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?

John Hancock Investments. Hey, swingin’ boomers with the swinging axe of imminent death retirement hanging over your head! You’re hep enough to IM your terror to your harried spouses in the middle of the workday instead of calling now.

But honey what about our twin clawfoot bathtubs we watch sunset from? What about those? I WAS TOLD THERE WOULD BE TWIN CLAWFOOT BATHTUBS AND YOGA CLASSES!!! Apologies. Thanks to your profligacy and basic lack of math there will be no twin clawfoot bathtubs for anyone ever in the near future, baby boomers. . Bud Light in cans on the causeway–which you biked to not out of choice, but out of necessity–will do for sunset watching. Watch for stray dogs. They rule most of our cities now. We suggest you deal with retirement the way countless generations of Americans have dealt with it: by drinking yourself to death inexpensively. Fuck these commercials and their bogus IM anxiety in the ear forever with a tie-dyed dildo, since we all know these people are all on AIM anyway.

Jack Links Beef Jerky

WHY YOU MESS WITH SASQUATCH? IF YOU REALLY WANT TO MESS WITH SASQUATCH, YOU CHANGE RATES OF RETURN ON INVESTMENT ON DEVELOPING NATIONS FUNDS POOR MAN! YOU NOT EVEN KNOW HOW WEALTHY SASQUATCH IS! SASQUATCH HANG IN WOODS AS PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY NOT NECESSITY! HAVE HOUSE ON STAR ISLAND AND A-FRAME IN ASPEN! JACK NICHOLSON OWN BEFORE SASQUATCH! SNORT COKE OFF ANJELICA HUSTON’S ASS ON OSCAR NIGHT ON DECK IN FRONT OF WHOLE PARTY TRUE STORY! SASQUATCH SAY HIS FUCK YOU MONEY LETS TINY TAUNTS FLOW OFF BACK LIKE WATER OFF FINE EXPENSIVE DESIGNER UNICORN LEATHER SATCHEL SASQUATCH CARRIES TO EXCLUSIVE PARTIES.

The Sonic Guys.

Clearly a franchise in decline like the Beatles post-Yoko, with the Yoko being the new woman in the new Sonic couple completely lacking the simmering sexual tension of bald guy and bargain-bin Geena Davis. They were always seconds away from ripping each others clothes off and covering each other in cherry limeade. Then they’d order a post-coital bag of cheesecake bites, and then cheerfully accept their 32nd arrest for public indecency after groinking each other in full view of the horrified families eating on either side of them. This is an easier charge to beat than the two guys’ criminal complaint–Sonic’s classic couple–who were clearly binging due to being as high as Rex Grossman in Cozumel and in need of some tots, pronto. The possession charge they will undoubtedly acquire won’t be their first, but it won’t be their last because only weed makes the silences of their subdivision more tolerable than the sweet embrace of death itself.

This is why we love these commercials: not for the witty banter, but for their depiction of childless, aimless, and aging suburbanites seeking succor through the only open window left in their lives: the car window at Sonic. Devastating, heart-rending work all around in its prime, but slipping somewhat.

Jimmy Football

Awfully complex for Bud Light drinkers: a mock-infomercial setup, a quick pace, and a complete lack of monkeys, disproportionately hot ladies dating cretins, and did we mention monkeys? Yes, let’s mention that one twice. There are no monkeys or farting monkeys in this series of ads. From Ad Age:

Bud Light drinkers profile as lacking in carefulness. They are grounded like their Bud brethren, but respect authority. Bud Lighters can also have frat boy-like personalities, particularly when it comes to personal risk-taking. In regard to others, these good-time guys and gals are accepting of most everyone and generally easy to get along with.

Bud Light drinkers are also 48% more likely than the average person to play the lottery every day and 34% more likely to never buy organic products.

They could have just said “prone to using the word ‘fag’ a lot to describe anything” with the last sentence, but sure. This series of commercials sucks because the minute you see the words “Bud Light” you tune out because a.) you think Bud Light is made from the urine of retired circus animals, or b.) because you’re confused by all the whatfortarnation goin’ on with your commercial and WHARR ARE THE MONKEYS IN MAH BUD LITE COMMERCIAL, DANGIT?

Before we stab in an unfair unidirectional manner: ahem, craft beer drinkers:

This group is more likely to spend time thinking about beer rather than work. They are more open-minded than most people, seek out interesting and varied experiences and are intellectually curious. Craft-beer drinkers also skew as having a lower sense of responsibility—they don’t stress about missed deadlines and tend to be happy-go-lucky about life.

We’d muse on this, but we’re behind schedule and thinking about the last Fat Tire in the fridge. Mmm, Fat Tire.

Regional Hostage Situation: ROTEL AND THE BIG TEN. We haven’t seen one of these because the day we pay for the Big Ten Network is the day we compliment Jim Delany’s haircut and tact. The situation is reportedly a dire one, though. The Big Ten Network even has its own RoTel recipes page, confirming everything you’ve ever thought about generic Midwestern cuisine (i.e. that cheese is to any dish what explosions are to a Michael Bay movie.) This seems to be the least of it, though, according to Brian from MGoBlog

Orson: What commercials does Rotel run on the B10 network?

It’s really dystopian, like there’s some alternate universe where people just lurch from store to store looking for someone who can give them their rotel fix. Requiem for Diced Tomatoes. I can’t believe they aren’t on the internet.

Hopefully we can remedy this. In the meantime, cheese and diced tomatoe zombies will roam the dark hinterlands of our nation’s heartland undocumented by the internets, spending cold nights in abandoned factories and their days barging into kitchens demanding “QUICK MEALS QUICK MEALS QUICK MEALS.”

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. The bad news: he’s a big slow former Michigan qb once described as “a brain-damaged heron,” so a solid kick to the nuts could send him scurrying fast. Or threaten him with a transition to a running spread offense. That could do it, too.

9. Mike Hartline, Kentucky. A Kentucky quarterback, so automatically granted three spots due to surgically reinforced ribs required to play the position. A one trick pony fightwise, though: avoid the 6′6″ers haymakers, and pretty soon you’re whipping him around the place like a fun noodle at a pool party.

8. Jordan Jefferson, LSU. From Louisiana, so at least you know he’s an experienced bar fighter. (It’s taught in lieu of Civics as part of state curriculum.) Still a bit inexperienced, but elusive, and at 6′4″ definitely possesses the reach needed to keep opponents at bay. Also has the number of Herman Johnson in his phone, and if he gets to it quickly enough, The Biggest Baby Ever Born In Louisiana will just come there and stare at everyone until they get frightened enough to act right.

7. Greg McElroy, Alabama. Still a relatively unknown quantity, but at least he’s been training.

John Parker Wilson punched that same machine, and it failed to register anything, preferring instead to sprout roses and cooing noises. We quote: “DAMN THESE BEAUTIFUL BANGS OF MINE!!!!”–John Parker Wilson, every day of his life.

6. Larry Smith, Vanderbilt. Another selection based on his ability to take punishment as the quarterback behind an offensive line with an occasionally gracious style of blocking. He’s also named “Larry,” and it’s surprising how many guys named “Larry” from the South fight like pissed-off Huns when cornered.

5. Steven Garcia, South Carolina. Garcia is huge, and thus capable of imparting great force behind his punches and kicks. He has no idea where they’re going to do problems with accuracy, but that’s why he’s at five and not higher. Also prone to dropping things he’s supposed to hang onto, like footballs, or in a fight something like brass knuckles or a knife. Besides those things, he’s a solid choice, and one of our bets to withstand a chair broken across his back with ease.

4. Tyson Lee, Mississippi State. We know little about him, but we’ll take a flyer on him at four because if he’s willing to step up and play behind that offensive line, he must be able to take at least a few solid haymakers without falling down and throwing up blood. (If he were still around, we’d take Michael Henig here, because he really did come as close as anyone we’ve seen to bleeding internally out his mouth as anyone we’ve ever seen play football without dying.)

3. Joe Cox, Georgia. You never see the Ginger Ninja coming, unless it’s at night, when his red hair sticks out and his translucent skin practically luminesces, or during the day when he’ll ask you for some sunscreen before attempting to kill you, because it’s really bright out here and that’s not good for me, so could you sit still while I throw this throwing star at you from the shade, m’kay?

2. Jevan Snead. There’s a dash of danger to Snead, a quarterback capable of beating Florida on their own field while coughing up losses to Wake Forest and Vanderbilt. He’s wily like a fox, meaning he can sneak eggs unbroken out of a chicken coop, but will also sometimes put his foot into a bear trap lit with floodlights and big signs written in fox-language reading “DON’T STICK YOUR PAW IN HERE.” For fightin’ purposes, this means he’s all roundhouse, knocking out three opponents before falling for the “tap-on-the-shoulder, turn, and get punched by smiling opponent” move you see in old Elvis movies. Personally, he’d be our favorite pick, if only because he’d also be dashing enough to do the trick where you punch someone, take a swig of beer, duck, and then punch someone and finish the beer.

1. Kodi Burns/Neal Caudle, Auburn. Because you get two bodies in one fell swoop by taking the platoon, even if it is cheating. (Since when has anyone had a problem with “creative advantage seeking” in our fair conference.) Admittedly, neither has any proven ability to knock anyone out, but Burns is elusive, and if all else fails you can throw one of them at the opposition Mongo-style. Especially Cauldle, who is still young, lanky, and thin enough to hurl like a bolo in a pinch. Pulling him from around the neck of an incapacitated opponent will be like untangling a yo-yo, but the look on the guy’s face will totally be worth it. A case where the two-headed beast at quarterback really could help you, if only to use as a distraction on your way out of town. (It worked for Tuberville!)

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.

(865) How’s it feel to be a Tennessee Vol, huh?

(352) This is a wrong number, this is Urban Meyer, and you’re sending texts to a recruit in a dead period.

(865) UR TEXTING RECRUITZ IN A DED PERYUD LOL -KIFFZ

(480) so it turns out you can rearrange the letters in “scottsdale” to spell “milf city.” who knew?

(225) Just split a pair of twos and then doubled down. You’re damn right it worked.

(213) Up at 4 a.m. playing a little jenga with Michael J. Fox. For charity. So inspiring. WIN FOREVER.

(614) Woke up in parking lot of Caesar’s Indiana with my arm in a sling and no pants. Arm is not broken. Tell Krenzel that’s the last time we go out “recruiting” together.

(205) Don’t text me. I’m busy. But next time, buy nipple clamps with real bite, dammit, if you’re gonna use ‘em.

(512) Everyone, let’s welcome Chris Anthony to this world: 8 lbs., 7 oz, and a fine commit to our 2027 Longhorn recruiting class already.

(305) Just come play for Da U. I promise not to tell you anymore stories about people I’ve seen get shot or stabbed.

(517) From now on will be total organization. Every muscle must be tight. Every tie, tied.

(319) What should I do?

(319) Lay low for a few days. Hope no one took pictures. Remind all that snitches get stitches.

(319) Ur the best Coach.

(319) Not Coach either. Call me Transporter. Delete this text message.

(319) Gotcha

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.

Q: Coach Bielema, how do you rebound from last season?

A: [LOUD FARTING NOISE INTO PHONE]

Q: Coach Bielema?

A: Yeah, yeah. I’m here. Must have been some…interference on the call. What do you mean?

Q: Wisconsin went 7-6, going 3-5 in the Big Ten and losing its bowl game 42-14 to Florida State–

A: I dunno. You tell me if you’re so smart. I didn’t major in being a pussy, I majored in pussy.

Q: Well, that’s why I’m asking you. You’re the coach. Wait, did you just–

A: Fuckin’ right I am. I’m the coach. I piss where I say I’m gonna piss.

Q: Wait, did you just–

A: [sings in high voice quietly] craaaaaawling iiiin my skiiin…I fuckin’ love Linkin Park. You like ‘em, or you too cool to rock?

Q: I’m really trying to go back to that prior statement, you said you piss where you want to piss? What–

A: I extrapotated no such thing from my instatements. You’re the one inseminating, not me.

Q: Wait, I wanna go back and revisit that prior statement. You said, “I majored in pussy?”

A: I didn’t say that.

Q: No, wait, it sounded a lot like–

A: WAX MY TRUCK, BITCH! [/giggles, sips something]

Q: I’m sorry, Coach. Are you–

A: I’m just kidding with you, man. Go ahead and ask your question.

Q: So I was going to–

A: I can’t help what you hear. All I know is that we’re gonna kick ass this year. That’s what TwoBeez is about.

Q: Does that reference your name? I’m confused–

A: No, it references my balls, dipnuts.

Q: I’m sorry?

A: We have a lot of work to do this spring and I’m looking forward to it.

Q: Thanks for joining us, Coach Bielema.

A: WAX MY TRUCK, BITCH!

Q: Excuse me, but–

A: [LOUD FARTING NOISE] [click!] [/dialtone]

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.

(We apologize to the non-reptiles reading this piece who dwell in DC. All seven of them. Stay frosty on the streets, as the business card assassins are forever on the prowl for fresh meat. Or lettuce. They’re not picky.)

So, with the consumption of four large solo cups of gin and tonic, we’re off the line. Note that alcohol and social awkwardness has been cleanly swept off the line at this stage in the play, and that everyone’s assumption that we work in the same field as they do (and thus can be of some benefit to them) serves as a fullback dive, bringing in the linebackers. We’re free and clear, and schmoozing our way towards the endzone of a comfortable night crashing on the living room couch slightly drunk with ease.

Signs of trouble appear, though:

“C” must be blocked here. “C” here denotes “Potential Love Interest and Good-Looking Political Type Guy,” and will be played by the head of Rahm “Rahmbo” Emanuel. (It wasn’t Rahm Emanuel, for the record.) Our pitchman, a single female friend from way back in high school, is suddenly interested. We’ve lost our blocker, and as qb must deal with an option that has suddenly become an option keeper whether we like it or not. Solo in the defensive backfield with defenders bearing down on us, the situation quickly becomes one of survival.

A savvy qb would step out of bounds at this point and get off the playing field of drunk socializing, living to play another down. This was not what we did, which was to double down on the speed and hope to outrun defenders. On this play, that means accelerating gin consumption and attempting conversation about something humorous and non-political in an party in DC.

As the following diagram shows, we neglected to notice the safety of our gin threshold bearing down on us from the periphery. Working alone in the backfield without a pitchman, we make it just a few steps into a conversation with a Navy demolition diver before disaster strikes:

The safety–imbalanced blood chemistry and ill-advised powerdrinking on an empty stomach, played here by the very embodiment of gin itself, Peter O’Toole–hammers into us like Andy Katzenmoyer powdering Corby Jones’ jaw. The quarterback spends the next 45 minutes retching on his knees in the bathroom, a victim of poor play-execution and tenacious defense by basic physiology and awkward socializing.

The option, when run effectively, is unstoppable: but a moment’s lapse in the scheme can lead to disaster, as it clearly did for our hero here, who woke up the next morning looking for a city bus to crawl under and die, but found that direct sunlight caused unbearable pain preventing this plan from occurring.

If you have a play from your life you’d like us to plot out, please email us at harumphharumph of the gmail variety. Perhaps we’ll use it.

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 World are 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.

House of Sparky digs out more fun news for Arizona State: their center has gone down with a concussion, which is really unfair since that’s Rudy’s job on the Sun Devils, not his.

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?

Shatter-proof glass is the best. Arkansas linebacker Wendel Davis earns points for breaking a window on a car that bumped his scooter in traffic in Fayetteville. Give this kid a starter’s jersey for this moxie:

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 ruling last 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.

So…they went and had beer afterwards? And then made passionate love? Kroeter, we must know what happened to you after you discovered the 190 pound offensive lineman could read.

First the H-back, then then fullback, and now Iowa’s just said to hell with every back not prefaced with “quarter.” Or they may be forced to after Jevon Pugh, the only scholarship back on the roster for a team that likes to run the ball way more than they pass it, just decided to hit spring break and stay on spring break, brah.

Iowa running back Jevon Pugh is not enrolled for classes this spring semester, according to the university’s registrar’s office…If Pugh no longer is in Kirk Ferentz’s plans at Iowa, it would leave a hole at running back for the Hawkeyes next season. Albert Young and Damian Sims have exhausted their eligibility, and Pugh was listed as Iowa’s third-team running back. No other running back posted a rushing statistic last fall.

Like most Midwesterners, the weather drove him into that most dire of states: becoming a Parrothead. But one wonders what injury finally did Pugh in: throat chafing from the beer bong? A pulled penis from too much co-ed submission wrestling? A sunburn on the ass from waking up nude on the rooftop of a Cancun hotel…again? Or the siren song of staying on spring break FOREVER, man? That guy selling hemp jewelry on the beach in ten years who’s so weathered he looks like he’s been strapped to the front of a clipper ship for a decade? That’ll be Pugh.

Anyway, running backs are so 20th century. A good quarterback slam play and some end-arounds with the ubiquitous stunningly fast white wideout can get you to nine wins, Hawkeyes. At least, it seemed to work for Florida last year, and also made Verne Lundquist’s life as an announcer somewhat easier.

Tebow.

Kanu explained it best: “It’s like they had a lot of shitty beer, and just said ‘Hey, we can sell it if we just add more alcohol.’”

Enjoy your evening.

Stuff Black and Gold People Like

Fried anything. Holy shit do we like frying things. It’s not that only Iowans fry everything, but Iowans only fry everything. Go to the Iowa State Fair, but do so only at your own risk and with polarized lenses on your sunglasses; direct eye contact with too many fried confections will clog your arteries with Oreo paste.

Not meth. Sorry, Orson, but that’s something that Red and Yellow people enjoy far more than Hawkeye fans, along with other mind-numbing substances like Oxycontin and Rep. Steve King (R-IA). On the other hand…

Hawkeye Vodka. This brand exists, it’s about $11 for a handle, and it’s every bit as gut-wrenching as you can imagine. Only the saddest, most pickled citizens can stomach shots of the Hawkeye, and consuming large portions in mixed drinks leads to complete loss of pants, motor control, and stomach contents, in that order, and in the span of about 15 minutes. It’s a great way to spend a weekend, even if you only remember the world-altering hangover. Actually, it’s unfair to Iowans to restrict us to Hawkeye. Let’s broaden this out a bit:

All alcohol. Go to a Hawkeye tailgate sometime. It’s similar to SEC tailgates in terms of volume (both sound and attendance), but there’s a marked difference: SEC tailgaters cook. They socialize. They have fun. We stand around in 40 degree weather silently forcing Natty Ice down our throats and thinking to ourselves, “there’s more dew than usual.” This is a necessary result of having all our football games start at 11 a.m. Eventually, after 7 hangover-delaying Keystones, some asshole turns on his car and puts in his tailgate CD, which by default has…

THIS. FUCKING. SONG.

Things take a while to get to our fair state, so yes, it’s hot and fresh to us. This is Iowa, after all.

Making you watch us while we do politics. We’re not actually interested in politics. At all. Our governor is just as stupid as your governor. But every four years, CNN shows up and we get to travel to downtown Des Moines and say things like “is that Shepard Smith crossing the street?” and listen to desperate politicians tell us things that not even they themselves believe. We are attention whores, pure and simple, and when you follow the cycle of one month prom queen, 47 months drag queen, you’ll understand too.

The one-finger raised from the steering wheel salute when you’re on a gravel road. We don’t wave. We point up. Of course, Jimmy Bluecollar’s not about to acknowledge you in return if you’re driving an import, because his (male relative) didn’t die in (war that may or may not have had any bearing on American security) just so you could ride around in a god-damn Toyota, son. Why can’t you just drive a Chevy like normal people? You on marijuana or somethin?

Corn. Oh god, the corn. It’s everywhere. Also, sadly, Children of the Corn was not a documentary, because this state would be a lot more interesting if unsuspecting teenagers were beheaded by rogue corn vines (which may or may not, you know, exist) every time they set foot in a cornfield at night. That’d make for some unforgettable yearbook pages every spring, wouldn’t it? “IN MEMORIAL: Jared Carver, 1990-2007, car accident; D.J. Thompson, 1989-2007, evil corn demons ripped off skull. You will be missed.”

No, Charlize, the corn vines! Noooooooo!

The Drake Bulldogs. They do things the right way, which is a nice way of saying their point guard is white. We’re not racist, we just don’t care much for the showboating and hollering and the rap music and gangs. That Adam Emmenecker, he just plays ball the way it was meant to be played, you know?

Nile Kinnick. Plain and simple, he’s the Iowa football Jesus. He saved us from mediocrity. He defeated the unholy Catholics. He won the Heisman. And sure enough, he was cut down in his prime, dying in a plane crash as he trained for WWII off the coast of Venezuela two years after graduation. Sure, it’s debatable whether he ascended from the Atlantic–his body, like Jesus’, was never recovered–but we at least got his plane back. Fortunately, the plans to put his wrecked plane on display at the stadium were shelved, because when Nile comes back in the Rapture, that’s the last thing He’ll want to see, but we revere him nonetheless. Talk crap about Nile in the Hawkeye state and you will be ripped asunder, even by people who barely even know who he is.

Hayden Fry. If Nile Kinnick is Hawkeye Jesus (he is), Hayden is our patron saint. Sure, he was openly Texan (not that there’s anything wrong with that, either), but we like to think that his down-home sensibilities applied to Iowa as well too. We like to pretend that anybody of decent character has that in common with us, though that’s hardly the domain of Iowans. Still, the man in the aviators and the moustache built the football from nearly nothing, as well as training others to do the same at Wisconsin, Kansas State, Iowa State and South Florida. Again, any ill word of Hayden within the Iowa borders is cause for completely legal assault and dismemberment. It’s what we do.

The missionary position. In the dark, without the distraction of music, and under at least two blankets. It’s more intimate that way, you see, and we don’t want to deal with all these freak show details that you see on the pornos and the internet. It’s sex, not a goddamn circus.

Moderate obesity. This is not entirely unrelated to the previous item, since there’s nothing appetizing about acrobatic sexplay coming from two people who resemble clean-shaven Saint Bernards engaging in Greco-Roman wrestling. The slobber gets everywhere, it’s awkward and uncoordinated, and… yeah. Anyhoo, whenever the Hawkeyes go to bowl games, it’s painfully obvious who the Iowa fans are in the city beforehand; not only are we wearing only bright yellow (”It’s gold!” No, it’s yellow. Gold is this and don’t let us catch you wearing that) , but we’re universally 40-80 pounds overweight and loving it. A steady diet of Bennigans and 4-month bitter cold winters does that to you. You wouldn’t understand, Gator fans. We hibernate with mozzarella sticks.

Superiority. Despite everything that you may interpret as inferior qualities, readers, we wake up every day happy. We know it could be worse. We could be Cyclone fans.

Oh, denim. Is there anything you can’t ruin?