Fools! Imbeciles! You dance like puppets on strings whilst I, THE ONE AND ONLY LIMAS SWEED, prove my evil genius once again! Tie-er of maidens to railroad tracks, shadow emperor of the Philippine Islands and several provinces in Paraguay, inventor of the Hydraulic Dream Factory and The Tesla Coil Inverter-Weather-Controller, and internationally renowned rapscallion-at-large…I HAVE DONE IT AGAIN!

Limas Sweed: Dastardly Svengali, Impressario, Lothario, and Genius-ario.

After successfully laying incognito for years here in this unsuspecting bumpkin buffet of humanity called Austin, I have not only extorted HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS out of the government by threatening them with my Tesla Coil Inverter-Weather-Controller—see the ferocity of just one of my puniest creations, the cyclonic storm system that disrupted the SEC Basketball Tournament in Atlanta, formerly known as Terminus, for evidence thereof–I have conned the wealthy fatlings who run this sham of a country into paying me as a WIDE RECEIVER IN THE NATIONAL FOOTBALL LEAGUE!

This cover shall give me the freedom to only work six months of the year at most, freeing up my fecund brainbox so that it may pursue new and even more dastardly methods of expanding my ROGUE EMPIRE.

Mu-HA!

MUHAHAHAHHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHHA!!!!

When I’m not hauling in passes adhered to my hands with my fantastickal Electromagnetic Gecko Hand Stick-o-Mittens or outrunning defensive backs with my Flubber-Jet-Jackboots, I shall be in my laboratory, devising new and even more maniacal methods of bleeding the beast we call authority with my mind-daggers. Quake at mere hints of what is to come!

The Celestial Sky-Tie! A railroad floating in the sky, so that I may tie maidens to tracks lying not just in the path of trains, but also in the direct line of flight of a fearsome biplane!

The Frame-jumping Motion-Stutter Comical Discombobulator! Uses the forces of molecular hilarity to take any group of uniformed policemen and make them run at what appears to be twice their normal speed. Also makes them unusually clumsy and prone to running in one group, so that any turn around a corner turns into a comedy and a dastardly getaway! HAHAHAHAHHA!

A really superb egg-slicer. I’m planning on selling it on late-night television. It’s not one of my more dastardly projects, but people seem to buy them…um… IN A MOST DASTARDLY WAY, OF COURSE!!!

I’d like to crow longer, but a rogue’s work is never done. The authorities are coming after me. Now! To flee in my hot-air balloon before they capture me and exile me to Devil’s Island, which I’ve once escaped from, and shall do again if necessary!

Fly, my beautiful air-chariot! Hie me to higher ground so that I might continue my villainous ways before fresh, virgin eyes unsuspecting of my true nature. Quickly, into the basket, Ribbons! What is a rogue without his pet Orang-U-Tang? A lonely evil genius, indeed!

SEE YOU NEXT TIME, LEGAL EAGLES! To the pain, crusaders! TO THE PAIN!!! You’ll ne’er cage this wily raven, do-gooders!

Yours sincerely,

LIMAS SWEED, ESQ.
Dastardly Genius and Citizen of the Sweedian Empire of the Leyte Gulf and Oriental Mindoro

“Mama, that’s a baaaaaad place down there.” Mike Oher’s estimate of Baton Rouge stands, as most of the football populace believes LSU recruiting visits look a lot like a cross between the Roman Senators wives’ orgy scene from Caligula as staged in the refugee camp from Children of Men. (Someone’s getting hit in the face with a car battery. It’s just gonna happen.)

And once at LSU, the life of a football player doesn’t really decline in debauchery or quality thereof, we guess. This is the place where, after all, we had this exact conversation with at least three people:

Q: Hey, what happened to Justin Vincent? He was monstrous his freshman year.

A: He majored in fucking fat white chicks, man. That’s what happened.

It should not be a surprise, however, that even the overtaxed minds who follow the NFL should pick up on the possibility of genital overuse in BR damaging your prospects in the draft. From Peter King’s NFL Draft recap:

Calais Campbell (50) was taken to reproduce the pass-rush flash of Calvin Pace, and Early Doucet (81) lasted waaaaay too long after a starry career but groin-ravaged senior year at LSU.

Groin: ravaged.

We should all be so lucky as to have a groin-ravaged senior year. Doucet, injured: cause, Cajun girl in reverse cowgirl hopped up on whiskey sours. Status: probable, but happy nevertheless. This isn’t a description of an injury: it’s a recruiting pitch.

(HT: Dave.)

You know this isnt’ really about Boren transferring from Michigan to Ohio State, right? Right then. Moving on.)

Greetings, assembled members of the media, friends, and of course most importantly, family. I have a few thank yous to mention. First, Representative Miller deserves my thanks for setting up the fine reception here at Ohio State; thanks so much to Linda for helping us out here. Congressman Hurley, I’d like to thank you as well.

And a big round for the caterers, Lunch ‘n Brunch Artisans of Columbus, as well. Come on, those pierogies were delicious–give ‘em a round of applause, people!

I’d also like to thank my lord and savior Jesus Christ for making this day happen. And of course, I’d like to thank Coach Tressel for having me here at Ohio State. It’s a real thrill to be a Buckeye. O-H!

(Crowd: “I-O!” Boren smiles.)

I’d like to state that I don’t want to denigrate or say bad things about my former school. They run a great program, and do good things. I don’t agree with them, but I had lots of friends at Michigan, and after this is all over I’m still going to have good friends at Michigan.

I do, however, want to draw some contrasts. The contrasts are clear, and I think football fans need to know about them. (more…)

The electric cries of the crowd and exultations of the gathered hundreds at the Mid-Northwestern Sons of Lower Umbria Fair of Charlottesville Virginia THRILLED to the brave spiral daredevil antics of young turks Joey “Pancetta” Paterno and Robert “Rocket” Bowden!

The duo placed their moxie and manhoods on the line for the pleasure of the general public by placing their vehicles in the WHEEL OF DEATH, the very same CirVerticular track that claimed the life of the shapely maiden Jeanne Featherbottom and her driver Mack Weekly though gory decapitation in last year’s exciting Mid-Northwestern Sons of Lower Umbria Fair!

Paterno piloted Nemeon, his trusty quadricar, to victory in a twenty lap bout with Rocket Bowden, vehiculating around the center ring with such vociferous a-rat-a-tat-tattling of pistons that decent folk abandoned their interest in other fair exhibits—even the wildly popular anthropological exhbit, “Shemanti: Naked Came the Hottentot!”

An urchin fell into the ring, causing much merriment as he panicked in a comical fashion as the vehicles spewed blue leaded exhaust from their mighty autorectums! Pathos hung heavy in the air as he rattled around the ring like a trapped baboon, but the sentiment turned quickly to excitement as he was devoured by Joey Paterno’s boon companion, Howard the Lion, in a single fortuitous swipe of paw and crunch of jaw!

“Rocket” Bowden, riding his steed Traveller, placed second, and vowed to best Paterno in a race. “The olive oil makes him faster! Check his papers, dadgummit! He’s an ANARCHIST! I’ll outlast him yet!”

Paterno celebrated with a reading of Cicero, a plate of his people’s odious, garlic-reeking food, and by taking his shirt off, revealing a wife-beater and suspenders. When asked if Howard the Lion had helped him to victory, Paterno responded with an ironic wit Petronius himself would have envied: “Lion? What lion? Are you drunk?”

(HT: Flubby)

Rarely, oh so very rarely, do we actually get contacted voice to voice by anyone we write about. This includes indirect contact through secondaries, flunkies, coolies, whatever. Being a blogger has that advantage: writing the sort of fever-dream metafiction most blogs consist of mean the subjects rarely have time to read, appreciate, or get enraged at what you write.

Au contraire, though. One coach did actually, indirectly, take umbrage with something we included in this edition of the Curious Index. Was it near-libel? A particularly obscene description of a bad play call or team collapse in a crucial game? Or in the case of this coach and the usual tack sailors of the information high seas take on him, a fat joke?

Negative on all counts. What enraged Mark Mangino enough to have his real estate agent call us not two days later and ask for removal of the screen capture we used in the post? Using a publicly available photo of his house from the real estate agent’s virtual website, which is for sale, and making fun of the champagne chilling on a table in the photo.

(This is, removed picture or not, hilarious whenever anyone does it in a real estate photo: “Oh, welcome. We didn’t even know you were coming by, lawya, but that’s cool. You know how we do. Now, please, just have a seat on the plush sofa, chill, and I’ll just grab this Bollinger I just happened to have on hand here.” As if purchasing this house will make you seventeen times instant classy, and that like Gurgi’s bottomless bag of food in The Black Cauldron, the opened bottle of champagne will be POOF! instantly replaced with a new bottle sitting on perpetually frosty ice.)

So, Friday the 11th, the phone rings. (more…)

This is Haven Nutt, Ole Miss coach Houston Nutt’s daughter. When you post something like this, you have to remind people that when you post something on the internet, or in any digital medium, really, it’s public and out there, even if it’s you drunk on camera (again) talking about your fondness for the drinks at gay bars, or doing the Needham Hex, or Most Definitely Not Looking Gay In Public At All. If you don’t want it out there, don’t put it up.

With that said, it’s a totally innocuous and funny crush-vid made by a teenage girl about Zac Efron, and aside from some intentionally atrocious lyrics, it’s a sign that Houston Nutt is doing everything right as a parent, and that Haven really, really likes Zac Efron. She likes Zac Efron, and would like him to take his shirt off before she rots.

And word for word, we feel the exact same way about Zac Efron I mean, Beyonce Knowles. Make her happy, Jay, you filthy rich bastard! (HT: Friends of the Program.)

We rarely pre-empt the Curious Index. Today, there is a reason. Read on, because Holly found something majestic.

Raise ya glasses, shake ya asses, Vol Nation: For unto us is given this day that greatest of football blogosphere treasures—a Catlab masterpiece of our very own. It’s like staring into the sun, but it’ll get you drunk. Behold:

Have you ever seen anything ring so true? I’m about 85% sure the guy holding the pennant is my cousin Maxie. Had this wondrous creation hatched just a scant few days earlier, we would’ve been hard-pressed not to scrap the Tennessee list entirely—because this is, perfectly encapsulated, what Orange And White People Like.

The fun at Pitt we alluded to yesterday begins to emerge piece-by-piece. In fact, the facts are so sketchy at this point that the fact-ish types at The Pitt News can’t even confirm that Sherod Murdock, a redshirt freshman safety suspended from the football team indefinitely yesterday, was the player involved in the “incident.” Fortunately, we are strictly about “truthiness,” and one of our crack sources reports that the incident went something like this:

Murdock gets into a hellacious fight at the Delta Tau Delta frat house: him, some of the o-line versus frat guys. This goes as well as could be expected. We like to imagine it looked a lot like this, except with Mario wearing shower sandals and carrying a Coors Light in hand. (Pitt? Okay, an Imp ‘n Arn.)

Die, motherfucker, die!

So, primitive strength display concluded and Smash Brothers brawl concluded (frat boys kicked into bottomless pits everywhere yay!,) Murdock returns to dorms with gallons of surplus testosterone surging through his system, and decides that all should hear of his exploits, his intention to kill anyone who crosses his path, and demonstrate it in a clear fashion that everyone here could easily understand. From our source:

Murdock (Yoshi—ed.) was running through the halls wearing only his boxers wielding a three-foot machete screaming “I’ll kill all you motherfuckers”. He had blood all over his face and hands from the earlier fight at the Delta Tau Delta fraternity house. The Wannstache was woken up from his home and brought to the scene to talk the player down before they had to send in SWAT, which they did.

That is a pissed off shirtless turtle/dinosaur there. Maybe Pitt stands a chance in the Big East this year after all, if Murdoch’s this fired up after a simple frat fight. (And really, how much more opposition will Syracuse offer than Delta Tau Delta?) And even if the three-foot machete turns out to be a merely normal knife as it did in the case of Penn State’s Chris Bell, the question remains: just how distorted a picture of their own security do athletes have? You’re already one and a half times the size of most people around you and easily twice as strong in most cases. You live on heavily patrolled campuses, and usually travel in groups.

Do you somehow still feel threatened, campus athlete? If so, we have a bazooka with a bayonet and taser attachment we’d be happy to help you. It’s the balls.

Points to be awarded as soon charges of any sort are pressed. We would like you to know that we’re typing this covered in blood and wearing boxers, but only because we’re in the mood for love, not because we want to kill all you motherfuckers.

Yes, LSU is traveling to the White House (with that lovable rake Ryan Perrilloux and his posse of “dancers”) to meet our President, George W. Bush. Dick Cheney plans to be there in spirit, communicating with them via closed-circuit television from an undisclosed location while wearing a costume mustache, tophat, and while petting a hairless pet badger loyal to him and only him.

Presidents and coaches have been meeting for a long time, now, making the post-championship visit yet another kitschy tick on the President’s endless list of meaningless photo ops. Urban Meyer and Florida went there last year, and enjoyed a savory waterboarding as a team-building exercise (”It tickles!”, said safety Reggie Nelson!). Actually, Florida went there during the Clinton White House, too, visiting for their 1996 National title, a visit marked by Clinton’s speech suggesting that the Fun ‘n Gun was as revolutionary as the wishbone, and by the President’s savage molestation of an unnamed reserve defensive back in the Lincoln Bedroom.

LSUFreek was moved to dig through the archives and find a few of the finer moments from coach/presidential summits. Enjoy.

Ronald Reagan, seen congratulating Jimmy Someone on winning the National Trees. Pill lady?
(more…)

Tommy Bowden wants you to read this quote and then look at the picture below it.

On freshman Kyle Parker, a footballer who’s playing on the baseball team:

“I’ve watched him practice and I’ve watched him play (baseball). He’s really good looking. If I was a girl, I’d be very interested in him. He wears those tight pants. When you wear loose stuff, you can’t tell the definition of a guy’s body. In baseball, everything’s tight and you can tell he’s very well put together.”

My god, just look at him out there.

All of those years of living on the edge at Clemson are clearly beginning to erode his ability to censor his inner monologue. We’re actually hoping Clemson struggles a bit this year just to get more quotes just like this from Bowden, who seems very comfortable with his own sexuality in calling another man “very well put together.”

(HT: Dr. Strangecock, of course.)

Cold winds sweep off the jagged teeth of the Hindu Kush. A UH-60 Black Hawk chops through the thin air; as it passes through the azure sky, it seems to be constantly recalibrating its flight path, listing slightly to the right side, correcting, and then listing again. It finally lands on a flat, dusty patch of land surrounded by razor wire, sandbag bunkers, and a lone American flag flapping in the bastard breeze.

The blades come to a slow crawl: four coaches exit from the left side of the plane. All wear black fleece vests and cargo pants. One coach remains in the helicopter, visibly rocking the chopper from the inside as the machine sags to the right.

(A muffled voice yells from the inside:) A little fuckin’ help here? Huh?

Randy Shannon: This place is NICE.

Tommy Tuberville: Smells like…Afghanistan.

Mark Richt: Guys, maybe we should go back and help Charlie.

Tommy Tuberville: Hell, no, padre. I didn’t fry fish in backwoods Tennessee for years just to help some gravity whore yank his whale-sized kiester out of a helicopter.

Randy Shannon: No, I mean it, y’all. This place is really, really nice. (more…)

Holly has very sad news for you. Be jacked and pumped, but only in the saddest of ways.

Server glitch? Price of fame? Low-level NCAA violation potential? Who knows, but one way or another Pete Carroll’s Facebook profile is no more. And while it brought us all incalculable joy to tread just a little closer to his radiance, I have to say—as a mortal being of woman born, having to look at his status updates every morning was forcing me to examine my life in ways I’m not sure I was ready for.

February 22:

February 25:

March 1:

March 8:

March 13:

I’ll miss you, sir. But my self-worth is drinking to your departure.

[HT: The Great Barstoolio, who screencapped my face ten times.]

Yes, yes. Quite.

Devin Wordley, Art Critic, gesturing at the wall of a gallery: Yes! Quite! A savage excoriation of the Anglo-Germanic-American bloodlust for competition and cheap, facile artifice without edges; yes, a true jab at the hollow, bloody soul of the worker’s theatre. Note the use of faux-trope here as the artist cloaks themselves in the sheep’s skin in order to come closer for the true kill, working in the cheap mock-airbrush to get his Trojan Horse of an assault on the mores of violent spectacle: a dog’s life shrouded in the illusion of glory, a…

Dude: Dude, that’s my favorite poster!

DW: Um, yes? Poster, you say?

Dude: Yeah. If you get high and look at it, you will lose your shit. There’s no helping it. I mean…they’re dogs, man. And they’re playing football!!!

DW: Yes, I see now. Dogs playing football.

Dude: You gay?

DW: Yes, yes. I am. A gay man in need of a new art review before deadline this afternoon.

You may purchase Dexter’s favorite piece of subversive football art on Amazon for $29.99, marked down from its original $99.99 robbing selling price.