The former Georgia defensive coordinator returns to the SEC as Spurrier’s new DC, and also as today’s Mustache of the Day.

It’s like a Whiskey Tango version of Arthur Blank’s half-stache, and a fine one. If he wants to regain his old mojo as a coach, he should regrow it immediately. HAPPY MUSTACHE WEDNESDAY, MOTHERFUCKERS!!!

BEHAAAAHHHHH!!! That’s a noise old men make. I make that noise because I’m old. It’s also why my dong doesn’t work and I don’t believe in gravity. BYEAHHHHHHH!!! I’m at least 49, and that makes me so fucking old I can’t try anything new. I’ll probably only live another thirty to forty years! I’m old!

So old he doesn’t even know what Twitter is: Mike Wilbon.

I don’t read blogs because I don’t change habits. I still read my paper the old fashioned way: by the light of an electric bulb. I know some of you youngsters can’t believe it, but I still listen to all my music on CDs and shop at the Banana Republic. I don’t call coffee grandes or ventis or Yankees or whatever you call them. No, I still call it small medium and large, dinosaur that I am.

I’m even old when it comes to sports. Like, tragically old. I remember when there wasn’t a Poinsettia Bowl. I remember when baseball players could do steroids without an official investigation. I remember when Alex Rodriguez played for the Rangers. I remember the days when Ben Wallace played for the mighty Detroit Pistons.

I remember the Clinton administration–the first one! I’m old, people!

I don’t use laptops, or wireless internet, or your iPhone. I still use a Blackberry. It’s at least three years old. Again, I know: I should cry when I see Jurassic Park, because it brings back memories. I can’t help it! I’m 49!

I don’t even know what HD is. What’s that stand for? High-definition or something? I don’t even have the shoes with the iPod in them. Nope. I do my running the old fashioned way: without computer chips in my shoes. Just carbon date me if you like and put me in a museum. That’s what being 49 will do to you!

My car? It’s a 2003. No, it doesn’t run on sabretooth piss, just regular gasoline, though I cry a little when I fill up my tank. After all, the fossilized remains of my childhood playmates are what’s keeping my car going! I’m 49! I’m not changing much!

And when I pay my bills, I do it the old fashioned way: online, just like people were doing years ago. They wouldn’t let me pay with gold coins anymore, so I let my pet and personal deliveryman the Pterodactyl go. He’s doing six shows a week in Vegas now. I’m old!

I’ll actually be honest with you: I’m so old, I don’t even have a blu-ray dvd player. I know! It’s embarrassing, but true. I’m just Captain Cretaceous Period, watching my dusty DVDs of movies made in 2002 on my sofa.

I even remember who Jude Law is.

Man, I’m old.

Mike Wilbon is so old he’s forgotten why he wrote this piece, or that he won’t read it because it’s on a blog. He writes for the Washington Post.

BRIAN’S “YEAR IN SCHADENFREUDE” BEARS CLOSE EXAMINATION. We really implore you to go read it, but not in a rude way (damned caps lock…)

Jew-hatin’ Gregg Easterbrook sometimes deigns to write about college football, and oh how do we love to attempt to bring out the sharp knives when he does that. I mean, when he writes shit like this…

In Division I, coaches are little gods, the players are for the most part obedient, and the football-factory schools hold such huge advantages in recruiting and gimmick schedules that an orangutan could coach a Top 25 team to bowl eligibility. In Division I, coaches throw clipboards if they don’t win by five touchdowns.

…I mean, how can he…

Oh. Um, nice little piece there, Gregg. Walking on, not looking up, hey, don’t you want some coffee (whistling)…or we would walk straight by if NASA-porn fan Easterbrook hadn’t included this blatant and complete falsehood a bit further down.

On the flip side, consider that Penn State under Joe Paterno never runs up the score.

The data set for countering this point is decades deep, but most recently Florida International would like to raise a strenous objection to this statement. With that point refuted, we now allow TMQ to go back to masturbating to the Hubblecast. Ohhhh, the resolution is so…clear…AHHHHHHH….

Jim Leavitt is a legendarily intense man. Watch his large ears turn red on the sidelines, and you’ll see a man firmly in the grips of a rage that makes cardiologists around the nation smile with delight. (Yes, yes. Buy me another boat, sweet rageaholics.)

Leavitt is so intense he has no time for your…your…weak, human holidays. (HT: Troy.)

“I haven’t looked that far ahead. That’s probably wrong. That’s really the truth, too. That’s sad, isn’t it. I really haven’t. I’m really thinking — you don’t want to hear it — thinking about practice. I really have not thought about what we’re going to do Christmas Day or Christmas Eve. I did think about this: with the players leaving Friday, I thought it’d be a great time, because it’s so quiet, Friday and Saturday, getting some work done in the office with film. Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, would I come here and do some work? God, I hope not. I hope I don’t.

If you’ve watched Intervention and seen an addict who says something like “Hey, I’m sober today, but who knows about tomorrow?”…well, you know that is a clear sign that person will be shivering at a bus stop the next day even though it’s 80 degrees outside wearing the universal outfit of the Intervention junkie: an old t-shirt and sweatpants cut into shorts.

In other words: you know Leavitt’s going into the office those days, and you know he has no idea what his children want, what their names are, or even the color of their eyes. You might be able to actually just ploink him down into a strange house, give him random gifts, and he’d assume this was where he was supposed to be and begin jovially exchanging hugs. We hold that the results of this experiment would stand up even if he dropped Leavitt into an Asian, Hispanic, or Black household.

You know we’re biased, right? But even with that bias, that a small pang of sympathy for the devil sparks through the empty space where our heart used to beat when we think of these guys:

Drew Weatherford
Antone Smith
Preston Parker
Greg Carr
Geno Hayes (which actually goes against one of my sources)
Derek Nicholson

All of them are mentioned by the Tallahassee Democrat and Tomahawk Nation as being guys NOT, we repeat NOT on the list of Florida State players who took answers from tutors for an online class and therefore earned suspensions for the bowl game. Weatherford, in particular, bears special mention for concluding his career as the Job of the Florida State program in its late imperial period: a hammering taken under center, talent squandered in the horrid Jeff Bowden attack, a career of yo-yo action between starting and riding the bench, and a whole career gone without beating Florida. Again: if we didn’t enjoy the sight of Jarvis Moss crunching him on a late hit so much, we’d feel a pang of pity for him, since we agree that in other circumstances, he could have been Matt Ryan, or is possibly a clone of his.

Sadder still is the lack of movement in the Vegas line: going from an opening lean to Kentucky by a point or so, the general fluctuation has it up to a a 2.5 point spread for the ‘Cats to cover.

Thanks to Mr. 2Cents for helping spread the word about FSU’s immediate lack of depth, and a possible solution: