The Subcommandante has taken over our bowl previews for today. Good luck!

Wassup bitchez! Subcommandante Wayne comin’ atcha from the O-H-I-Oh Oh Oh. Orson–total dick I can type that ’cause it’s my site today hahahahahha!!!–told me to do a bowl preview. I told him to suck it, ’cause the Subcommandante only takes orders from three men: the Commandante Jim Tressel, Commandante Emeritus (that means “dead” in Greek) Woody Hayes, and Lemmy. So again, let’s review the lesson here…oh yeah: suck it, and suck it. Your homework will be to learn this lesson and learn it well. OSU RULZ!!!


Wayne reminds you: OSU rulz.

Anyway, the Subcommandante’s giving his badass Druid a little breather after a ripping WoW session to give you a bowl preview. ‘Cause again: the Subcommandante knows no master save the Buckeye Lords. And Lemmy.

Name: The Pioneer Pure VisionLas Vegas

Motto: “Whores!” Dude, you can totally get a whore in Las Vegas. So that’s the motto: “Las Vegas Bowl: You need whores, and we’ve got ‘em.”

I’d move there if I had the money. And IF OHIO DIDN’T OWN WITH STEADINESS!!!

Intrusive Corporate Sponsor: The Subcommandante doesn’t see a sponsor here, since I’m thinking the Pioneer Pure Vision thing must be some tribute to the pioneer spirit or something, and how pure it all was when they stopped in the desert a thousand years ago and said: “We need a place for whores and gambling, and this looks perfect.” Whores, man. Ass for cash with class. Again, if not for the Grand Am, the Buckeyes, and all the tasty sweatpant candy rolling around the bars here, man, I’d be rolling the bones in Vegas and livin’ pimpin’ like it was Yahtzee.

Respect must be paid here, though. That’s the spirit that built America, people. Asskickers looking for a place to put their whore corps and just LFMing all over the place in search of loot.


Founded thousands of years ago, man. And Wayne’s feeling the history.

Tradition Rating: Since Las Vegas was founded a thousand years ago, this must be off the scale. Back then they played football wearing armor. That’s why they never passed, because they couldn’t see the ball through the little slit they had in the front. They also let live tigers and shit loose on the field. Those guys were soooo hrd. I mean, I’m tough, but I’m not tough like Hamish’s dad in Braveheart.

MANLAW!!! It’s totally safe to cry at that part of Braveheart. I do because that’s how the Subcommandante’s going out: in the arms of my badass son who’s totally crying all over me after someone speared me in the guts during combat. It beats dying like my uncle Rick, who bitched out, ran off on his wife, and died in a truck fire in Mexico. Though the truck fire bit could be tuff if the police had cornered you or something, instead of you just falling asleep drunk on pills and tequila with lit joint in your hand.

MANLAW!!! Rick was an asshole.

Setup: Mountain West versus Pac-10. Both of these teams are not in the Big Ten, and therefore have no balls. MANLAW!!! Mountain West and Pac-10 have no balls. APPROVED!!!

Location. Vegas, baby. Sometimes people type that after Vegas: Vegas, baby. Did you know they have a roller coaster on top of a hotel there? And free liquor? You could hit the town with a fat hundred rolled up in a sweatsock at eight, make a few thousand at the blackjack table by ten, get loaded on all the free booze–free booze!!!!111—and then be riding like an ashy to classy cash king on the roller coaster drunk on top of the world. With a whore.

Seriously, dude. I’m not moving, or anything, but as soon as I get the timing belt replaced on the Grand Am, the Subcommandante’s redlining his ass to Vegas…baby. See? I’m already talking like local, man.

Matchup quality: Orson gave me some beta here: Brady Leaf is the new starting qb for Oregon, John Beck’s the BYU quarterback and throwing huge numbers blah blah blah blah blah…Dude, seriously: hired women. I could pay them to just sit and tell me how awesome I am all day, or talk about football, or even walk around with me and say things when strangers passed by like, “Subcommandante, doesn’t your back hurt from carrying such a big dick around all the time,” or “Geez, Wayne, I can’t walk because I keep tripping over your dick,” or “Wayne, tell me that delightful story about the time someone tried to chop a tree down in your yard, but it turned out to be your penis, and you totally kicked their ass with stealthy but righteous ninja force!”

Forget football, people. Wayne’s getting his visionquest on, and all you little people can think about is football. OSU’s not even playing here, and there’s whores on the docket. Jesus.

Orson sez BYU in a scorefest. I’m saying Wayne in a whorefest, and that’s gospel, yo.

What to watch for: Me, baby, in Vegas, baby, with eight ladies wearing “Waynes’ Buckthighs’ Army” shirts on the fifty. I’ve got some stock my grandfather gave me to sell–Braniff or something, I dunno, but but it’s gotta be worth hundreds now or something. Me and the Grand Am are heading out west to go questing, baby. (Again, I’m so local it’s not funny.) The Subcommandante’s got to show Vegas something special. Playing tonight in a hotel room in Las Vegas? The sexiest show on earth: Fountains of Wayne, baby.