Three unbeaten top ten teams fall in a single Thermidorean day. We saw one of them get decapitated live, and it sucked with the sucking of a thousand burning suns of suck.

We’ll discuss all the sucking on EDSBS Live at 7 p.m. EST Sunday night. But first…there’s a lot of kittens in this bucket. And they all have to die.

It’s Tim’s party, and you’re coming whether you like it or not. Open thread below.

We don’t want to let USF get overshadowed this evening by giving you a paltry Cheesecake serving centered on West Virginia… To that end, we offer you Alesha Marie Oreskovich. Playboy pinup and former USF Bull. Be careful googling her. We did, however, find a few SFW shots.

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Real life’s been throwing grenades at us today, so accept this version of cheesecake: the always lovely University of Florida graduate Erin Andrews fighting her way through a challenging live spot with West Virginia fans.

We’re off to Gainesville for the Auburn game, so these notes.

One: We’ll have an open thread. Stop by and say hello.

Two: We’ll be toodling around Gainesville tomorrow. Stop by and say hello. (Email for contact details, clandestine planning, etc.)

Three: It’s Larry Munson’s 85th birthday. Happy birthday to the greatest announcer on the planet. (Suck on it, Michael Buffer!)

Enjoy your weekend. As always, we love you all.

Franchione: A Total Fucking Idiot. Officially.

TMZ.com’s blowing up like crazy these days, so they must be hiring, meaning you should forward Dennis Franchione’s curriculum vitae their way with all due speed. The brilliant, mold-breaking, team-building-exercise-lovin’ 1997-motivational-guru-of-tomorrow isn’t only a colossally overrated coach who ditched an entire organization overnight. He’s also a hell of gossip columnist for his own team.

The skinny (that’s what they say in gossip columns!):

Texas A&M football coach Dennis Franchione said Thursday he has discontinued a secret e-mail newsletter sent to select boosters willing to pay $1,200 per year for team information that Franchione routinely has withheld from the public.

“I knew it was probably going to be controversial,” Franchione said. “I certainly didn’t mean for it to be that. When I knew you guys were starting to ask around a bit, I thought, ‘Maybe we shouldn’t do this.’”

There’s your peaches, right there: Franchione saying that he didn’t think he should publish the newsletter once people started asking about the letter. The newsletter, as the article details, went out to around 12 subscribers who signed confidentiality agreements, a nice bit of frosting for the story since the newspaper was able to get a hold of the super secret, confidential newsletter in the first place.

This indicates several things. One booster among these 12 has sold off all his shares in FranRon, Inc–otherwise, how the hell did the paper get their hands on it in the first place? Second, Coach Fran trod on a real ethical line here, since leaking information on games that are always wagered on by gamblers (potentially the boosters themselves, no?) in secret isn’t illegal, but is certainly jankety, skeevy, and questionable at best.

But enough about character. We don’t know Franchione, the person. We only see Franchione the coach and his actions, leading us to our next point.

Three, it indicates something you can only write on the internet, but it’s something we feel comfortable saying because we think there’s ample evidence of it at this point: Dennis Franchione is a fucking idiot. A total fucking idiot.

–Overwrought game plans are high school offenses in disguise and never fail to squander the talents of players like Reggie McNeal and Jorvorskie Lane.

–Craig James was laughing at your defensive scheme on national television. That’s enough, right?

–Aggie record is 28-24 going into this season with an annual salary of over 2 million dollars.

–Claimed his father was buried in an Alabama sweatshirt…two months prior to leaving the job for Texas A&M.

–Left a team without saying goodbye to his players at Alabama.

–Lost 77-0 to Oklahoma in 2003

–Hit your grandmother with a semi and dared to claim the right of way.

Dennis Franchione parked your car for you.

And now, it’s come out that he’s selling exclusive info about the program in an extremely insecure format to subsidize CoachFran.com, including player injuries and unflattering player assessments, in a year when his job is clearly in danger.

The explicit editorial stance from here on out at EDSBS is that Dennis Franchione is a fucking idiot. A total goddamn piss-shitting paste-eating fucking idiot. We wouldn’t trust him with sinking a leaky barge full of bricks with the U.S.S. New Jersey. We wouldn’t trust him to feed our pet alligator Lawrence if we had freezer full of dead chickens and a shovel at the ready. We’d send him an email telling him all this, but we’d have to get in line, and he’s too busy emailing those friendly Liberians back with his bank account numbers. “I’m going to roll in my African riches! EXCELSIOR!!!”

Proven: Dennis Franchione is a fucking idiot. Q.E.D, motherfucker.

Note that no, this isn’t an attack on his character. This an attack on his intellect or lack thereof. These are all very public and very stupid actions on behalf of a person. It’s not garbage, Mike Gundy, if you can back it up. Franchione has a habit of doing very stupid things in the public eye. Objectively stupid things, like this, like leaving Alabama without saying goodbye, like pretty much everything about the Miami gameplan, like his mismanagement of Reggie McNeal. There’s plenty out there to back it up. His resume of dumb is deep, compelling, and documented.

Hey you! You there with your hand on your spunk sprinkler! Pay some goddamn attention, because this is Jim Harbaugh talking right at you. I know about three things in life: kicking ass, getting ass, and solid public health practices. And since I’m sharing no secrets on passions one and two, I’m gonna have to share my talent in the third with you–my passion for public health education, fucknuts.

What’s my message? Wash your fucking hands. That’s my whole campaign here: wash your filthy, ass-scratching hands. We all know that filthy bastards like you do all kinds of things which are, in the parlance of public health officials, “completely dogass nasty.” Frankly, I and the rest of the medico-scientific community are amazed you have the strength to stand a urinal, have lived to whatever wretched age you currently are, don’t have a raging worm infestation. Which you might.

I also know two definite things about you. One, you probably don’t wash your legs. Men just don’t do that. It’s a long way down there, and what the hell do your legs do anyway that require any real kind of attention, anyway? Just let the runoff from your torso and ass do all the work, right?

Wrong! Dirty legs are as dangerous as a lit flamethrower in the hands of an angry chimpanzee. Yours are filthy, and I know it. Go ahead, squint at the fine print in the in poster. It reads “P.S. Your legs stink of disease! Love, Captain Comeback.” Because they do–I can smell them all the way up here, even beneath this plastic display shield.

The other thing I know about you? You scratch your ass with that hand. Which one? Oh, it really doesn’t matter now, does it, sailor? Because when the sharp, hellborne pain of a sudden ass itch strikes, you send the professionals on either side: the index finger. And sure, sometimes you just shift in your seat and hope friction takes care of it. But most of the time you dig right in, hoping the double layer of trouser and underpant insulates you like some kind of magical lightweight wool/poly germ armor, right?

Let me ask you this–the next time a doctor’s ready to cut open a family member of yours, how about if they just wear mittens made from an old pair of Dockers? Because that’s what you’re doing, jerkoff: operating in a hostile environment without the right protection. I won’t even talk about the times you actually creep the hand down the asscrack, between the cheeks, and into the musty, toxic tortellini of the asshole itself for a 360 degree scouring of your filthy tailpipe.

What’s left under your fingernails after doing that could have you classifed as a weapon of mass destruction, piggy. The Russian bioweapons program in the 1960s started with less raw material than that.

There’s a name for people like you: vectors. Remember the asshole in The Stand who drives out of the army base in the beginning and infects the whole planet with the deathflu? That’s you, fucker, unless you take your hands right now and wash them for a solid twenty count in hot water with soap and friction. That’s what we’re gonna need to see from you right now. Contagion never sleeps, and neither does Jim Harbaugh. Now go wash your fucking hands and enjoy the game. And after that, forget the dog: go get yourself dewormed before the wife finds you dragging your asshole across the carpet for relief, you filthy, filthy bastard.

Oh, and purchase Stanford season tickets immediately! We bow to no man or germ!

(Photo credit: Dave H.)

R.I.P.: 2005ish-2007ish.

Mark May’s goatee died sometime in the last week at the age of twoish, cut down in a few snips by cruel blades in a bathroom somewhere in the vicinity of Bristol, Connecticut. The killer is believed to be May himself, and though his motives are unknown, there is some speculation: too much grey peeking through the southern hemisphere of the goatee, a general fatigue with the facial hairstyle, and a sudden reaction to the realization that the goatee is the mustache of the IPhone generation, and not in that good, ironic way, either.

The goatee accomplished much in its short life. It served as the launching pad for a thousand smirky moments of analysis, serving as the Cape Canaveral for Titan IV-scale rockets of smug. It caught countless crumbs of food and drink for later consumption by its master. Most importantly, it served as a Fart Pipe of sorts for May’s 12-cylinder engine of self-satisfaction, embellishing his already substantial aura into a force field of vaingloriousness.

We at EDSBS pour one out for the Mark May Peltstache. Indeed, the world is less smug place today for its absence. Put crepe bows round the white necks of public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves…

We know why this man craves popsicles now.

The Louisville Cardinals defense has played much of 2007 in a vague fog. Now we become aware that one member has been playing it in a very specific type of fog: marijuana smoke. And no, it’s not just any member of the defense–it’s Willie Williams, the troubled blue-chip recruit who was arrested at least ten times during high school, bragged of receiving fishy benefits in a recruiting diary in the Miami Herald, sprayed strangers with a fire extinguisher during his visit to the University of Florida, was under investigation at one point for “hugging a woman against her will,” had the president of the University of Miami excusing his admission in the press, bombed out of Miami when he couldn’t crack the starting lineup, and finally ended up in Louisville for his umpteenth chance.

And on cue–POOF!–it all goes up in smoke again as the bell tolls BONG, BONG, BONG for him again with an arrest for marijuana possession and eating the evidence on the scene.

About 9:40 p.m. yesterday, a police cruiser pulled behind Williams on West Broadway and attempted to pull him over, according to a police report. Williams failed to pull over for several blocks until he stopped at Second and Broadway, where an officer found him chewing on marijuana, according to the report.

Williams has been dismissed from the team, and could face up to five years in jail for the combo charges.

Back without popular demand: The Golden Unicycle Diaries return, where Peter and Orson use the wonder of internet chat to spin mental detritus into gold! Or at the least, affordable cotton/rayon blends cut in contemporary patterns, cuts, and styles!

We discuss this week’s games. Enjoy? Yes. Enjoy.

Orson: wearing this to the game on Saturday.

Peter Bean: What’s up in your world?

Orson Swindle: I’m so Master Chief this week. It’s HALO-ween

PB: Ah, feeling violent. Was it Ole Miss?

OS: Oh, yes. We coudl have used something from the game. There’s this thing called an antigravity hammer in Halo 3. I call it the Tebow-rod. It doesn’t require ammo.

PB: Can it do four play action maneuvers all by itself?

me: Yes. But you hit things with it so hard and so many times, that at one point, you just can’t hammer any more. You’ve outbludgeoned bludgeoning, and you have to stop. Just like Tebow, who looks like he’s doing the electric slide back there on some plays.

PB: Let’s pull up this week’s schedule.

OS: Hold on, i can do that with my anti-grav hammer DONE!!! I also just repelled Beano Cook fifty feet into a brick wall through the portal of ESPN.com. He’s still asleep!

PB: And start with Friday – West Virginia-USF. There won’t be anti-gravity in Tampa. But there will be lots of hair gel.

OS:Yes, WVU. Noel Devine as Q-bert. He doesn’t sidestep, he edits the film to make himself go sideways.

PB: I was thinking Sonic the Hedgehog.

OS: That’s McFadden. Always forward. And craves gold coins.

Peter: I bet Nutt trains him like a greyhound. Coins and rabbits and hydraulics out in front of him. CHASE!

OS: I bet he tries that, and D-Mac has no clue what he’s doing. EAT ‘EM! THEY’RE COINS!

OS: “What the fuck, H-Nutz?”

PB: I imagine the Arkansas huddles are delightful. Play gets called in. D-Mac says, “Fuck all that. Gimme the fuckin pig, baby.”

OS: I bet Casey Dick just cries and nods. (more…)