A brief review of the most persistent adwhoring in the commercial landscape for college football this year to date.
Bergwood and Ham/Vincent/Lyingbastardface we don’t even know anymore. I don’t even know who you are anymore, Bergwood and Ham. Or should we call you…Vincent, your real name, Mr. Dick Whitman-I-Blew-Up-A-Guy-In-Iraq-and-took-his-name? That may be a secret only your Allstate agent knows because he is blackmailing you, First Ham unveiled his real name and his marriage, something Bergwood seemed more than justifiably disturbed by (”I don’t want to be your weekend lover, Ham,”) then the two whistled past the graveyard of their relationship by cooking hamburgers off the smoking torso of Bobby Bowden (who says advertising doesn’t offer effective metaphors for understanding the world?) and then finally…the death knell, and the hopeless attention-whoring by Bergwood as a final step to salvage the once-perfect marriage they shared built on Ham’s lie of an identity.
It’s like my naked body doesn’t even get your attention anymore, Ham.
Coldly poking at the hotter, fresher phallic symbols on the grill while ignoring Bergwood? Someone’s laying on the symbolism a bit thick now, don’t you think? (more…)
The title of this post is meant to be humorous: of all the positions you want behind you in a fight, quarterback is the last of them. They’re valuable, they’re often man-pretty, and they’ve spent so much of their playing lives being protected that they not only don’t like being hit but more often than not throw punches with the effectiveness of an enraged Brian Sutherland. It should also be noted that this entire competition would be bullshit if Freddie Kitchens were around, because that man could displace force like no one could:
Left with the sad crop of mortals we have, here are the SEC’s quarterbacks ranked by their ability to perform well in a barfight.
12. Jonathan Crompton, Tennessee. Too slow to even compete here. What kind of slow? That kind, really. Which kind, you ask again? Oh, take the whole spice rack of whatever slow means to you. It’s all there.
11. Tim Tebow. Too pacifist by far, though he can certainly take punishment. Also, though you’d think bolts of divine lightning would probably level everyone arrayed against him, you’d be surprised at how far out on a limb the Lord will leave you no matter how much he loves you. Best to avoid getting caught in a gory Biblical plotline and pick someone else for a wingman in case a Kentucky Hailstorm breaks out one boozy night. Also: probability of Tebow being in a bar, much less one your ass is sitting in? Low.
10. Ryan Mallett, Arkansas. The good news: he will at least be comfortable in a bar. (more…)
If you haven’t seen Texts from Last Night, we’re about to alleviate the poverty of your existence with a bailout of unprecedented comic size and pork-itude. Taken from reader-submitted text messages sent in various impaired states or shortly thereafter, it’s pretty much a rundown of your wasted years that you may either look fondly back on, or use as a basis of comparison for your current dissolute life. (We feel much, much better about ourselves after reading it.)
There’s no reason this couldn’t happen in our corner of the universe, of course. Or in yours, football-wise.
(404) How’d the date go? Run the triple option on her? LOL
(404) No. Ricky Jean-Francois ran in and took her before I could.
What the fuck are you doing in a car with Jake Gyllenhaal, Forrest Whittaker, and Samuel L. Jackson? Did Ironically Included White Guy #2 cancel at the last second? That’s how freaked out we are by you being in a rap video: we didn’t notice Jake Gyllenhaal in a rap video, or Forrest Whittaker for that matter, who hasn’t been this close to hot women on film since Rage In Harlem. (”Pop goes the weasel!”) It took us three listens to get over this, and to also notice this line.
Shawty got drunk, thought it all was a dream
So i made her say i, i i
Now she got her hand on my legs, got my seats all wet in my ride (all wet in my ride)
All over my ride (all over my ride)
This is not because she is aroused, Mr. Pain. This is because you have loaded up a 120 pound woman with enough alcohol to kill a 200 pound man, and she has released her bladder all over your white leather seats. Your pants are getting bigger not from an erection, but because you have just shat your pants while driving your Bentley down the wrong side of the street hammered off a whole bottle of Grey Goose. We suggest an expensive cleaning service.
We hope the seats in Niles Paul’s car remain unsoiled and intact: extra cleaning bills would add to the already expensive fines the Cornhusker wide receiver will face after getting a DUI, MIP, and suspended license charge after his arrest around 2 a.m. Sunday morning. (He failed the Nolte rule: If drunk, pass out wherever you are, even if it’s the morgue–at least they’ve got flat surfaces for you to sleep.) The dutiful Midwestern insistence on dotting the i’s on the charges gets them four points. in the Fulmer Cup, gets Paul a suspension from the rest of spring practice, and gets you no raised glasses from Opie, who reminds you to blame it on the alcohol.
Football is like life: it has a playbook, and when it breaks down, people get hurt. Enjoy.
The play begins thusly. We play the part of the quarterback, labeled here as O/S. The idea: to successfully pitch our way through an evening of socializing at a party in DC with the pitchman, our friend the local DC-ite and aspiring political lizard-person, trailing the play. (You ask: how are you friends with a person-lizard? Simple. You just feed them lettuce just like an iguana, and they’ll be your friend forever.)
The design of the play is simple: the blockers here are played by our liver and ability to make small talk. They will block the dangerous elements of the defense in order to free movement throughout the party, and if needs be the pitchman will take the ball of conversation or social interaction when alcohol or the awkwardness of discussing anything with the half-reptiles at this largely politico-style party. (more…)
The most disturbing consumer item available on the market has to be Jupmode.com’s Sweatervest Koozy, the tiny Tresselhide for your beer that shows that not only do you love America’s coach, but that you kind of want to take a miniature version of him, rip his head off, and drink beer from his neck.
If only this came with an actual little plastic head you could attach to the cap, then we could sell literally tens of these in Syracuse Orange with little Greg Robinson heads. TENS, we say. (HT: Big Jon.
All five parts of J. Leman Saves the Worldare now available at BHGP. Watch, savor, and thank your lucky stars there’s men like like J Leman between you and the dark forces that plot at night to slaughter you in your bed.
The Feldblog has at least four things of necessary quality: Auburn’s o-line enters the season banged up, Charlie Weis won’t drink in public and he’s not alone among coaches, UCLA’s o-line attrition is plagueriffic, and Alex Mack, Cal center, personifies the colloquial definition of his name. Digest in total, and yes, we’ll take care of your creeping desire to hear “Return of the Mack” by Mark Morrison in return.
Florida allegedly has the easiest schedule in the SEC, which is a relative term, but we’ll take it after the horrorshow of recent slates for Florida.
The Red Raiders defense gets the mandatory “improved, improving, excited” trifecta fluff piece here.
Mike Barwis for President. Making this nation stronger and safer through weighted sprints and Olympic lifting.
After the jump…horror. We warned you: courtesy of tipmeister Dave, the nastiest concoction we’ve ever seen lies after the jump. If you dare, fair reader. If. You. Dare.
A man. A pants. Panama. Pat Dye lost a tremendous pair of pants in the 1980s, credit cards, ID, and all. They lay at the bottom of a lake in Alabama for 23 years. Then, one day, an intrepid bottle-hunter found them and was suddenly granted powers she didn’t understand!!! We’re sorry. And an evil that lay dormant for two decades roared back to life! No, that’s not it. Let’s try one more: and the Auburn coach came and got them!!!
“Who’s Pat Dye? Wait…”
Really, you don’t know enough about Pat Dye if you don’t think the idea of him losing his pants sometime in 1985 while golfing isn’t the funniest thing you’ll hear all day. The entire article is brick after brick of solid humor platinum, but it peaks with the following.
Not surprisingly, Coach Dye said he has no recollection of losing his wallet or his pants. This was the Reagan era, after all.
LOLzheimer’s! Either they’re making an Iran-Contra Alzheimer’s joke, or implying Dye was too zoinked on junk bond euphoria and blow to recall what happened to his pants. Thank you, Lake Magazine, Lake Martin edition. When we are low, we will recall this article and smile a warm smile.
Now, let’s not get crazy. Punt on third down. Brandon Dillard loses as big a guy wire as an athlete can lose in your body, the Achilles Tendon, leaving Virginia Tech without its biggest offensive playmaker for the entire 2008 season. Adam thinks they should just punt on second down, but let’s have a cuddly moment of molestational honesty: isn’t there a small part of you that suspects Frank Beamer would like to do that anyway?
Davis was taken to Washington Regional Medical Center after he injured his hand when he punched the car, according to Gary Crain, public information officer
Do you want to foight me, Toyota Camry!!! A linebacker that will fight cars is our kind of football player, especially if he nurses a grudge against mid-sized American sedans, those bastards. Two points for Arkansas, awarded in the big board update next week.
The Mayor was typing out his rulinglast night on Michael Lemon, Georgia DE, and his Fulmer Cup points when ESPN had to come along and say that Lemon’s going to be charged with a felony and misdemeanor battery, meaning he might get UGA an additional point in the Fulmer Cup. We’re holding off on updating the points, so save the emails for the moment.
Urbz wants his nmbr. Get Das Uberboy a scholly, now.
EDSBS Store Live it. Love it. Wear it until it's ripped from your body by envious hordes of tailgaters.
Locker Room
About us
Orson Swindle and Stranko Montana are two men pushing thirty who should know better than to run a college football blog, but evidently don't. Both graduated from the University of Florida, and both agree that college football is far too important to be left to the professionals.
Contact
Comments? Questions? Long strings of profanities directed at something we said? Please send your comments to harumphharumph -a- yahoo -dot- com. Please direct all tailgating photos and stories to edsbsfans -a- gmail -dot- com.
Loading ...
