Ronnie Wilson, best remembered as the hopefully former Gator lineman who pulled an AK-47 from his trunk to “scare” a man who followed him out of a Gainesville nightclub a few months back, has finally been formally charged for the offense. The tally:

State Attorney Bill Cervone said Thursday that Wilson has been charged with one count of battery and one count of discharging a firearm in public. Gainesville police had recommended Wilson be charged with a felony count of aggravated assault and a count of using a firearm in the commission of a felony.

Don’t blame the nefarious tentacles of Florida boosters for the reduction in charges–blame Florida’s TOTALLY AWESOME and tourist-friendly “Shoot First” law, specifying that a person may “use force, including deadly force, against an intruder or an attacker in a dwelling, residence or vehicle under specified circumstances; creating a presumption that a reasonable fear of death or great bodily harm exists under certain circumstances…”

Wilson, for the record, is 6′3″, 316 pounds. His lawyer better hope the “threat” in the case is big–like, Nikolai Valuev-sized kind of big.

Didn’t you play the part of a Persian in 300, dude?

Wilson is not currently enrolled in classes, but “would like to remain at UF.” Urban Meyer will conclusively kick him off before the judicial hearing in August, and thus assert himself as a disciplinarian! It’s opposite day yay!

Ahem. He’ll totally be back and in the starting rotation by November when he gets his conditioning back. We’re already resigning ourselves to this inevitable and sad fact of having a Lou Holtzian coach. Stop looking at us like that–we suddenly feel…threatened…(reaching in trunk…)

Dear old Dads–they come in all varieties ranging from the heroic, asteroid-destroying Bruce Willis-type to the Kevin Spacey, weenie-waiting-to-flip-out-and-midlife-crisisize the whole family type. (He’s our fave, since he’ll share the weed, hang out, and lift weights with you. Skip the bit where he’s shot by the closeted gay neighbor and you’ll love him like a brother.)

And if you’re reading this blog, chances are your father likes or really, really likes college football. Why not give him an appropriate gift combining your mutual appreciation of sport and your varying levels of affection for him?

Our handy guide follows, custom fit for the kind of dad you may happen to have.

The Saint.

The man: Glib without being snide, an early riser, still reasonably fit and in possession of a deed to a house worth over five hundred thousand dollars in value, wise, compassionate, successful without being a total asshole, faithful to dear old mum and still prompt with the anniversary flowers, a patient and indulgent grandfather…chances are, you don’t have this dad, but if he did exist you’d hate him for being damn perfect if he weren’t Dad.

As it stands, you’re likely wrenched with guilt at being less than perfect in his shadow and compensate for it with blasts of hedonism mixed in with spurts of overachieving and frantic career switches. (Hey, guys! I’m taking the LSAT!)

The gift: In return, take revenge by giving him the tickets to any of the following games: Texas/OU in the Red River Rivalry (10/06), USC/Notre Dame (10/20), or any this year’s grand cru Iron Bowl (11/24), featuring new, industrial grade bitter with Saban v. Tuberville returning to the SEC West.

Look who’s perfect now, Dad! [/drunken post-game rant when he buys dinner.]

The Man: Mr. Harmless. Perhaps you remember Dad as less of a factor in your upbringing, and more of a quantum randomness that spend most of the time attempting to program the VCR correctly, setting different parts of the house on fire, and stocking every nook and cranny of the domicile with stuff he bought off Skymall and Hammaker-Schlemmer. (more…)

The former Minnesota coach…dastardly poonhound? That’s not who we’d pick as a serious serial philanderer, and yet there it is, firmly alleged in sources both bloggy and more paper-oriented.

The guys we want to be absolute skirt-thieves really aren’t:

–Pete Carroll, who’d invite you over for some macrobiotic dinner, a gentle round of Pilates, and then a night hike through the canyon capped with a really great Willamette Valley Pinot Noir they only make thirty bottles of a year and some quality chundle-rubbin’ in the hot tub while Thievery Corporation plays in the background.

–The Orgeron, who’d bust your door down drunk and pantsless, but in an irresistably charming way.

–Urban Meyer, who would text his way into your heart with relentless intensity.

–Rich Rodriguez, author and creator of the unstoppable spread option. (If anyone should be a playa, it’s the guy who invented the spread option. )

–And lastly, Alvin Wyatt, Bethune-Cookman coach, purveyor of the “Wyattbone” offense, and best-dressed coach in the NCAA. If anything screams instant and reckless sex, it’s a man who runs the Wyattbone straight up the middle for a score.

Come on go with me…come on over to my plaaaaace…

But Glen Mason? That’s just incongruous and wrong. We like our womanizers slick and obvious, and our homosexuals FLAAAAMING. We insist on some surefire certainties in our lives, like [NAME REDACTED] blowing fourth quarter leads and headbutting coke machines, for instance. It just helps us sleep through the sounds of the screaming lambs in our head at night.

Blogtoberfest! Linky linky linky!

Montana Crime Arms Race Takes drastic new step. Shame both aren’t D-1 teams, or they’d be booming ahead of the field in the Fulmer Cup race. Montana State had the early lead in a series of six drug-related arrests of current and former Montana State players, precipitating the firing of coach Mike Kramer. (Kramer’s now insisting he was railroaded unfairly, which means a seventh MSU player will be arrested snorting yayo off the ass of a donkey in the middle of a convenience store parking lot in the next 48 hours. Mark our words.)

Montana, crime, cocaine, murder…football?

Montana, thanks to cornerback Jimmy Wilson, has responded in the intrastate crime race whether they like it or not. He’s charged with murder following an altercation “earlier this month” in Palmdale, California involving a man and a woman related to Wilson. Wilson shot the man at his home, and he died from wounds to his upper torso later.

Wilson turned himself into LA County Police, who set a bail of one meeeeelion dollars for his release. He was Montana’s starting cornerback last season. Guess that roster spot’s wide open, aspiring Big Sky walk-ons.

Dan Hawkins is a complete failure… for not making his full distance in his attempt to run a marathon in Australia. LOSER! Hawkins, who trained for the race as the result of a bet with his daughter, will only run the half-marathon because he is a complete failure. This donut we’re dining on, by the way, is simply fucking delicious.

Dan Hawkins: a real Spartan would have run a full marathon just to kick someone down a well.

Hawkins plans to atone for his failure by running an ultramarathon…on the moon. (Without a helmet, pussies.)

Speaking of donuts… Toledo’s Tom Amstutz will, as reader DevilGrad sagely notes, have his donut budget cut somewhat as the Rockets’ President has ordered a complete revamp of the program. (more…)

We know Jimbo Fisher’s rebuilding the FSU offense, and that that has a shocking consensus building up that FSU’s going to return to dominance in the ACC, and that worse still, if you don’t think this then you–E-fucking-gads!–agree with dissenter Dennis Dodd, as SMQ pointed out yesterday.

FSU’s former wunderkind turned interception donor Xavier Lee is one of the big reclamation projects on the docket for Fisher, who must be really pushing Lee to the limit. Because there’s an awful lot of limit pushing going on for Lee down in Tallahassee. As in the limits being pushed, and limitizing of pushable limitness.

On offseason conditioning:

It’s definitely sunk in. I’m just trying to focus a lot more and work a lot harder personally to just push my self to the limit.

Limitpushpushlimiting. I’m pushing limitations to their unpushable limitness. The limiltess pushing of my limitations has pushified limitosity to the pushacious limittasticness of my limiting. Put simply: I’m pushing limits.

Or, as reader Miguel suggests, perhaps Miguel’s been finding inspiration bumping his speakers to a little Corbin Bleu:

And now thanks to Miguel, this is all we’ll hear whenever Xavier Lee takes the field this fall. And for that, we thank you, because he’s in it, in it, to win it, win it!