As part of our ongoing ripoff of SWPL called “Stuff ____ and _______ People Like,” the EDSBS Staff presents “Stuff Orange and White People Like,” an analysis of things Tennessee Volunteer fans like. Enjoy.

Pitchforks and torches. A nine-win season is cause for satisfaction elsewhere in D-I, but in the SEC and Knoxville in particular, it’s a blight. Any win total under double digits lights up the AM radio dial with orange faithful ready to gut their coach like a catfish of astonishing proportions. Going 5-6 in 2005 brought, concurrently and consecutively, collective apoplexy and vows of silence—they still can’t talk about it. Bring up The Season Of Which We Do Not Speak to a Tennessee fan and his eyes will glaze over in rage or incomprehension. Either way, Does Not Compute.

Orson’s note: Wonder who those people in Frankenstein who, when confronted with a problem, immediately rush to get a.) an impaling instrument, and b.) fire? For any problem? Tennessee fans, that’s who. They’re threatening Frankenstein because, with some time in the weight room, he could be the next John Henderson, but noooooo, he wants to kidnap maidens and accidentally drown little girls in lakes all day like a bad monster.

John Henderson rocks fat titties all day, by the way, despite playing for a team we despise. “BLOOD MAKES THE GRASS GROW!” comes from his sideline rantings in college, and he also did this, which is now how we wake up every morning.

We do it just like that. Except the wife does it with a padded white glove, and she does it softly, so as not to knock my exfoliating facial mask off. Sometimes she gets a little too into it, and some of the dust lands on our white oxford shirt! It’s a funny time, the mornings in the Swindle house!

HFCS That’s high fructose corn syrup, friends, and it is a fact of natural law that the highest concentration of HFCS swollen people on the planet reside in Tennessee. (more…)

There’s many, many ways to express how you feel in an eloquent way. You could be a master of the epigram, like Rochefoucauld, for example:

Men give away nothing so liberally as their advice.

Pithy! Or you could just have an awesome accent and a deep, deep hatred of Tennessee. That’s a form of eloquence too, as this video points out all too well.

“They low down, they dirty, and they snitches.” At no point have our own thoughts of Tennessee football or pumpkins been so succinctly put.

By the EDSBS staff.

We care, just like a tiger does: with their claws and teeth first.

Tennessee has a minor, eeny-tiny-bit of a discipline problem, and not the sort that professional paste-eater and push-door puller Mike Freeman suggests should end up in the firing of Phil Fulmer. (Mike: Tyler Durden IS the narrator!) Fire him for being only good to excellent, sure; we’ve seen that in the SEC before. Fire him for blackmailing Trace Adkins with incriminating gay sex photos into performing at his daughter’s birthday party. (Unsee that, dear reader, and you have achieved enlightenment. We just typed it, and will not eat for several days.) Fire him for picking up field mice and bopping them on the head, and then dipping them in panko crumbs, deep frying them, and eating them during film sessions.

Fire him for any of these, but not the juvenile aborted Liverventures™* most Vol players get arrested for these days. The Vols just need a special blend of caring, discipline, and caring discipline outlined below. Because we care. We really do. In that kind of foster kid kind of care, the one where you don’t buy them fresh produce, turn on the heat for them in the winter, or buy them clothes that fit.

Actin’ Straight with EDSBS: Vol-arity Edition.

1: Pat Summitt. This doesn’t even have to take longer than 15 minutes. Simply invite Pat over, have the winningest coach at Tennessee ever come to a Vol team meeting and then allow her to rip each of the Vols’ gridiron types a new, perfectly torn second asshole. Summitt is the kind of thin-lipped, wiry, kerosene-eyed women who drove schoolbuses in my childhood: very, very quiet schoolbuses. There were rumors one kid, once, had spoken, and that only a red mark the birds liked to pick at on the school driveway stood as testament to her wrath. The team would be a lot like that schoolbus for the next year, at least.

2. Hedge mazes outside dorm entrances. Bull your way through fifteen rows of thorny hedge without bleeding to death? Do I smell starting defense?

3. The ChastiT belt. Fierce, made of stainless steel. Adorned with picture of John Chavis on codpiece for extra contraceptive power. (more…)

By Holly, who reminds you that when the zombie war comes, machetes do NOT need reloading.

Their names were shouted in exultation or bellowed in impotent rage across the SEC in 2007. You know their stats by heart, lived and died with their triumphs and tears. But in this age of bioweapons and nuclear experiments gone horribly awry, there are more important matters to ponder; namely, how each of these college football notables will aid your survival when the wrong red button is pressed and the zombie hordes rise to enslave us all. You’ll need the best of the best (SEC speed = fast zombies). The essential personnel:

Rich Brooks thinks the undead hordes are bullshit. This will not save him.

The Buffoon Who Got You Into This Mess: Michael Henig, QB, Mississippi State
How He’ll Save The Day: When jumping from rooftop to rooftop to reach the river/gun store/barricades, will carry the season to its logical conclusion by mistiming the flinging of his own form and being intercepted, so to speak, by a less than sturdy awning. As he is tugged with agonizing slowness from the canvas, the undead hordes will fall upon his flesh, allowing you to escape.

The Decoy: Blake Mitchell, QB, South Carolina
How He’ll Save The Day: Will be assigned as lookout while the rest of the party stocks up on ammunition/canned goods/fuel, and upon seeing an approaching zombie attack party, will inexplicably fancy himself a hero and run outside, waving his arms and capering about to distract them long enough for our heroes to lock and load and hop into an appropriately sized truck. The undead hordes are not amused by dancing, and will fall upon his flesh, allowing you to escape.

The Cloyingly Self-Effacing Hero: Erik Ainge, QB, Tennessee
How He’ll Save The Day: Sneaking past the gibbering masses in the dead of night, will slip on a discarded shotgun shell and break both legs in the fall. Will implacably insist on not being carried because He’ll Only Slow You Down, and will accept no comfort—but does gather all remaining grenades. After the explosion, the hordes will fall upon his flesh and the flesh of their shredded comrades, allowing you to escape.

The Hothead: Knowshon Moreno, RB, Georgia
How He’ll Save The Day: With tears in his eyes and an unearthly battle howl in his throat, by completely losing his shit and barreling into the penultimate wave of zombies at full force, ripping and tearing their limbs with his bare hands. A valiant effort, but the thing about zombies is there’s always Just Too Many. The undead hordes will fall upon his flesh, allowing you to escape.

The Shrewish Love Interest: Colt David, K, LSU
How He’ll Save The Day: After spending the entire ordeal displaying gradually more obvious signs of crumbling and generally slowing everyone down, will drop to his knees shortly into the sprint over open ground to safety, wailing that It’s Hopeless and We’ll Never Make It. The undead hordes will fall upon his flesh, allowing you to escape.

The Cheap Shot You Don’t See Coming: Kyle Jackson, S, Florida
How He’ll Save The Day: As you stagger over the final hill between your sleepy little borough and the haven of the convenient nearby military base/open sea/arms of Orgeron, will burst inexplicably into flames and fall in a shrieking, ineffectual heap at the crest of the ridge. Cold and raw or sizzling in the skull—brains is brains is brains to a zombie. The undead hordes will fall upon his flesh, allowing you to escape. Fade to black.

T-Tubb, if he can get his boys to aim those chop blocks at the neck, might stand a chance.

Violently emotional: Muschamp.

If you’re starved beyond belief and ready to seize without football, you could head down to Auburn and catch spring practice. (What? Opelika’s got an airport. Resisting cow joke telling urge resisting cow joke telling urge.) Auburn’s working in both new offensive coordinator Tony Franklin and defensive coordinator Paul Rhoads. Today’s shocking revelation: Rhoads is different than Muschamp.

“I can already tell he’s going to be a great teacher,” Powers said. “If you screw up with Rhoads, he’s going to let you know just like Muschamp. Muschamp might have let you know a little more violently. Just comparing the two, they are great teachers and great coaches. They are passionate about football.”

Violence: exactly what we look for in our defensive coordinators, masseuses, and gardeners. Auburn’s qb are throwing way, way more passes in practice than they had under Al “Gorgeous” Borges, up to hundreds of passes a game, according to practice reports. Pat Dye, on hearing the news, wept big fat old man tears.

Meanwhile: Texas is ideating like WHOA with new blood Muschamp and Applewhite.

Brian brings us this week’s Big Board, an active board for those who really, really don’t have time for this shit. Notes, clarifications, and open challenges to fight follow.

The biggest leap in the board comes from Oregon State. Do not blame us, blame the authorities who file the charges and insist on playing triple-word-score with the charges for otherwise five/six point crimes.

Al Afalava, a three-year starter for the Oregon State football team’s defense, was cited for criminal mischief, which is a felony, DUII and hit-and-run by the Corvallis Police on Feb. 9, according to Corvallis Police Department public information officer Lt. Dave Henslee.

See? Corvallis police charge him with everything including “untidy arrangement of vehicular garbage resulting in messy crash scene,” and by rule we spit out points like a broken ATM. Blame the Farvas at the Corvallis police department and drunkass Al Afalava for the skewed charges, not us. Mike Riley says he can tell Aflalava’s making a tackle just from the sound. Now the Corvallis police have the same ability.

Alabama makes the first of two ironic scores in the Cupdate. Your team captain gets arrested for disorderly conduct! No salt or pepper needed! Take that scotch neat, you will. Add in the Elder armed robbery arrest, and we’re talking magic.

Louisville went a-road tripping, and oh what a time that was. We awarded two bonus points for this one, but with the charges as they stand, even the brazen gusto of robbing a convenience store (and on a school night, young man) doesn’t tally up the pile of points Alabama and Oregon State racked up. Even so, the Farking is good to you and good for you in this case.

HT: Reed. He does reek of triumph, with just a hint of hot dog roller.

Double your irony at no extra charge: Iowa players get busted for drug charges while Kirk Ferentz, attempting to right the ship, is actually on the Iowa Hawkeye Booster Cruise. “Shore to ship, can you hear me–” “Umm, no…you’re breaking CHHHRRRGGGGGFAKEMOUTHNOISEKKRRRGGGG up KRRRGGHHHH…”

Kansas loses points due to a clerical error on our part: the trumped up “dog-on-the-loose” charge has been dismissed due to PeteJayhawk’s diligent work, informing us that the player in question is a fifth-year senior with no eligibility left. Not on the team, not in the tally.

Post your compliments, gratuitous stroking of our ego, and cries from the WAAAAAAHHHHHHmbulance below. And pleading for points is just perverse, unless you’re from the U. Then you’re just trying to compete like competitors would, playa. (We’re looking at you, Barstoolio!)

Credit goes to two people for this find: commenter hunglikehussain, and the Auburner, who went to the trouble of capturing Tommy Tuberville’s epic performance in a Golden Flake commercial that suggests Auburn football players run fast because someone is beckoning them towards an open bag of Golden Flake potato chips. (For the record: in certain cases, we believe this could be completely true, as in the case of Kenny or David Irons.)

Mesmerizing! Tommy Tuberville doesn’t even have to be in the same moment and place to hypnotize you with a bag of potato chips: all he need do is call, and you will hear his plea from across space and time.

P.S. Just because we’re having fun with Sir Charles today over at the Sporting Blog, a few Auburn relevant quotes from barkleyquotes.com that should convince you not only that Charles is one of the great bon vivants of our time, but also confirm any and all stereotypes about SEC and Auburn athletes and academics:

“When I was recruited at Auburn [university], they took me to a strip joint. When I saw those titties on Buffy, I knew that Auburn met my academic requirements.”

Those titties. An area of study no young male college student can fail to appreciate.

Ragin Cajun emails us and points us to a collection of names in LSU’s 2009 recruiting class that, if all landed, will destroy any and all standards for All-Name team selection.

–Abrecus Martinez

–Barkevious Mingo

–Harry Peoples (who actually shaves his head)

–Ky’Var Bolden

–Shavodrick Beaver

–Shaquelle Evans and a

–Shakeil Lucas

–Marjarvin Chapmen

The official EDSBS editorial position is that we encourage all of these recruits, no matter the damage to our own team or others, to immediately commit to LSU. This simply must happen. Barkevious Mingo? A villain from Tank Girl or prize recruit? You decide.

Remember: life’s not out to get you . Life will get you, and by “get” we mean “turn into a pile of dessicated bones buried beneath the crushing weight of the earth.” The top ten moments of malicious fate striking for 2007 await you, even if you happened to win the national title.

9. Glenn Dorsey gets chop-blocked.

Oh, sure. Be an optimist. Say it all ended well. Fine–just because fate misses with a bullet doesn’t mean it doesn’t do any damage. All the bitching about having a two-loss BCS winner would be moot if Dorsey hadn’t nearly been maimed by Auburn’s offensive line, who executed chop blocks on tape in both the LSU game and in the Peach Bowl. Without Dorsey and Ricky Jean-Francois (out for season with sprained cerebrum,) LSU had to rely more and more on blitzing for pressure, leaving holes open in the pass D for Kentucky’s endless screens and taking the functional permanent double team out of the middle for the Arkansas game.

Sure, call it a happy ending if you want Pollyanna. We’ll be waiting here with the bucket of tears and bouquet of black flowers for when it all goes sour somehow eventually.

To be continued. Watch your back in the meantime: we don’t think it’s a tumor, we know it is…

Posted from Cozumel, Mexico.

It’s an alcohol-iday, motherfuckers! WOOOOOOO! Shots on me. Literally. I’ve poured them all over myself. My speedo’s wet! Someone get me a new one or I’m sunning my buckeyes. And you ladies saw that yesterday.

Alcohol-iday! HT: Tressel’s World.

The last time I heard people scream like that, I was running through some back alley in Rio with a flamethrower. You know how long a cat can run after you set it totally the fuck on fire? Thirty-eight feet. I know that because I just whipped out the old twatstand and marked it off myself. Took three lengths, but that’s an exact measurement.

(Surriously: Jim Delany always travels with a flamethrower. You should have seen him at the Hotel Ipanema that afternoon. He was like Peter the Great on PCP. He scares me sometimes. He thinks Turistas is both a comedy and a documentary. His eyes are the dead eyes of a killer! Great dude.)

Jesus. Two years in a row I gotta come down here and rage just to put the beast to bed. (more…)

You think your bowl game’s entertainment sucks ass wrinkles? Not when they’re bringing Eddie Money to the party!

I ain’t goin’ ta Atlanta. Thass a whole utha countrah!

It should surprise no one to find that Georgians do not like to travel–after all, why do you think the place got torched by the Union Army? Mostly because Georgians just kept sending notes to the Union Army reading “Hey, it’s cold out. Come on down here and we’ll tussle.” It’s also scientific fact that 42% of Georgia fans are fat white guys who only leave the confines of Gwinnett County to go to Georgia games and for heart surgery, so the immobility isn’t surprising.

What is surprising is seeing it quantified, especially in terms of mileage traveled.

Georgia has traveled a total of 358 miles for nonconference road games since 1998. By comparison, Hawaii has traveled 72,918 miles.

Not that Florida, or any other SEC team may complain about his, since Tom Tancredo himself envies the xenophobic tendencies fo the conference as a whole:

Teams from the Southeastern Conference hold down seven of the top eight spots for teams having traveled the fewest miles. This includes Florida, which last played a nonconference road game outside of the Sunshine State on Sept. 21, 1991, at Syracuse.

But there’s auslanders out there! And Jamba Juice stores, which we just know are a front for the homosexual atheist agenda! And also, more logically speaking, SEC teams can sit on their front porch and watch the money roll in without even getting their shoelaces dirty from hitting the road for longer than a few hours at a time.

(And go ahead and anthropomorphize the argument if you want, because you’re illogical and will do it anyway: SEC teams are skurred! They don’t want none! No, they just make shitloads of money shuffling around the block, and have no incentive to get wanderlust thanks to mountains of cash on the local circuit. Plus: strangers frighten and confuse us!)

Hawaii, however, has spent more time in the air than a John Kitna post route or Venus Williams’ buttocks.