Let us praise men who, like many of us, peaked in college. Step forward, Derrick Rodgers of Arizona State: your three tackles, seven assists, one sack and safety don’t tell the story of how insanely unblockable you were against Nebraska on September 21, 1996. Watch. Tip hats. Goggle your eyes at Nebraska giving up three safeties in one game.

Pat Tillman’s back there at linebacker as well, along with Mitchell “Fright Night” Freedman, who decided to live up to his name by pursuing a post-football career in sexual assault.

Fuck you, Fulmer!

Tennessee fans’ attitude toward Phil Fulmer is much like their unique body odor: a layered, complex aroma of pungent, angry deer musk, sweet cinnamon bun odors from breakfast, the smoky country ham odor from lunch, and the angry bite of moonshine on the breath from the liquid dinner. It’s hard to discern whether Tennessee fans are done with him and waiting for something better to come along, affectionate towards him because of the past, or stuck in a muddled, hammy mix of the two.

Except for this gentleman, of course.

A Signal Mountain man is facing an obscenity charge after displaying a sign on his car.

A sheriff’s deputy who made the arrest said Jeremy Boyd Eaker, 20, of 7717 Sawyer Pike, had a sign reading: “F— you, Fulmer.”

The newspaper, because they filter reality into soft little edgeless nuggets for the fire-god-fearing mouthbreathing mer-tards who make up 72% of humanity, could not type the word “Fuck.” That’s just a guess: we would not be surprised if “F—” would get you arrested in Tennessee. Either way, we’ll start a defense fund for the guy if you like us to. One paypal account against oppression at a time, internet soldiers. If a gentleman can’t put a crude, handpainted sign telling a football coach to go ride porkpole in his front yard, then what do we live and die for, dammit?

A young recruit walks off the field from spring practice somewhere in the Sun Belt. Two men in black approach him.

Come with me, young man.

Man in black one: Son, please come with us. Coach Nick Saban of the Crimson Tide would like to not have a word with you, virtually speaking.

Man in black two: It will only not take fifteen minutes or so.

Recruit: Um, he can’t leave, right? That’s in the new rules. He’s not…

Fear creeps into his voice. He looks left, right, waiting for an unseen eavesdropper who never appears.

RECRUIT: He’s not…here, is he?

MIB1: Not in one way of speaking.

MIB2: And yes, in another way of speaking.

MIB1: He is everywhere and nowhere all at once. Remember this. (more…)

Long have we yearned for the right measure of praise for the Economist, our favorite magazine in the universe. After all, they combine airtight prose with ruthless cold sense and snarkily captured pics: everything we aspire to be and will never, ever be. They also make covers like this, for which we love them and would willingly massage all of their black-socked feet:

Someone has beaten us to it. If that’s the price to pay for being well-informed, then too fucking bad. SIR–this rules. Thank you, Orson Swindle, Atlanta, GA USA.

We have a confession to make: inside our heart, there’s malice. And, hopefully, blood. And, if you look hard enough, a pang of regret because we made a bet this weekend that came back to haunt us. No, it did not involve gay sex, $137,329.93 in unmarked bills, and Marvin Harrison’s gun. No, we bet on a horse in the Kentucky Derby–and Kanu will be happy to corroborate this–and came damn close to picking the upset special.

Oh, look: here’s a picture of how that all turned out!

Yes, that was EDSBS’ horse.

We bet on Eight Belles to win, and our confidence in the horse and proxy bet of ten American dollars resulted in a horse getting aced on the track, a horrified throng of fans weeping openly, and NBC directors hanging themselves in the booth trying to balance the horror of a dying thousand pound animal on the track with the need to mention YUM! foods and you know, the really happy people who actually won the race.

In short: we have powers. We didn’t ask for them, but they’ve been given to us. Further evidence follows of our sadiM touch, the misfortune passing things we interact with casually, in list form.

Summer 1990: We go to our first concert: Stevie Ray Vaughn and Joe Cocker. In August of 1990, Vaughn dies in a helicopter crash. Shortly thereafter Cocker is found dead from an autoerotic asphyxiation.*

1999: We go to Nepal; shortly thereafter, the Prince goes nuts, kills the whole family, and the country is seized by a Maoist insurrection.

2008: We cover the SEC basketball championship. A tornado hits the Georgia Dome.

Ladies and gentlemen, we’re not a scientist, but if that isn’t a trend we don’t know what is. Clearly, our very interest in something decrepifies it instantly. Therefore, we ask: how should we best focus our malicious energies this fall? A few suggestions we have pop into mind:

Wagering that Florida State will win the national title. And continuing to wish Bobby Bowden success in the glorious last victory through the ACC!

Betting on Bobby Petrino to finish almost the entire season as head coach at Arkansas. Really, he’s like a tree now, roots and all.

Taking a fifteen dollar prop bet on Ohio State to get to the national title game versus a five loss SEC team and lose.

How else should we use these unintentionally harmful powers of ours? Besides betting on the Florida defense to definitely give up over 330 yards of passing a game again? Let us know in the comments. Seriously: we’ll take donations NOT to bet on your team to do anything substantial. The effect is real: just ask South Carolina, who got crazyfaced with last year before watching them wallow in mediocrity in an impressive second-half slide.

*Or is still alive. Who’s got time to look?