Todd Reesing, crushing it in the fifth quarter. If that’s your mom, we want to meet her and buy her as many margaritas as she’ll take. (HT: Bully For Old Mizzou, who has more pics over at their place.)

Good Idea: Their motto sucks, and Tree remains the kind of mascot you can have if your average attendee as a university is so wealthy the very act of having a mascot is an Illuminati thumbnose at the poor proles from other universities who will spend their lives bleeding money into Stanford graduates’ cash traps. Did we say Illuminati? We apologize. There is no such thing, you didn’t read that, and we’ll go type the rest of this from a constantly moving RV until things die down a little bit around here.

A good idea is expecting Stanford to take chunks out of several asses this year. (more…)

Oh, hello! I’m T. Boone Pickens. you’ve caught me walking out of my private duck blind. On my ranch. Which is on a boat. In a lake. On my yacht. Which floats in another lake on a floating solar-powered island constantly roaming the seas of the Earth in order to avoid taxes.

I just want to remind you that you can say anything when you’re as so stinking rich you smell like the very carcass of success rotting away into a pile of hundred dollar bills, especially if you write it in italics.

Some are awed by me. I never will forget, two years ago, some big ol’ kid came through the athletic department. Holder said, “This is Boone Pickens.” The kid said, “Are you alive? Your name’s on the stadium. I didn’t know they put your name on the stadium unless you were dead.” I said, “I came back.” The kid said, “I can’t believe this. I didn’t know you were alive.”

In all seriousness, T. Boone Pickens is the ballingest 80 year old on the planet. When he buys the oxygen rights for Metropolitan Norman, Oklahoma and forces the Sooners to play in SCUBA gear on the field in 2011, we’ll see who knows if he’s alive. Thirty million, Stoops? T. Boone spends that on hovercraft maintenance in a week.

We’ve all had pieces of collegiate clothing we would retrieve barehanded from the flames of hell. We personally still mourn a vintage Florida t-shirt purchased from a thrift store a few years ago ultimately lost to several holes and paint stains. It had the stubby-armed Thalidomide Gator from the 1960s, was an eye-scorching shade of orange, and had been worn so many times by so many people it had its own distinct soul. We would be wearing it right now, but a collar and five threads are not considered proper wear even for a blogger.

An American story requires an American theme.

Therefore, a salute goes to Shum Darwin, who fought long and hard for the proper compensation for his Nebraska Cornhusker pants taken and lost during a stay in a Lincoln Jail. He was to be reimbursed ten dollars for the pants, but sensing an important meeting of civil liberties and fandom, Darwin demanded he be paid the proper value of the pants: twelve American dollars.

That noise you hear playing in the background as you read this? It’s the sound of democracy in action.

Commissioner Ray Stevens thought it should be $12 because Darwin, if anyone, should know the value of his sweat pants.

The final vote was 2-1 with Heier again voting no.

Shum’s a bit more forgiving than we are: the sentimental value alone of such an article is worth thousands, especially if it’s a discontinued logo. Still, a man and his sweatpants separated is no small crime. Lancaster County got off easy just paying 12 bucks here. Steal a man’s sweatpants, and you take a piece of his soul. (And if you’re homeless, a good chunk of his net worth.)

HT: CJBlum

Further proof Barry Switzer never took this shit too seriously (shit=”life”):

(HT: Doc Saturday from this video.)

You will get tired of hearing his name, especially when ABC begins to pump its Big 12 lineup starting in October and you start looking LIVE at Brent Musburger’s face-plant into the Big 12 South schedule. This won’t be Colt McCoy’s fault at all, because he’s quite good, and guilty only of that and playing for a high profile team and probable national title contender (along with perennial stiff-armed trophy candidate, if you care about that sort of thing.)

Ahhh, Colt McCoy, WHATTAPLAYA: Prepare for a Musburgering unseen since Maurice Clarett and his lint roller rolled through the dirty streets of Columbus.

To alleviate this problem ahead of time, we offer up 29 alternate names for Colt McCoy. See? You’ve heard the name so many times you don’t even realize how outrageously fake his name really is: part firearm, horse, and Scottish, with just a hint of prominent car dealership owner and porn star thrown in. You let it trip off your tongue like it doesn’t reek of Walker, Texas Ranger script without even noticing, so used to the absurdity of it are you.

It’s a shame repetition bleeds the novelty out of even the weirdest things, but it happens. Therefore, college football fans, we present the Official Alternative But Equivalent Names for Colt McCoy for 2009.

Horse O’Shy
McClain Dudeflinch
Bear Canebreak
Python Smith
Hawk Cantanker
Magnum O’Reilly
Snake Triscuit
Patterson O’Buffalochickentender (more…)

The Fulmer Cup Big Board, tended as always by the Reggie Nelson-sized-tackle-dragging Brian, returns this week full of naught but tiny points tweaks and a single, lonely Nebraskan arrest warrant blowing about the waving cornflowers of the Great Plains…

I-back to the Future. Nebraska picks up a single point for the negligence of I-back Quentin Castille, who failed to appear in court over a trio of missing license plate charges, and will instead be brought in on the proactive tip by the Lincoln law enforcement community for wasting the judge’s precious time. This does not count as the kind of jail experience one can brag about, sir. Gucci Mane this does not make you.

Carl Johnson, finally off the books. The points awarded to Carl Johnson and erroneously left on the books after their dismissal have been returned to the cookie jar, since the charges were dropped after a judge realized at an attorney’s urging that a man cannot break a restraining order he does not realize exists. Carl Johnson has peacefully gone back to watching his girlfriend just like the rest of you do, which is through an open window with a powerful infrared telescope.

Otherwise: The long quiet gulf of June awaits, smooth, ripple-free waters sure to be interrupted by a bar brawl on a hot evening or a Florida Gator affray charge of some sort.

Click the picture above to see what riders meant when they were complaining about safety issues at this years Giro d’Italia (besides a course including numerous opportunities to fall into ravines.) If Texas fans were only this enthusiastic in the stands, DKR would be a viper’s nest for opposing teams. (Michigan fans aren’t the only ones who suffer from Downinfrontitis, and this comes directly from Texas fans.)

Also: South Carolina, what’s up! [/idiocracy'd]

Hey, folks. I’m Vince Young, and I want you to eat my meat! Vince Young Foods announces its custom line of meat products, a product line guaranteed to give you the most emotional mouthful of meat you’ve ever had!

From our tasty Bawling Brisket, to our succulent Ribs of Regret, to our delectable Suffering Sausage, I, Vince Young, guarantee you won’t have a more temperamental or unpredictable dining experience than my custom line of meat. Put it in the freezer for up to four years to enjoy the erratic flavor, but after that? Who knows what you’ll get? THAT’S PART OF THE FUN.

As for health? (more…)

It’s a long offeseason. In an attempt to vary up the somewhat fatigued Friday rotation, we will change it up with various lab experiments, including The Digital Viking: The EDSBS Guide To Spicy Living. The five categories are Drink (obvious), Comestibles (Food/Snack), Combustible (Shit what blows up), Transit (for making you transitory) and Canon (essential films, books, and movies to understand reality as you know it.) Enjoy?

Peter Beard, the real Most Interesting Man In the World, is your Patron Saint of Spicy Living this week. You have to read the whole 1996 article in Esquire to get an inkling of just how spicy a life he’s truly had, but this should give you a good taste:

The first day of my visit to Hog Ranch, Beard finally ambles out of his tent in early afternoon to begin the day. He is clad only in his usual kikoi, a colorful sarong-like loincloth. His torso is sinewy and nut-brown, with not an ounce of extra flesh, and he looks surprisingly fresh for someone who stayed out until five a.m. Apparently, after I begged off at two a.m. to get some sleep, Beard stopped in at the Carnivore, a local hangout whose menu features zebra and ostrich and crocodile as well as a diverse array of Nairobi night crawlers. It isn’t until the Ethiopian girls begin to wander out of his tent that I realize he didn’t come home alone. (more…)