Join us tonight for EDSBS Live, where the guests will be you, you, and you. All of you, you gorgeous, sexy people you. We just want to reach out and give you a reassuring cheek squeeze, no matter how many picks you’ve thrown lately, or what they write about you on your Wikipedia page.

Hear you at 9:00 EDT tonight.

This week’s blogpoll is brought to you by hangovers. Kids, we’re gonna lecture you here for a second with a sad fact: drinking after thirty is not fun, and you know this is true because we began with “hey kids,” which is kind of condescending but fuck that THE HEAD IT HURTS AND TO HELL IF YOU DO–

Sorry. Apologies. It’s just…we’re so…emotional today. Because we’re hungover and 32.

Drinking before thirty is a grand adventure, filled with surprises and intrigue. Who’s that guy drinking on my tab? Does he really need that eyepatch? Hey, you’re the only guy in a bar full of black dudes! (Who all have eyepatches.) You really boxed a kangaroo once? Yes, my pants did disappear quite a while ago. Say, is that a real ultralight? Sure, I can fly one.

Look! A place that serves eggs at four in the morning! (Repeat; rinse vomit out of hair; repeat.)

Sometimes, drinking still retains its halcyon glow, its moments of beauty. Anthony Bourdain has described that moment when you should be asleep, an undefined time between 11:00 p.m. and 1:00 a.m. when your work is done but you’re not, and you’re probably three drinks into the evening, and a song comes on and sets everything perfectly well on its axis. It’s still a wondrous moment.

This particularly evil egg sac of hangover around the eyes and forebrow right now? The lingering feeling of doom? This is not one of those wondrous moments. (more…)

We got to sit in on the Duke/Georgia Tech game this weekend, and it was, as you would imagine, the odd experience one should expect from a truly odd school: an enormous, two-story-tall inflatable Buzz hovering over the players entrance to the stadium in a “blackout” jersey, the catch-as-catch-can tailgating of the Tech experience, which just sort of happens wherever one can grab some open space and set down a generator, and pleasant experience of watching a college football game with an urban skyline looming just over the lip of the stadium.

You know that if your car breaks down on the way out of the game, you probably won’t be devoured by wolves, and at the worst will be beaten, taken for your credit cards and cash, and then set on fire. Much better than being devoured by wolves, which we think really could happen with a few wrong turns out of Opelika, Alabama. It makes Tech one of the few places where the community around the stadium smells like urine all week long as opposed to only on gameday and perhaps the Friday night before. Consistency: it’s important.

The big football-related deal, however, is the triple-option flexbone of Georgia Tech, an attack now seen two times in person this year. Being a believer in the trend of two, we believe firmly we can make the following judgments about the Jurassic Park of offenses in its return to big-boy, BCS conference football after seeing it twice.

Hello. Smell my hand. Photo by Johnny Crawford, AJC.

1. The offense starts with a colonoscopy. We’ve never seen a quarterback start so far up a center’s ass in our lives as the initial start in the flexbone. (more…)

Bo Pelini is doing due diligence this morning in the wake of an accusation that one of Nebraska’s players spat on him during pregame warmups before Mizzou’s polite and very clean vivisection of the Cornhuskers in Lincoln, 52-17.

“I’m not going to say who it was. He knows who it is,” Daniel said. “And I think that’s bush league. I’ve never (had that) done that before. It’s just blatant disrespect.”

The accusation is true, though the physics don’t work out the way Daniel says they did on that fateful day that changed us all. Daniel says it was a player who spat on him; however, if this were true, why did the spit force his helmeted head back, and to the left? And then onto his arm–in mid-air, mind you–before landing on the turf in Lincoln? Ladies and gentlemen, that is indeed one magic loogie.

There had to be a second spitter, and you’re damn right we know who it was.

Pelini should reprimand him, and while he’s at it TELL HIM TO STOP HAUNTING OUR NIGHTMARES.