The lightning review of all that you need to know about the past, present, and immediate future of college football, written on a waterproof laptop from the warm waters of Pete Carroll’s Enchanted Gridiron Grotto. Mark Sanchez is three feet away from us eating sushi off the belly of a naked woman. This program does things right, man.

Fathoms below: that’s where turnovers will get you.

Ohio State remains ploddingly, predictably excellent, and it isn’t their fault that no one likes them for it besides the people of the Sovereign People’s Republic of Uzbuckistan. Ohio State’s excellence has transcended the interesting. Losing one game in the past two years will do that to a team, but so will going into a festive, decidedly amped Beaver Stadium and bringing the demo team with you.

If you did watch the game, skip this paragraph unless you’re a Buckeye fan who, like Georgia fans, can’t get enough masturbatory praise in this morning following a weekend of asskicking in the correct direction. The results of the game never teetered for longer than a suspenseful minute or two in any direction but Ohio State’s. Time of possession: 37 minutes, 52 seconds. This was heavyweight boxing, with efficient and impressive control from minute one. With the exception of one well-composed drive from Penn State, Ohio State reduced Penn State to a null set of football variables in a half.

The rest was cold, calculated math in motion 26 passes, 48 rushes, 453 yards of offense, and a murderous 24 first downs. They took out a deed on the game by scoring early, locking down the clock with Beanie Wells, and running out the rest in an act of asphyxiating gridiron strategy that had Woody Hayes punching out spirits in the afterlife. We were wrong about this team–they are very, very good. Perhaps not great, but certainly good enough to win a BCS game, and certainly good enough to be the champion.

That said, they could lose to Illinois, Michigan, or Wisconsin, because this is 2007, and you may not have your apples without razorblades this year no matter who your team is, trick-or-treater.

As noted on EDSBS Live, though, the worst part about your new football overlords the Ohio State Buckeyes is the medical problem created by a Tressel-dominated universe: a smitten, slobbering Brent Musburger attached firmly to Tressel’s balls. We’ve never, ever heard an announcer so gobsmacked-in-love as Musburger is with Tressel, who got loving descriptions of his “firm, sculpted buttocks that leapt up and down in his gray slacks like so much springy weasel-flesh” from Brent all night. If you are playing the Musburger drinking game, eschew taking a sip every time he washes El Sweatervest’s balls; you’ll be dead by the third quarter if you do.

Ditto for Oregon, who turned the corner on USC on Saturday in a physical game they won on the ground. Dennis Dixon, if he played in the media corridors of L.A., Texas, or the Midwest, would be getting naked women and baked hams thrown in his path for the job he’s doing at quarterback. He should be getting ham and women, actually, since he’s running Chip Kelly’s spread offense to perfection with Jonathan Stewart in the backfield. A more dangerous zone-read combo does not appear in our historical database. If having the coach’s wife accost reporters in the press box is what gets Oregon the edge it’s lacked since Harrington-mania, then give the woman a taser, a gin and tonic, and a flak jacket and let her loose in there.

Nebraska likes its defeat with extra vinegar and ball-smashing, please. We kept an eye on the Nebraska/Texas game and nearly spit up our Guinness when we saw the line after three quarters: 17-9 with Nebraska up on Texas at home.

Guinness was spit–or at least dribbled down the chin and into the lap–when we looked up and saw Nebraska’s defense suddenly remember how inept they truly were and allow Jamaal Charles to run for 216 yards in the fourth quarter. THAT’S 216 YARDS IN THE FOURTH DAMN QUARTER. At least Florida’s defense had the decorum to suck consistently throughout the span of a game; Nebraska’s played the cruelest trick of all. They gave fans a glimmer of hope before the light at the end of the tunnel turned out to be an oncoming train named Jamaal.

Bill Callahan: FAIL.

Seconded FAIL: Rutgers, who run-first, run-second West Virginia embarrassed at home 31-3. The fail isn’t even on Mike Teel, who played acceptable football, but on Taiquan Underwood, the Rutgers receiver who dropped two touchdowns along with two other passes in the course of making Rutgers’ offense look one-dimensional and flat. Steve Slaton actually made hairs on the back of the neck stand up when he cutback on his touchdown run in the second quarter–a quick cut, everyone else moving at several frames slower a second, and executing a perfect Walter Payton mule-kick-step before racing right for a TD.

Rutgers’ music coordinators deserve some award for lack of irony glands, too–down by multiple score with no hope, they kept blasting the opening riff from “For Whom the Bell Tolls” over and over again, unaware that to the unbiased observer, the 3rd and shorts (inevitably converted by the Mountaineers) only looked like utter doom for the Scarlet Knights. It’s Jersey–play “Livin’ On a Prayer” when you’re down that much. It’s much better than heralding your own demise with Metallica.

We’ve said all we care to say about the Georgia-Florida game–what, “Wilford Brimley Bukakke Party” left something to the imagination–but a word about the celebration and subsequent penalties following UGA’s first score. See video below in case you missed it.

Georgia wanted a psychological edge, and they got it–Richt made the call, thus confirming our suspicions that Evil Richt was coaching this game for the Bulldogs. (The goatee should have tipped everyone off to this fact.) Terence Moore, wrong as Terence Moore always is, rolled out a crapulent column about how stupid this was, and other, far more intelligent people complained, as well.

A better story is to write about Knowshon Moreno, and how Richt’s bizarre and persistent insistence on juggling three running backs was defeated by injuries, forcing him to use one badass the whole game who got in a rhythm and didn’t stop dancing until he had racked up 188 yards and 3 tds. Or you could comment on Florida’s youth and yet another extreme result of that youth: arm-tackling, abhorrent pass coverage, and a complete lack of pass rush. Or you could say nice game, mister, pack up your shit, and go home and figure out how you’re going to make freshman corners and wrongheaded safeties cover for the next game.

The word class means nothing–it’s unquantifiable, it’s fuzzy, and it’s all too often cited by the team picking their teeth up off the turf following a game. Rules govern behavior on the field, and if you’re willing to flaunt them and still pay the price, it’s less a matter of “class,” and more one of cost/benefit and gamesmanship. There’s time on the clock, try to score; if you’re willing to take a 30 yard penalty, go ahead and go out there and send the mob. Whatever.

We could care less as a fan. In fact, we laughed when the mob came out–it was exuberant, silly, and barnstorming theater from a team that came ready to lose it all in one fight rather than take yet another beating from Florida. Losers complain about officiating and “lack of class.” You know who else complains about lack of class? The aristocrat with his head in the guillotine just before his execution.

Finally, Arizona State may be our pick to win the national title on sentiment alone. What would be better than a sober, tight-assed Jim Tressel facing the pitchfork-wielding bon vivant Erickson on the opposite sidelines? It would literally be the Devil versus Tressell. A year ago, Erickson was mouldering in the cold spaces of the Kibbie Dome for a 3-8 Vandals team and likely scoping retirement properties in Mexico; now he’s kicking Tae-bo moves on the sidelines in Tempe and positioned to not only crash the party in the Pac-10, but possibly dictate national championship lines. ONE HUNDRED COCKTAILS to you, sir–we can only hope this delays your inevitable death by crashing golf cart into Volcano at the Sheraton Hawaii Bowl by at least two years.