I loved every second of Spurrier's angry monologue.

No doubt about it, it was one of the most bizarre 10 minutes of Spurrier's long career. Alternating between lashing out at "enemies" to talking up the talent on his own team to urging Gamecock Nation to keep the faith, the Ball Coach delivered an absolutely riveting piece of video.

Say what you will about it, but it was authentic.

One of the reasons why Spurrier will always have my undying respect is because he simply can't help but be honest. When Clemson's Dabo Swinney embarked on his now infamous "that's why the real USC is in California, and Carolina is in Chapel Hill" rant a couple of years ago, nothing about the moment felt genuine. It was painfully obvious, to everyone, that Swinney needed to light a fire under his team (and fans) before the ACC Championship game, and thus made the inexplicable decision to publicly chastise the same USC program that had just rolled him up for the third year in a row in a type of verbal Hail Mary to get his own team going.

It worked.

The Tigers crushed Virginia Tech just days later. And while I ultimately respected Swinney's decision to make himself look utterly ridiculous in order to energize his team (whatever it takes, right?), I've always felt he was a phony since then. Watching him stand in front of the news cameras that day, my only thought was, "This guy has been practicing this speech in the mirror for the last three days." The whole thing was more rehearsed than a "Saturday Night Live" skit.

For better or worse, you never think that when you watch a Spurrier press conference.

Spurrier is the real thing. And sometimes it's challenging for even his own fans to love his authenticity. Loving Spurrier is not always easy, not when he insists on always telling the truth.

To borrow one of his favorite phrases, he is who he is.

In press conferences like Wednesday's, he stumbles, fumbles and looks awkward at times. He sighs. He can sound like a condescending school teacher fussing at the seven-year-olds in his class. He jokes with the media, then ribs them in biting fashion, then jokes with them again. But he makes sure they always know he's the guy who's won all the games, and they aren't.

And for whatever reason, I love it.

Most of us crave honesty in 2015. We cling to it. We flock to anyone who seems real and authentic and genuine, and who, as we used to say on the playground in elementary school, "just doesn't give a ____."

I've listened to Howard Stern every day for over a decade because he's the only person I know who will make fun of his own hair, his nose, his, uh, anatomy and everything else. He tells me when someone he works with is getting on his nerves. He admits when his wife isn't really happy with him. He makes fun of his parents, his celebrity guests, and most of all, himself.

At this point, we almost never see that kind of transparency, from anyone. Our politicians and our business leaders and even our movie stars have become so skilled at spinning, at selling, at repackaging a story to make themselves seem likeable and relatable, even if they aren't.

Spurrier's fine with being unlikeable. He's fine with being misunderstood. And he actually seems to love having enemies.

One of the most interesting parts of the saga was the national media's reaction. Writers from around the country weighed in, most of them expressing deep and profound disappointment with the Ball Coach.

Why?

Spurrier's typically been one of the most popular figures in sports for national media members. He always gives his time, is happy to provide a colorful quote, and makes the media's job easy when he drops hilarious digs at other coaches and other programs. Hey, when he's making fun of other colleges and his peers, it's all good, right?

But when he admits he's not crazy about another member of the media? Then the whole honesty thing suddenly becomes a problem.

It happened a few years ago when he could no longer withhold his frustration with The State's Ron Morris ("As we all know, we've got a negative guy over here."). All of the sudden the Spurrier thing stopped being fun for some of these sensitive folks who write newspaper articles, because one of their own was under attack.

If he's crushing Ray Goff or Phil Fulmer? Fantastic!

If he's crushing Morris or Mark Bradley of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, it stops being funny.

At least to them. I still think it's funny.

The media loves Spurrier when he's being Spurrier. As long as he doesn't call them out. If he does, he's suddenly a nutcase who is starting to act like an old, out-of-touch grandpa.

The thing is, he's been this way his entire career. He's going to say what he feels like he needs to say. It may not make a ton of sense to everyone, and it may even seem off-putting…but he's still going to say it.

For instance, as a Gamecock fan, I wasn't crazy about him publicly obsessing over the fact that Clemson's DeShaun Watson had recently declared he'd never lose to USC. Why give Watson the attention he was so desperately seeking with that statement? He's a sophomore who has played - what - around half a game against South Carolina at this point? Yes, he won that one. So let's give him his propers and look for him in Williams-Brice this November. No reason to elevate that statement into some sort of declaration of war. I mean, Jadeveon Clowney publicly stated he'd never lose to Clemson (and he didn't).

But Spurrier HAS to be himself. He saw that statement, and started seething, and he just couldn't find a way to get through a 10-minute press conference without mentioning it.

Whether I liked it or not, that's who he is.

There is no spin.

There is no selling.

There is only the truth as he sees it.

And you know what? That's why I love him.

In every great vengeance movie, the hero has to be wronged before he can become who we want him to become.

Was he wronged by Watson's statement? I don't know. I honestly didn't care about it.

But if it makes Spurrier care, and our players care, then what the heck? Let's make it a rallying cry.

At the end of the movie "Unforgiven," a wounded Gene Hackman looks helplessly up at Clint Eastwood, who is pointing a rifle at Hackman's head.

"I don't deserve this," Hackman mumbles. "I was building a house."

Eastwood sighs, and considers the statement in silence. Finally, he says, "Deserve's got nothing to do with it."

Then he shoots him in the face.