Burn…you will burn…you will burn in hell, yeah you’ll burn in hell…

There is a special place in our blackest of hearts for Tennessee, and it is entirely personal. We don’t especially like where we’re from, mostly because it’s one of those places where ketchup is considered spicy, the slightest wrinkle of oddity is cause for grave concern, and country music of deplorable quality bubbles from its pores like congealed fat hardening on the surface of fetid stew. You like it? Great. We don’t, and that’s why we live in Atlanta, home of Adult Swim, a quiet but huge adult industry, a horde of swamp real estate investors spending money poorly, and a crumbling infrastructure and half-assedness more suitable for our tastes. Interstates are magnificent things.

We have, from birth, hated Tennessee: the indigestible-to-the-eyes shade of orange, the somnolent pre-games, the sludgy brand of football designed to eke out wins by field goals, their abuse of a fine coonhound by putting an inherently curious dog in front of 100K and daring it not to go insane with overstimulation. (Watch Smokey sometime: he is seconds away from cracking into an insane rage. We can’t blame them.)

In terms of rivalry, though, things had gone limp in recent years thanks to Urban Meyer’s superior coaching acumen, Erik Ainge’s ability to cough up a game when you most needed him to, and Tennessee’s complete inability to score points when it mattered. It felt hollow, after a while: rivalry requires a certain degree of competence on the part of your opponent, a bare minimum of respect for their inability. It is difficult to respect an opponent who lets you play the part of Dr. Manhattan: you point, they explode, and suddenly you’re the child giddily holding the magnifying glass.

This all assumes you don’t find someone to genuinely loathe on the other team. Ahem.

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Holly, 7:11: This is your liveblog, and it’s eleven minutes late because Fearless Leader Swindle is stuck in traffic trying to buy beer. Hand to God. Anyway, NOW IS COME THE SEASON OF GARCIA. Hit it.

Holly, 7:13: And an NC State fumble that looks suspiciously like something out of Sakerlina’s playbook on a ram up the middle makes it 7-0, Gamecocks.

Holly, 7:15: And while we’re on commercial…are we alone in shaking in rage at the Chesney song that was somehow, someway, Even Fucking Worse than we all thought it could be? To thrust the absolute nadir of human existence so close to the beginning of glorious foobawseason is an act of human cruelty worthy of a visit to the Hague, WWL.

Holly, 7:20: Davis rolled over so fast after that hit it looked like he might be twitching from spinal damage. Happily not the case, merely a fine display of ACC ground speed (because he’s on the ground. UP TOP).

Holly, 7:23: I can’t believe this game isn’t taking place in Columbia with the volume of weird shit we’ve been treated to so far. A half-ass blocked ‘Pack punt results in Sakerlina ball, and fuck it, Garcia’s going downfield. Touchdown….and it’s coming back.Offensive pass interference, somehow NOT flagged by the sideline official five yards away.

Holly, 7:26: …which is how we get treated to an attempted Garcia scramble, counted as an unqualified success because he gets any positive yardage At All.

Orson, 7:28: Hey! Beamerball reference! Sean McDonough in the wild lives off low-hanging fruit. Apologies for the lateness: beer doesn’t fetch itself.

Orson, 7:35: That pass was Philip Rivers FlOOOOOOOOOOAAAT-worthy. NC State and South Carolina are living up to being the opening band that breaks a string every song and shocks the bassist to death with an improperly grounded amp.

Orson, 7:40: Shhhhh. That’s Spurrier working exclusively out of the shotgun, the thing I would like to shoot Kenny Chesney in the face with.

Orson, 7:44: Garcia hasn’t looked awful here. TFMM is giving the good advice tonight.

Orson, 7:49: I don’t want the Bowden grill. I want the Jeff Bowden grill, the one that sets everyone who touches it on fire. Also, the only beautiful football play of the night is destroyed by a penalty, the equivalent of touching the Jeff Bowden grill.

Holly, 7:55: Trying to explain Garcia love to Papa Shark. Invoking McConaugheyey. Daddy: “Who’s he play for?”

Orson, 7:57: Double comments of the night. First, Jerkwheat from the comment thread re: Craig James remark about getting a hamburger at midnight: “‘burger at midnight’ is some kind of sex code, right?” Then, Holly’s friend Fowler: “if that was a mark mangino grill, you could cook a whole pig on it”

Orson, 8:05: There you are, Spurrier-era South Carolina team! Terrible jumpy third down sack from Garcia, and a botched field goal to squander good field position? With a bouquet of frenzied panic and fizzly disappointment? We give it a 91, available for immediate drinking.

Holly, 8:12: “Mark May and Lou Holtz will join me…” That’s not a plug. It’s a warning.

Holly, 8:14: Nice of O’Brien to break out the milk-colored coaching shirts, just to remind us who we’re dealing with.

Orson, 8:14: Please note professionals at work as Craig James and Jesse Palmer both assume there is no chance Tom O’Brien isn’t playing for a field goal here.

Orson, 8:17: Time flies when you’re sucking so bad several spectators have disappeared into the vortex of mediocrity created by this game. We’re at the half. Hey, Erin Andrews! Haven’t seen her this offseason.

Orson, 8:20: Halftime break. Entertain yourself in the comments as Rece Davis gets his drama class on.

Orson: 8:22: Okay, one last thing: Dr. Lou jumping to hit the Promise made us giggle unnecessarily. Approve.

Kenny Chesney, your midget ass. Our troupe of unstoppable pit bulls. A dark plain in West Texas borded by a river, and us in a monster truck with hunting lights and a shotgun. Let’s roll, shorty.

You’re on the list, now:

Award-winning country music star Kenny Chesney, known for his high-energy stadium concerts, has written a song exclusively for ESPN’s college football game and studio telecasts during Dick’s Sporting Goods Kickoff Week (Sept. 3-7) and Championship Saturday (Dec. 5) as well as select contests throughout the season and bowl games. ESPN will have the exclusive premiere of the song during its pregame show Thursday, Sept. 3, at 7 p.m.

Needs editing. One moment please. [Sound of screaming, fire, steel clanging, tendons ripping.] Okay, here you go. (more…)

[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?

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Texas goes BOOM. Being a slave to the man, we think this is completely brilliant. FAST FORWARD SELECTOR to the future for Texas!

Lendy Holmes: Man, that shit smells good. After the game I’m gonna have to go over there and have some of that. They fry everything over there: sno-balls, bacon, beef, bacon, bacon-fried bacon, cell phones, trenchcoats, truth, pig heads, ballpoint pens. I don’t even know if I’d even eat a batter-fried cell phone, but if I had to eat a cell phone, that’s how I’d do it.

Hey, play’s coming this way. Shit. Shipley? I thought these guys all played for Iowa. Maybe he’s just a black dude covered in white shoe polish. That’s gotta be it. I gotta get over here and tackle this dude, just one sec—

Quan Cosby: PUDDING POPS, MOTHERFUCKER!!!

Lendy Holmes: (sees batter-covered cellphones circling above him in the azure Dallas sky.)

The non-royal we are both viewing games with actual corporeal humans to-day, so y’all are on your own until our egos are through writing checks our bodies can’t cash.

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

Triumph or defeat is in the hands of the Gods. So let us celebrate the struggle!