We know that Tommy Bowden’s head is on the chopping block for the fifth season in a row at Clemson, meaning that you think the man would take some offensive chances once in a while. He really didn’t need to against Maryland this Saturday in a game where both James Davis (129 yds, 29 carries) and C.J. Spiller (106 yds, 17 carries) both gained over 100 yards in a 30-17 win.

This achievement gave Bowden untold points in his NCAA 2007 profile on XBox and also ensured that he could continue to ask Cullen Harper to make the short throws and efficient decision making that are hallmarks of the Rod Spence offense. It also meant that with a substantial lead, Bowden could monkey around a bit if he chose to during the waning minutes of the game.

But going for a 434 yard field goal with 2 seconds left in the first half? Forget any complaints about Mark Richt. That is classless behavior of the tenth degree, and elicited the following comment from his father, Florida State coaching legend Bobby Bowden: “Applesauce mmmrrrph.”

Classless by any means: the 434 yard field goal.

(Massive HT: KP.) The other telling bit from this outlandish attempt: with a field of around 500 yards in length, Maryland finally has an excuse why they, with offensive genius Ralph Friedgen in control of the offense now, the Terps linger at 82nd in total offense with a mere 23.88 points a game.

Autumn Thunder has the real story on the spread offense: it’s obviously a communist plot.

In all fairness to USC fans, it’s not exactly hell in a handbasket when you’re 6-2 at this point in the season. Yet pain’s all relative, especially when you’re used to flying with the angels and happen to be last in turnover differential in the Pac-10, behind even Stanford and Arizona at -5 for the year.

Hell’s a relative term, but good photoshop trumps perspective. HT: LSUFreek.

Despite the obvious mention of the “new coaching staff” Tom Osborne claims that no decision will be made about the coaching staff until the offseason. Tom Osborne also wants to sell you some ocean front property in Arizona, promises you don’t have to worry about your daughter on prom night because she took a “virginity pledge” and extolled how much more difficult it is to recruit to Notre Dame because of the academic standards.

HT: W. Brinson.

Greetings, nincompoops. My name is Bill Callahan. I’m hear to speak to you regarding the shoulder injury of Sam Keller, our current starting quarterback. He’s out for the rest of the season, a pitiable travesty of fate for our beloved signal-caller, my prize progeny of my prodigious West Coast offense, a distributor of dextrous deadly football deliveries from his deft digits, oh, a light! Yes, a lustrous beam of sunshine into my drab, forlorn tenure upon the alien corn of this disconsolate prairie.

Nebraska football, 2007.

(Oh, Cortez. Was Keats right? Did you feel exhilaration staring upon that vast, cerulean carpet? Would that I have anything but the oceans of my unappreciated genius to drown my sorrows in, vanquished conquistador! My voyage has taken me only further into this damned moonscape called America without a speck of Incan gold for reward. Unless you count my multimillion dollar salary, of course.)

I can espy from the slackening jaws and empty, unthinking stares of your simian countenances that I’ve yet again managed to blind you with the incandescence of my thoughts. Staring at the sun seems mean next to my thoughts, no? Well, let’s just put it in the pidgin you can understand.

KELLER OUCHIE! HURT OUCHIE WAAAAAAHHH!! NO TALK SPECIFICS!!! JOE GANZ THROW BALL HUSKER WAY HEAPUM TOUCHDOWNS NOT RESIGNING MMKAY? OW MY BALLZ!

(throws candy and beer…reporters scatter on the floor in a frenzy)

There. Having debased myself for the handful of cowrie shells I slave for each day here in the third circle of hell, I bid thee adieu, you gag-faced giblet-gobbling gomerals. Good day and die swiftly, shitkickers.

Buckeye Commentary spots a great Kirk Barton quote from why tOSU took particular savor from their victory in Happy Valley against the Penn State Saturday. It all comes down to one thing: don’t mess with the band.

“Real quick before I go on, I just want to say we dedicated this to our band, well, that’s something I came up with because they couldn’t come back after they had like piss bombs and blood balls thrown at them last year, so this is for our band. It’s not all Penn State fans, it only takes a couple, but it spoils the whole experience of college football for our band. Just let them know we’re thinking about them (the band).”

Don’t waste blood balls, kids. Also: remember to pay your taxes.

Blood balls? Dear god…we know that blood balls had a deep and enduring role in the traditions of college football, but sweet jesus, what kind of savage throws them? They should be cherished for what they are and their unique roles at each school, not tossed willy-nilly at the band like so many loose bolts and broken glass.

At LSU, they fry them; at Miami, they throw them at chalk outlines to prevent investigations from proceeding (no snitching!); at Tennessee they feed them to Phil; at Ole Miss, they throw them at Ed Orgeron, who wears a loincloth and carries a flamethrower around campus on Thursdays just to send a message to the world. At Wisconsin they drink them, since the prevailing BAC in Madison is high enough to qualify blood balls as high-gravity beer; at Washington, Ty Willingham uses them as golf balls on the driving range, where he is the ball two to three hours a day, not the club. In

But throwing them? Please. Blood balls are too precious a commodity for mere band-baiting. That’s what piss-bombs are for, and West Virginia fans will be more than happy to send someone for a train-the-trainer session in that.

Perrilloux, sit down, have a drink.

We have a lawyer we can call at 2:45 a.m. in our cellphone. We have several, actually, mostly because everyone we knew went to law school, a sort of advanced youth camp for adolescents that only costs 20-30K a year and involves learning unlearning the English language and playing golf. The conversations usually run something like this:

O: dOOd.

Lawya: d00d.

O: I just watched Pathfinder. Vikings rool. Ahm drunk.

Lawya: Going back to bed now.

O: fuck you!

Lawya: (Click!)

This may be the first thing we have in common with Ryan Perrilloux, who was allegedly beaten up along with linebacker Derrick Odom at The Varsity in Baton Rouge. You don’t party with your pregnant girlfriend? Playa, shine up and get the lady out the house once in a while. Even pregnant ladies can crank dat.

According to a police report, bouncers at the Varsity claimed they were forced to escort LSU football players Perrilloux and Odom outside the club after they refused to leave. Parish law says bars must close at 2 a.m. Bouncers also said several subjects made statements that they would leave and come back with guns.

Perilloux and Odom told police they were unfairly treated by the bouncers, and that the bouncers shoved them and their pregnant girlfriends out of the club. No charges have been filed and no arrests have been made.

Odom, previously involved in a fracas at an apartment complex, also posted this following whatever happened on Friday night at the club on his Facebook page on Saturday morning according to the LSU Reveille.

Odom’s public profile on Facebook, an online social network, featured a status message early Saturday morning that may have alluded to the situation.

“Derrick is trippin on how these fools try to run up on u behind ya back when they know they cant fuck wit u 1 on 1 but he got something that will shut all that shit down,” he wrote at 8:05 a.m. Saturday.

He has to be referring to sterling conflict resolution skills, in which case he can apply to law school and kill two birds with one stone for Perriloux, being both his lawyer and his, um…lawya. Miles is holding both out of practice pending some investigation and clarification regarding the incident, but remember these three things from the incident:

1. Ryan Perriloux has a lawyer he can call at 2:45 a.m.

2. Even if you are a pregnant lady, you can get tossed out of a Baton Rouge club.

3. Never, ever Facebook at 8 in the morning following a night of clubbin’. Even if the fight dont end til u die BITCH.

All disclosures first: we’ve talked with Bruce Feldman on the phone, met him in person once, and are quoted once in his new book on recruiting, Meat Market. We’re also quoted in several other books, as well, including Gridskipper’s upcoming guide to sex clubs around the world. (Pg. 256, Bangkok section. “No club is more welcoming to the homely, naked, and needy male than Club Superpussy! A thousand cocktails to them! Come for the awkward group sex, stay for the Pad Thai special!”)

It’s great. Buy it.

Nevertheless, despite having contact with us, Feldman is a masterful observational writer, disappearing into the background of Meat Market as the eye for a year’s worth of frenetic recruiting by a modern master: Ed “The” Orgeron, who let Feldman tag along as Coach O ran through a zillion hours of tape and several reservoirs of Red Bull and coffee in his quest to restock the cabinet with talent at Ole Miss.

The book’s a meticulously researched book, but don’t mistake the precision for a lack of blood. The story’s got all the life it needs in one Ed Orgeron, who seems to be bigger in real-life than we could ever make him here in the blogosphere. We’ll just tempt with two scenes from the book that involve actual, witnessed events or conversations during a typical Orgeron recruiting process.

One: Jerrell Powe and Ed Orgeron actually squared off in Powe’s high school parking lot. Someone saw them practicing swim moves and called the school to tell them that “a huge white man and a huge black man” were wrestling in the parking lot.

Two: An actual conversation between TE coach Hugh Freeze and Ed Orgeron about a recruit who fancied Ole Miss after a visit.

Freeze: “I think he really likes us because you wrestled with him.”

Orgeron: “Shit, that son-of-a-bitch was strong. After he pinched me under the arms, it was ON.”

We can’t sell the book any more convincingly than that. We woke up at 5 a.m. the other day to read it. It’s a peek into the least understood portion of the football year, and a rousing portrait of someone truly obsessed with the process.

Buy it.