"It's a truly novel cruising experience at no additional charge!"
You may not know Bill Hancock. He is the head of the BCS, and a very nice man. We've met briefly, and we've seen him talk at SEC Media Days, and heard him on many television and radio shows. He has biked across the United States twice, has run 15 marathons, and lists "grandparenting" as one of his hobbies. He also lost a son in the 2001 Oklahoma State basketball disaster. He's had a full life, and a very interesting, tragic, and wide-ranging one.
He is also paid to do one thing right now as his job: spout utter bullshit for the BCS. He's been doing it for a while, and it's going quite well enough. The BCS still exists despite Hancock's insistence that it does not, a rhetorical combo that has literally paralyzed talk radio hosts quizzing Hancock. They stiffen, fall to the side, and clatter to the carpet like cordwood, often drooling a bit on the carpet. After ten minutes or so, they return to life without any lingering effects.
At least this is what I think happens, since no one has asked a follow-up question to this complete smoking piece of rhetorical horseshit. Again, don't fault Hancock for it: that's what he's there to do, because he is a PR person. A PR person is the one who, in the midst of the Costa Concordia capsizing, asks if you've ever considered the novelty of tilted vacation cruising. There is truly no off switch for the bullshit genius.
"The infrastructure needed on campus is significant," Hancock told the Associated Press. "That's a factor. That's just one example of the intricacies that are part of this."
The intricacies that you'll have to split with a school, as opposed to moving all the succulent kickbacks and marginal toll-keeping the bowls get to the hands of the BCS, and thus to the schools at large. Creating a playoff system of any sort won't be about knocking down the aggregate amount of graft at play here. It's about shifting that graft around and eliminating pesky middlemen like the bowls themselves, who have to be disgorging every last tee time, free dinner, and other untraceable perk to school presidents this week in Florida.
In fact, do this. Go to the hotel where they're meeting in Hollywood, Florida. Make up a title, forge a name tag, and then take a few days off and rake in the free steak and holes. You, new director of communications for the University of Mphrhrbmumblemrph could do it, and this is not an exaggeration. 18 holes of golf, some of the most outrageous lying you'll ever do to total strangers, and some fine filets await you. Hell, scare the shit out of them by stating your support for a 64 team playoff, and then suggest you have friends in the Department of Justice. That would be delightful.
They don't know who's important, and frankly neither does anyone else at that table, anymore. The four families of the Rose, Sugar, Fiesta, and Orange have been shaken, and that's when the streetfights between the well-coiffed pimps of college football begin. There's Delany and Slive and ESPN. Below their balcony, a sea of brawling dwarves going to tear each other to shreds for a spot in the new pecking order.
They'll fight out the scrum with two weapons: bribery and bullshit. Bribery gets a bad name, but at least it's genuine. Bullshit, at any latitude, is just bullshit, and is the Nerf Battleaxe carried into battle by someone with no other resort. It has its own bravery, admittedly. It also crumples the minute you hit it with something hard like facts, or better still, a real live goddamn battleaxe.