PRESEEZUN BUZZ: UR DOIN IT WRONG. Seriously, Pac-10, that is bush. In the interest of a more literary comparison, if SEC Media Days is “Animal House” — a lot of shenanigans go on, nobody really learns anything, but nobody gets hurt — then Pac-10 Media Day (yup, that’s Day, singular) is the equivalent of a Tom Stoppard play: very low-key and dignified, a lot of people talk for what seems like a very long time, but in the end nothing happens.

As further evidence of just how much Scott’s appearance fizzled, Oregon coach Chip Kelly brought the house down, comparatively speaking, with his explanation of how his spread offense relates to the Pythagorean theorem. (As someone who counts finagling his way out of AP Calculus in high school as one of his life’s greatest victories, I find this inconceivable: Math?!? In college football? Too complicated! FIRE BAD!) Even Dennis Erickson’s interview with Fanster.com was positively vanilla (not to mention barely audible), with Erickson offering up nary a story about golf carts, volcanoes, drunken sexual shenanigans in the Far East, or any of the other things for which you’d bother to listen to such an interview in the first place.

Meanwhile, even Big XII Media Days gave fans more excitement in a single tattoo on Brandon Carter’s skull than the Pac-10 had in an entire day. Clearly, Pac-10, you guys need an adrenaline shot, but we, the SEC, are willing to provide it. How ’bout we loan Clay Travis out to you for future Media Days, just to liven things up a bit? Once you’ve watched Aaron Corp field the question of whether he’s saving himself for marriage, your eyes will be opened to a whole new world of possibilities.

[hit play, then read on for maximum effect]

If you’re of orange-and-white extraction and a relative young’un like me, you’ve enjoyed respectable if not notable football success for most of your cognizant life. You are also threatened by change, and you may not know what to make of this young whippersnapper Kiffykins strolling the sacred halls of Neyland. He’s arrogant; he’s got a funny accent; he delivers his addresses like an under-prepared sixth-grader giving a book report, and oooohweeee, has he ever stirred up a hornets’ nest in the papers.

But here’s a fun little test. On one side of an argument are Paul Finebaum and Gregg “Greg” Doyel; on the other, Bruce Feldman and Matt Hinton. Who would you rather have in your corner?

Finebaum:
I flipped on ESPN over the weekend and heard a national commentator refer to UT’s 33-year-old football coach as “Insane Lane.” Certainly that had to make an impression on upcoming high school seniors who might be considering UT in a few months.

Doyel:
A sharper coach, one with a better feel for himself and his business, wouldn’t go out of his way to tick off the one guy in the SEC who has the players, the style and the cruelty to get even on the field.

Feldman:
…do people really think because of this, Florida is going to REALLY try and rub it in UT’s face? Meyer was going to try to blow up the scoreboard regardless.

Hinton:
So even though I have no idea how many games Kiffin’s going to win this year at Tennessee (well, I have some idea), on some level I have to think anyone able to cause rival scribes to spill this much ink and drive a usually sensible Alabaman into the arms of Al Davis before his first spring game at a school that just went 5-7 with a loss to Wyoming must be doing something right.

Look, it’s February. We’re all hurting for content. But Finebaum is clearly set on ginning up pageviews in the lean months, and Doyel is flat acting the fool. The idea that the Florida-Tennessee rivalry, in particular, isn’t operating at a full-time haterade zenith already is frankly preposterous, and while I don’t expect more from Doyel, his readers should.

And what if they’re right? I have often said that, were I not born into a through-and-through Tennessee family, I’d like to be an LSU fan. I admire their joie de vivre, their willingness to bodily threaten women and children of opposing fanbases, their sheer cussedness that is never altered by numbers on a scoreboard. We orange faithful could stand to learn from the fine example of Baton Rouge. Too long have we meandered along in (relative) gentility, content to cheer lustily when games go our way and fall dead silent when down more than a touchdown.

No more.

Brothers and sisters, it’s time to relinquish the mantle of “the Michigan of the SEC”. Let’s see some hustle in here. Let’s see some fire in those dead eyes. Let’s see us trailing the Gators, the Tide, the Dawgs by thirty or more and screaming, “THAT ALL YEW GOT??” at their nearest fans. And in the meantime, let us laugh long and proud at all the ruffled petticoats Kiffykins is leaving in his wake. His apology to Meyer was deemed half-assed and disingenuous by everyone with a hot mic? GOOD. The man is fantastic television, and for this bounty of offseason entertainment, at least, we owe him our allegiance.

He’s young. He’s inexperienced. He’s running into walls left and right, but bless his heart, he’s doing it at full speed. Would we really want it any other way? Kiffykins may very well get run out of town on a rail, but if he goes down he’s going Cossack-style, and in the meantime he’s ours. Think for a moment and name the most hated men in the SEC: Meyer. Saban. Miles. Anyone sensing a pattern here? Now rejoice, damn you, Knoxville—we done got our very own prince of darkness. Freshly hatched though he may be, I f’ing love him for it.

Vawls, our path diverges. From here on out, I’m gonna have some fun with this. (To wit: I just compared Lane Kiffin to the head coaches of Florida, Alabama, and LSU; it was not an accident, and you can go to hell and die if you think we’re not beating them all a billionty to three (and Georgia, too) at the very next opportunity. See?  I’m telling you, this is the only way to live.) I hope to see many of you spitting and hollering and damning the torpedoes from here to August and beyond. The rest of you—well, if y’all like being pantywaists so damn much, I’m sure Vandy’s bandwagon can spare a few seats by now.

A quick scene from the airport today. A family of downhomey UGA fans sent off a pair of clearly foreign, Nordic-looking teen boys back to the cold, godless land from whence they came. They stood ahead of me in line at security, clearly emotional. Though they did not share a language, the angst and tears in their eyes made their feelings for each other clear enough.

And as a parting sign of their love, they had decked out both head to toe in the ultimate Georgian’s sign of affection: spanking new Bulldog gear.

It was moving and hokey simultaneously. In fact, I’m still thinking about them as I board, especially because just after I wiped a tear away, I told TSA they were speaking in Arabic and looking suspicious, and they were hauled away for cavity searches.

Hugs and Go Gators,

Orson

Rules of engagement are written for your safety and for that of your team. By all means, enjoy yourselves.

Sunday Morning Quarterback examines Bruins Nation’s expectations game and its evolution from the Dorrell regime to the advent of Neuheisel. It being SMQ, the piece is well-researched and well-reasoned; it being Bruins Nation he’s talking about, that’s not going to matter, At All. Duck and cover, Hinton: The advantage of running a single-issue blog is developing a hive mind that is very, very good at squalling in perfect unison.

Remember that Texas-Oklahoma ball-ripping bargfight? (This might help.) A civil suit has now been filed against the Sooner fan and the bar where the fight took place. This bears mentioning here because, in the process of reporting on the proceedings, the AP unearths the following piece of information: “The lawsuit mentions ‘a possible connection to a local sports rivalry.’” Huh.

Look! A Sporting News list of the Top 5 rivalries of all time, in any sport! And two of them are college football rivalries! One or two of you might have something to say about this. Go on, now.

Finally…since the last time I ran this circus, Cookin’ with Coolio has finished its (first?) run of ten episodes. Please tell me one of you won the autographed bell pepper.

The quarterbacking carousel at Notre Dame continues on apace, as Jimmy Clausen is slated to start in Saturday’s Air Force game. Near the end of the AP article, this telling passage (emphasis added):

Weis said at the time he named Sharpley the starter for the USC game that he was doing so because Sharpley was steadily improving and because Clausen, who had been sacked 23 times, was banged up. He said Tuesday that Clausen was getting healthier. Sharpley was 34-of-60 passing for 257 yards with one interception and two touchdown passes in his two starts. He was sacked nine times.

I suppose if you can’t fashion even the merest facsimile of an O-line, this stratagem makes perfect sense. There are two-quarterback schemes founded on the basis of wildly differing styles of play. There are two-quarterback schemes founded on getting a young player integrated into an offense. And then there’s Charlie Weis, sniffing his two prospects like past-dated cartons of milk and selecting whichever smells like it’ll do the least damage to his vitals. The system works!

Observe:

September 1: Demetrius Jones starts against Georgia Tech, fumbles twice, is promptly benched (after what, a quarter?), and still finishes as ND’s leading rusher for the day.
September 15: Clausen starts, completes 11 of 17 for 74 yards and an interception, is sacked eight times by the Wolverines. Sharpley enters in fourth quarter and ends a potential scoring drive with an INT of his own.
September 22: 86 passing yards amassed between Clausen and Sharpley, and four more sacks at the hands of Michigan State, bringing the season total to 27.
September 29: Clausen throws his first career TD (against Purdue, but it still counts) and promptly injures his hip.
October 13: Clausen benched after two INTS en route to Notre Dame being smacked in the mouth by “little brother” Boston College.
October 20: Sharpley gets the start, is sacked five times by USC. The school record for single-season sacks, 38, is supassed with a third of a season to go. And Charlie Weis intones: “So let me just say people better enjoy it now, have their fun now.”
November 3: Careful what you wish for, Charles. Navy snaps a 43-game losing streak that Weis dismissed as inconsequential. Sharpley, in his turn at the chopping block, is brought down with 45 seconds to play.

Three games remain. The writing’s on the wall, and it doesn’t take much foresight to extrapolate the rest of the season:

November 10: Clausen botches the first two quarters badly, repeatedly throwing into double coverage, is pulled at the half. Sharpley is sacked three times on the first possession of the third quarter and spends the rest of the game swatting at imaginary fireflies in the huddle.
November 17: In the final home game of the season, Clausen manages a third-quarter touchdown pass against the vaunted Duke secondary. Lighting up a peach-flavored victory cigarillo on the sidelines, he accidentally sets fire to a small portion of the field and is suspended for the season’s final game.
November 24: Sharpley gets the start against Stanford. And little Jimmy Clausen, heard muttering on the sidelines about “being released into his natural habitat”, vanishes into his native California night in the aftermath of the game, leaving no trace save for a hastily written, largely illegible note stuck to the team bus windshield signed, “Butterflies Are Free.”

Sometimes, we imagine Bobby Bowden looks behind him and thinks “How the hell’d I end up in Nuremburg?” Ah, but for a ninety degree twist of the wrist at full extension, sir.