Subcommandante Wayne, the Ohio State fan who defaces this blog every week until Jan. 8th with a can of scarlet spray paint and his inimitable diction, arrives late for his guest column today, which will be his breakdown of the Holiday Bowl. As always: um, enjoy?

Name: The Holiday Bowl, which sounds totally gay to the Subcommandante. Especially after his own holiday to Vegas last week ended up soooo busted-up and shitty. Holiday, my ass. You try finding a legal hooker in East St. Louis. It’s like they don’t even know prostitution is legal, man.


Subcommandante Wayne says that East St. Louis is not worthy of his rockedness.

Motto: The Pacific Life Holiday Bowl: suck my ass, world! That’s not the motto of the bowl, man, but it should be, since I’m telling the whole world to do that this week in any way I can. Case in point: last night with my mom.

Scene: the kitchen.

Mom: “Wayne, when are you going to get the Grand Am fixed?”

Me: “Soon, Mom, gaaaaaww. I’m all tapped out from getting it towed from St. Louis.”

Mom: “You could get a job and stop playing that craft game you’re always talking about.”

Me: “Suck my ass mom!”

Actually that’s not what I said at all. I just kind of sat there and played with my peas. But it’s what I said in my head, and that’s what counts, all my little Wayneiacs out there. It’s what you say when no one’s looking that counts.

Point being: it’s not my fault the Grand Am crapped out in East St. Louis. A machine like that requires steady maintenance, and what with my guild going ’round the map owning the whole universe in World of Warcraft, there’s no time, man, there’s just no freakin’ time. Mom hasn’t even offered to buy me new rims, since my old spinners got “lost” somewhere between the offramp and the repair shop. Fuckin’ dickass water pump.

Fake Bowl? All bowls not involving Ohio State are by definition fake, man. So, yeah. It’s fake. It has been around in a fake way since 1978, which is when Boston released “Don’t Look Back,” a kickass song they play all the time on the Power Pig. That guy must hammer his balls with a mallet to hit some of those notes, man.

Intrusive Corporate Sponsor: Pacific Life Insurance, who has this whale on their ads all the time. Not a raging bull dragging its tackle in the sand like the Merrill Lynch bull, or even some flaming skull–I would totally buy insurance from a company that had a flaming skull as its logo–but just a big, old flabby whale jumping out of the water to the tune of this Zamfir flute shit.

Suck my ass, Pacific Life. Your whale doesn’t stir the Subcommandante’s blood.


Flaming Skull Insurance: Rocking Ass since 2006.

Tradition Rating: Um, if they’re as old as Boston, it must be some kind of tradition, since Boston’s been on the Power Pig as long as the Subcommandante had a pair of pink mangos to scratch. (In case you don’t get that, I’m talking about my balls.)

Ol’ Wayne gives it a tradition rating of who fucking cares. How’s that, America? My Grand Am is somewhere between here and St. Louis and I’m out seven hundred dollars at least. Worst of all, no whores. Wayne was told there would be whores, and I’m left running after a police car screaming with no pants or shoes in East St. Louis because I get robbed after my sweet, sweet ride craps parts onto the interstate. No pants, no whores, no wallet, and Mom bitchin’ at me to get a job when she doesn’t know the half of how much the job of being Subcommandante sucks right now.

Setup: The Pac-10 versus Big 12, which is that conference so unoriginal it couldn’t even think of a new name and instead just ripped off the Big 10. Cal plays Texas A&M.

Location. San Diego. Stone Temple Pilots come from there, so it can’t suck too bad. If I had money I’d try to get down there for some sweet action in Tijuana, which is this town next to it that isn’t even in the United States or anything.

Matchup quality: Suck versus McSuck, if you ask me. Cal’s talking balls for years and all, but every time I’ve caught ‘em they’re getting fed ass sandwiches made of their own ass with extra-salty ass sauce on the side. Texas A&M has a collie as a mascot. One of them used to live down the street until my neighbor Ed got loaded one night, burned down his storage shed in the back, and then shot it. Ed had anger issues.

What to watch for: Umm, Orson’s got something here:

Cal’s running a mean “never-done-nothing” streak with us as of late: crapped out in Knoxville, running three game crap-out against alleged rival USC, struggling near-crap-out in bowl game versus BYU in 05, and the infamous boarding and pillaging by Mike Leach’s crew. Texas A&M has a three hundred pound running back in Jorvorskie Lane (275? Lies!), a productive retro-option run game, and whatever list of high-school trick plays Dennis Franchione feels are necessary to make him look like the smirky genius he isn’t.

Cal to crap-out–take Texas A&M and the points, but only in the most speculative, for entertainment purposes-only way possible.

Umm, yeah. What he said. We’ll be watching it and dreaming of the awesome Vegas weekend that never happened. It would have been like Leaving Las Vegas, but not with the whole death thing at the end. Though that would be fine right now, man, since the Subcommandante’s mana level is dangerously low at this point. No Grand Am, no Buckeyes until the 8th, and only Warcraft to sustain me until then. I’ll let my sadness fuel me; out of great sadness comes art. If that’s true, then I’m getting ready to paint my own Michaelangelo’s Mona Lisa in blood. Murloc blood…


Wayne’s going hunting, baby. And he’s not coming back until the virtual world pays for the crime fate committed against the Grand Am.