Terrelle Pryor is still thinking about schools, beating all your asses. Terrelle Pryor still has no idea when he’s going to make up his mind. You can do this when you’re phenomenally physically talented. You can also threaten to go into the crowd at a basketball game when you take particular issue with the taunts, but remember, Terelle: you can only take the crowd so long as they’re rushing away from you. When they surge back, it’s trouble time.

Take a cue from the Memphis Tigers: keep the pimp hand strong, and take on fans with a disdainful but stylish slap.


Whoop that trick!

John Adams–the Tennessee columnist, and not the second president of our country, we assume, unless he was a vampire and has been living off the blood of the innocent all these years–comes out and makes the “time to go” column for Phil Fulmer. This prompts Losers With Socks to play Buffy, go down the hellmouth, and put a stake through Adams, who as they pointed out graduated from Louisiana State University, and must therefore after thirty years as a sleeper cell in the heart of Vol country has gone active in attempting to overturn the Fulmer regime. Spies, everywhere! Spies, I tell you!

Everett Withers, Minnesota DC, is leaving Tim Brewster’s new operation to join North Carolina, a move way, way up in the football world considering Withers spent last season weeping drops of pure sorrow watching Minnesota’s defense get annihilated. Now he moves on to Butch Davis’ rebuild of North Carolina, a team piling up talent and toys to play with a-plenty. Assume Withers, in a past life, was killed randomly by a meteorite or something; only karma can explain the lucky strike.

Bomar’d redux: BCS Frenzy says they’re going to review the entire 2004 Rivals top 100, and we wish them luck with that. The thing reminding you to remind yourself that recruiting is one very large, overhyped back-alley craps game? Rhett Bomar.

Don’t do drugs, kids. Because one day you’ll be sitting in an apartment with newspaper and tinfoil on the walls, zonked out of your mind and watching Immortal Beloved, and there will be the scene where Beethoven’s dad flips out and begins beating the daylights out of him, and like all people doing drugs you’ll have music on over the movie, and you’ll forever associate the song with the image of a guy whipping a kid’s ass like a riot cop pouncing on a legless WTO protester.

Your reminiscence of “Gainesville, 1996″ is brought to you by a forgotten band of the forgettable decade: Skunk Anansie, and their really frightening lead singer.