Exclusive footage of the scene has been obtained by EDSBS.com. Uga is seen here in the lower portion of the picture on the side of the table closest to the viewer, and appears to have an ace clamped in his toes under the table.

Details are still forthcoming, but eyewitnesses say an argument broke out over accusations of cheating during a regular lunchtime poker game between Uga and several local players he knew and played with frequently. Georgia fans were stunned at the announcement this afternoon. Speaking on conditions of anonymity, one source close to the program offered the following verdict:

“How we can lose a damn good dawg like this and still have Willie Martinez is…it’s just…it’s just not right.”

Burial details have not been finalized, but an investigation is underway. If you recognize the St. Bernard in the far right corner, please contact the Clarke County Sherriff’s Department. There are no suspects yet, but he looks like he’s staring daggers through Uga, doesn’t he?

If you’re looking for fun this weekend, this would be as good a time as any to go to Ole Miss, since the local chapter of the Ku Klux Klan plans on showing up to the game to protest the removal of “From Dixie With Love” from the Rebels’ pregame.

“We aren’t coming there to cause problems or cause trouble,” Tate said. “Trouble has already been caused by a handful at Ole Miss, including the black student body president, who wants to shape Ole Miss into yet another liberal sodomite college.”

Now, take issue with the liberal portion of the description, but a college without sodomy is no college at all. Our own college experience was greatly enriched by hanging out with liberal black sodomites, since they taught us the joys of so many of the good things in life: expensive alcohol, fine clothing, half-price ecstasy cut with baking soda and methamphetamines, late night infomercial-watching, dancing with your hands over your head, and learning how to be white around black people without being the white-guy-trying-to-be-black. They’re also giving and tender lovers WHAAAA—

Anyway, if the Klan is going to show, they can’t half-step. We like our coffee hot, our homosexuals FLAMING, and our racists to be cartoonishly so. Sparkly whites, boys, and that includes the hem, which should be properly tailored so as not to drag on the ground. Foghorn Leghorn accents, please, and be quick with the festive Klan dancing.

As an eagle-eyed spectator noticed (along with most of the UGA student section, apparently), yes, that young man was indeed peeing in that little room, and no, nobody has any idea what they did with his, er, leavings.

Kentucky, our apologies in advance.

Luchini fever has clearly broken out among the Vols, who have both engaged in heistin’ merchandise and gunnin’ (of the pellet variety) this week.

Next up in the revival: the heistin’ merchandise portion.

Freshman safety Nyshier Oliver was arrested on November 7 and charged with shoplifting at a department store in West Town Mall.

The police report says Oliver was spotted putting a brown shirt worth approximately $110 in a Dillard’s bag. He was arrested around 1:45 that Saturday.

…the Saturday of homecoming about six hours before the Memphis game, to be precise. We welcome the Vols back to the land of the competitive SEC East teams, and now up their possibility of winning an SEC East title next year thanks to the increased verve and hunger of the youngsters clearly energized by the new regime in Knoxville. DA COACHO HE BE SIPPIN’ ARMAREDDA! DA LANEKIFFUH HE BE SIPPIN ARMAREDDA!

A few observations on tailgating in Athens:

–Athens happens to be a bit more eclectic and hipster-friendly than most college football tailgates period. Pop open a cooler and you will see foofy craft beers. Open an ear and you will hear something other than lite-country and pop-hop, like the fantastic Commodores/Ministry/Run DMC combo we heard across from us in Tent City. Unlike many SEC burgs, football seems to pull in the townie crew in Athens. They refuse to wear the red pants sure, but they still show out in their own way.

–Everything across the board in the Classic City seems to be at a B-plus or B across the board. The food, while not up to the Roman Orgy standards of Baton Rouge, is excellent across the board. The gear, while not on the mobile dining room standards of the Grove or Alabama, is nevertheless acceptably extravagant. (Quoth Paul Westerdawg: “If you can put it on wheels, we’ll do it.) While they don’t splash out on alcohol quite like Florida fans do (and note that this is the only thing Florida fans really go balls-out on, the booze, booze, booze,) the brands are mid to top range and poured with a shamelessly liberal touch, especially the brown stuff.

Like a well-managed NFL salary cap team, Athens’ tailgating necessities are all economically chosen to maximize potential enjoyment, making the scene the king of no single category but the master of the total array. Across the board Dawg fans are the most well-rounded tailgaters we’ve seen, quick with a bottle opener, adept with rapid satellite television array setup, and just menacing enough when you reveal your status as an opposing fan to be amusing.

–Scenery. We’re not just talking about the lascivious kind, either. It’s a beautiful campus with splendid weather, pleasant architecture, and proximity to bars. Trees surround the stadium. Attractive people of both genders are everywhere, so it’s not just the one-sided gawkfest every SEC lady has been through when visiting a place like Alabama. It’s a hair thing, mostly. Ladies can stand a lot of things, but bad hair will throw a woman on the hunt off the scent of even the most majestic mantelope. Like we say in the video: at least Athens offers a lot of different kinds of bad haircuts for one to choose from. As for the women, they are stunning. That is all we can say without sounding like a creepy old bastard any more than we already do.

PS. Check out the Alphabetical comments for the best Cincy/Chick-Fil-A logo illo EVAR.

And now, a song with no relation to this incident or story.

The principle is transferable to so many other things, though. For instance, take Brandon Spikes. He is a fierce linebacker, swimming through blocks and sniffing out plays other predatory linebackers miss. He’s practically sharklike, we tell you. Sharks have a lot of positives traits. They kill things well. They never stop moving. They often RSVP for parties well before others and have a natural sensitivity to the issues of LGBT other fish don’t have. They’re sharks, they’re proud, and you can’t take that away from them unless you kill them and eat them. Then you’ve pretty much taken everything away from them, because you’ve eaten them.

Is this Brandon Spikes’ future? With the right insane associative rhetoric, IT VERY WELL COULD BE.

Sharks, who are just like Brandon Spikes and vice versa, can do the same to you, and that’s the problem. Sharks eat things randomly. You might see Brandon Spikes eating a license plate on the side of the road because it’s shiny one day, and then what are you going to do, Florida fans? Let’s not even get on the topic of what happens to pregnant sharks around other sharks.

A pregnant shark at a New Zealand aquarium was bitten by another shark, unexpectedly releasing four baby sharks as visitors watched.

An aquarium spokeswoman said stunned visitors saw the injured shark and alerted staff that they had also seen things float from the gaping wound.

What happens when Spikes finds shark love and then bites open his beloved because, well, he’s a shark and that’s what sharks do? Do you know how much shark day care costs? Or how strained your relationship with your shark in-laws will become, especially because sharks have such difficulty dealing with their emotions anyway? What about when he just begins attacking men who look like Robert Shaw? Do you know how many barrel chested sketchoid guys with mustaches there are in Florida? He’ll never have time for football.

(If this does happen, though, Chuck Amato should grow a mustache, and someone should film this for the benefit of NC State fans.)

WHAT THEN FLORIDA FANS? We’re just saying, he might want to switch to decaf, because then you’ll be stuck with all these shark babies you can’t eat at once, sharkbacker Spikes.

I promise this isn’t a metaphor (and if it were, it wouldn’t be a particularly good one), but I had a nightmare last night involving not being able to open my eyes (and some small woodland creatures, but that’s neither here nor there). I was jarred out of the second one by my phone ringing off the hook, and here’s why:

Janzen Jackson, Michael Edwards and Nu’Keese Richardson, all 18, were charged this morning after an armed robbery attempt at a Pilot station on Cumberland Avenue, according to the Knoxville Police Department.

Each player faces three counts of attempted armed robbery.

Additionally, several news outlets are reporting that it was a semiautomatic PELLET GUN, which is apparently a real thing that exists. And here’s the money shot:

A Volunteer TV News photographer on the scene captured the suspects while they were being identified. At least one of them wore a black University of Tennessee t-shirt with an orange Adidas logo and the phrase “impossible is nothing.”

Honestly, in the first few minutes I was convinced it had to be a perfectly executed joke (I’m reminded of the first time I met Fearless Leader), and then my phone rang again, and again. There’s a weird kind of symmetry to it. Jackson and Richardson had already been in trouble with Kiffykins, though not legal trouble, in the past couple weeks. If it’s true, I hope they’re all three gone by the end of the day, lockers empty and dorm room doors swinging. Richardson and Edwards wouldn’t be missed all that much from this Vawls iteration (minus their strategic value as recruits), but Jackson was praised over and over again as being better than Berry when Berry was his age.

It’s weird. I never thought I’d end up mourning our clean police records, but they’re busted, so the floor is now open for wailing, gnashing of teeth, and outright gloating. Let’s all take a few deep breaths, and—

IF PHIL FULMER WAS STILL HERE THEY’D'VE USED A LOT MORE THAN A PELLET GUN THIS PROGRAM’S GONE SOFT I TELL YOU WHAT.

I feel better already.

On different occasions and including July 26, the sports page has covered the fact that Coach Lane Kiffin had been having a tough time trying to find a top-quality quarterback to come to Tennessee that would be able to fit into his game plan.

I would like to offer a real possibility why he hasn’t been able to do so: 19 years ago, this child was killed by abortion, and so he is not here now available for recruiting.

Yes….BY TIME TRAVELING ABORTIONBOTS EMPLOYED BY THE SEC MUAHAHAAHAHHAHAH!!! You know all our secrets now, Tennessee. It’s part of the vast officiating conspiracy, which is co-funded by the SEC, ESPN, and the Elders of Zion. As we speak samples of Tim Tebow’s sperm are being turkey-basted into female sprinters in 1992, 95, and 98 in order to create an unbroken chain of succession between the Baby Rhino and his multiracial test-tube spawn. (Diversification is key; wouldn’t want it to be too obvious a ploy.)

(Auburn has the same project, but for some reason they chose to keep breeding different variations of Daniel Cobb over and over, including model 3.0, the “Chris Todd.” They must all smell like cookies or something.)

Daniel Cobb: his clones smell like cookies.

Despite calling in another request for a game extension from their local Buffalo Wild Wings (sadly, no longer serving Weck) and getting exactly what they wanted, SEC fans will continue to complain about the officiating because they can, and because now with the advent of DVR and these fine internets even the most innocuous holding call can be scrutinized.

You should know the story has reached some kind of point of deflation when Nick Saban is telling the refs to go to the lake for a weekend, which we kind of would like to see a.) because it proves a point, and b.) because the resulting anarchy would make a soccer riot seem cordial in comparison.

“I just really do believe this: If I was an official, and I was making what I make officiating, because I love the game and I love doing it, and I was getting crit­icized by the media, includ­ing our announcers on TV, like these guys get crit­icized, I’d step back and say, ‘I think I’ll go to the lake this weekend. You can have this.’ That’s what I’d do,” Saban added.

If they did go to the lake they’d catch boots and call them fourteen pound largemouth bass, but that’s just the kind of year they’re having as a group. Officials around the nation will have another inexact and fallible day this coming Saturday because officiating is an art, not a science, and is practiced by frail, fallible humans who deserve your sympathy and understanding (after you’ve hit them in the skull with bottle from fifty feet away. Especially then.)

National title rings! A perfectly smooth bald head that can be used in a pinch as a whiteboard during meetings to save money on office supplies! 24 or so points of offense guaranteed per game, including the best offense between the twenty yard lines that money can buy! Success is spelled A-D-D-A-Z-I-O, Memphis. Call him soon. Hell, call him now oh please god won’t you. He’s just waiting by the phone for your offer, eating pieces of paper covered in diagrams of dive plays and planned sacks on third and goal.

We have suggestions.

–7 freshly circumsised and adoptable Filipino baby boys. (No questions asked.)

“Yeah, seven. But it’ll cost you. Bob Tebow Ministries doesn’t run on prayer and happy thoughts alone.

–600,000 nickels delivered in cheap garbage bags.

–1749 copies of this (ON SALE) classic by seven-time Pulitzer Prize Winner and astronaut Mike Freeman.

–Check written from his Cayman Islands account. (Takes days to clear, sure to draw IRS audit.)

–Three live Siberian Tigers. Black market prices, and surely available on a moment’s notice in Miami.

–Coupon for five favorable calls made by SEC referees in the game of their choice.

All are roughly equivalent to $30K or so, and should suffice in making Mike Slive feel more Roger Goodell-ish by the moment.

Another cold day, he thought. His breath snapped in front of him like a frozen ghost. It disappeared as quickly as a married woman leaving your bed: suddenly, and sure to return in a few sad, empty seconds. He’d been breathing for years. It didn’t seem to help.

He thought about pouring a scotch. He poured a scotch. Only drunks drank in the morning, he thought. Fine. I’m not a drunk, I’m thirsty. If the water happened to be brown you couldn’t blame the thirsty man. He drank it. It warmed him a bit. It always did.

He then put on a clean shirt. If there was something scotch and a clean shirt could not fix he did not want to meet it.

Of course he had met something scotch and a clean shirt could not fix. She was as long an outrigger to the waist. Treacherous from the waist up if you were a tailor, but he wasn’t carrying a tape measure and thread that night. She stood at the bar waiting for the world to spin around her. He was happy to fall into orbit.

“What’s a lady like you doing in a pit like this?” He tried to look into her eyes when he said this. He failed.

“Waiting for the right tiger to fall into my trap.”

Her voice purred like the motor of an Indian motorcycle, and the rest of her was just as dangerous. They danced into the Waikiki night. The band played luau, the bartender played rum down their throats as fast as they’d drink it, and her fingers played on the back of his neck as if to show exactly where she could break him if she chose. Dames like her were like pickpockets, keen on misdirection. She would go for his heart, not his neck. Like a good pickpocket he would be miles away before he noticed it was gone.

He would have left memory behind if he hadn’t looked at himself in the mirror starting the car. The engine warmed up, and he ran a finger over the scar. That night a native decided to get restless. This one was handy with bottles. Normally he liked men who were handy with bottles, but only when they were pouring him the stuff to make him forget the nights, the broken hearts, the pain a man felt when he woke up alone, or with someone, or sometimes both.

This one was handy with a bottle the other way. He didn’t like those as much.

The islander left a Honolulu Passport on his cheek for life. Only cost the islander a sock in the gut and a chair over his head. This seemed like a fair price even in wartime dollars. He spent that night in the hospital getting stitched up like an old baseball. She went home with a Dago named Sully. No one said beauty had taste or even needed it.

The window fogged up as he waited for the engine to warm up. Everyone has scars, he thought. Not everyone has memories. At least he had that…for now. It wouldn’t be cold in Hawaii today, he thought. It never is, especially for sad men dreaming of blue skies streaming endlessly above the casket of grey clouds covering their limited days.

He pulled out of the driveway. He went to work. That was all there was to do.

That’s what Ole Miss students are chanting at the end of “From Dixie With Love.” Please note that these are Ole Miss students, not alumni, who are certainly trying on the phrase with the kind of naive pissiness you find in high school grafitti artists or a white elementary schooler saying the N-word just to see what happens.

The President of the University has threatened to ban the song altogether, which would work after a period of GRRRR OUTRAGE. Go ahead and do it. Like the Confederate flag flap here in Georgia, it will die off, and racists will latch onto something else because they’re not that smart and therefore easily distracted. In this case, you can distract outraged Ole Miss undergrads with a 12 pack of Miller Lite and a sundress. We suggest the administration subtly stack piles of both at the site of any demonstrations. If this fails, try sparkly pictures of Obama, as this combines both shiny things and the ultimate horror of a Democratic black president.

You could also make the argument that it’s not hateful to the black players who play for your football team, who see your white columned and fictional antebellum paradise as a labor camp filled with death, imprisonment, rape, and the endless annihilation of their families, freedom, dignity, and humanity. Try that. It would be fun! Getting punched by a 300 pound man is just like getting slapped, except that your face comes off and you shit your pants from shock. You’ll find your historical arguments to be, um, unpersuasive to say the least.

Shepard Smith says it better than we can, though, and he’s on Fox News. HE MUST BE RIGHT LISTEN TO HIS RUBBERY PEOPLEMASK SPEAK THE TRUTH. The alumni know better than to do this shit because they know their ass from a hole in the ground, and also because they are old, or because chanting stuff requires energy, and that’s hard to muster if you’ve already had five Jack and Cokes on the day. We like to think positively, so we’ll assume it’s the former and not the latter.

One: Inanity in Governance: (EDITOR’S NOTE: We assume all politicians of all parties to be evil, soulless lizards walking around in human suits masquerading as people. At night, they dine on pickled infants and watch Two and a Half Men, a uniform preference explaining the show’s inexplicably high ratings. Any expression here is one of purely personal distaste, and not DURRR POLITIKS fodder.)

Florida Florida’s governor is an allegedly closeted gay man with a basted ham-toned, George Hamiltonish tan you suspect continues uninterrupted around his entire body. Like anyone with the dimwitted ambition of being governor, he’s not particularly bright and could probably be shot into space without any discernible effect on the overall well-being of the planet as a whole. He also failed the bar twice and sounds suspiciously like Brick Tamland when talking. Naturally, being insubstantial, dim, and tan, he has been mentioned with some seriousness for the Presidency.

Georgia: Sonny Perdue burrows even lower into the warm humus of gubernatorial stupidity, however, by opposing the lifting of the Sunday alcohol ban. Correct, non-Georgia readers: if you want alcohol on Sundays in Georgia, you must first drive to a bar, then pay a fifty percent markup over wholesale, and then wait until you sober up before you drive home because some turkey-wattled Baptist eighty miles away in Hookwormville thinks Crazy Old Testament God is going to turn him into a pillar of salt if the citizens of Atlanta get drunk in the safe, warm, and undoubtedly godless confines of their own house.

Oh, but you could just buy on Saturday. It’s not a big deal! THAT’S WHAT THEY SAID ABOUT THE GHETTOS OF WARSAW, COMMIE. We could just close church on Wednesdays to make things even. You only go on Sundays, after all, and you could just take a Bible home and pray there, right? A bar’s not a church? Tell that to Nick Nolte and see if you come away with a both eyes and your dignity, Reverend.

Sonny hates freedom, and for that he and Hookwormville can go fuck themselves with a bottle opener. Sonny also publicly prayed for rain during a drought, adding “shaman-in-chief” to the list of public responsibilities the Governor of Georgia holds. This would be cool if it involved more theatrical animal sacrifices and headbanging bad girls in fur bikinis, but it doesn’t, and is therefore not.

Loser: Georgia, but the exact width of a prayed-over wine cork.

Two: Trash:

Georgia: Georgian trash of all colors tops Florida’s in one of the ultimate sports adored and practiced actively by the American chav substrata: giving each other STDs. How, you ask, can the Peach State lead Florida in this category? The clear answer: more Floridians step directly out of the soiled bed of their infectious tryst and directly in the mouths of sharks or alligators.

Georgia pan-racial trash also leads Florida’s in another category, that of throwing trash from their cars at an alarming rate. We only have anecdotal evidence to support this claim, but motorists in this state maintain the pristine state of their own cars by ejecting refuse from the windows of their cars at a rate that would shame the motorists of the 1950s. This used to enrage us, but now is a game of Dada sequence-guessing: what’s next, jacked-up pick-up truck obviously lost and driving 25 miles an hour down Memorial Drive? A whole fish dinner with fries and condiments, tossed on the road in its styrofoam container? A whole book of CDs? Decided that you really got tired of that Sticky Fingaz CD, eh? BLACK TRASH IS A CLASSIC, SIR!

Florida: Florida trash, unlike Georgia trash, come in a dizzying variety of shades, abilities, and cigarette preferences. Florida has Midwestern Bucktard Juggalo Trash lurking around Tampa and Orlando defacing late-90s American cars with all varieties of things written in either the “NO FEAR” font or the industry standard Gothic Lettering. (Because everything looks tougher in “Oktoberfest Germanic.”) Jacksonville offers a thick, heaping slice of white and black tragic livin’, while Tallahassee and Gainesville combine college-town squalor with the miasmic theft-based economies of most lower-class Southern cities. (Both have booming, vibrant stolen goods markets.)

You can’t even begin to tussle with the Trash-topus offered up by South Florida. Miami has Haitian, Puerto Rican, Cuban, Dominican, Midwestern, Southern Cracker, and assorted Caribbean trash, a Minoriteam topped by transplanted New Yorkers, who set the tone by importing Night at the Roxbury tactics of EXCITING DANCEFLOOR RAPE SIMULATION to clubs and using copious amounts of gel and manscaping to put an edge on their razor-sharp broadsword of insecure masculinity walking. Combined with the Latin influence, Miami is a perfect firestorm of Unified Trash Theory come to life like no other, and that’s before we mention the Grand Dukes of Trash, the Russian Billionaires’ Club, who see Miami as their seaside, corpse-strewn Babylon. Like Milton Berle in a cock-off, we’ll only pull out just enough to win, since you don’t even deserve to see the whole thing. Don’t attempt to compete, Georgia. This one is ours.

Three: Natural Disaster:

Georgia: An epidemic of truck nuts doesn’t count, so tornadoes and the occasional flood will have to do.

Florida: Hurricanes.

Hurricanes are really just a deity’s eviction notice, and like many Floridians themselves, the state keeps getting the notices and chucking them in the garbage with the rest ah them jibbery-jabbery lawyer writins. You can’t really compete on this front either, Georgia, unless you have the very hand of Neptune himself smack a third of Savannah off the map in a single swipe. Bonus side effect of hurricanes? Chainsaws and shotgun sales go through the roof just before and after one, making Florida the state most prepared for a zombie invasion. Even the people have fangs, spikes, and thorns in the state.

Winner/Loser: Florida.

Four: Things That Will Kill You

Things that will kill you in Georgia: 18 year olds with guns, AIDS, A God Enraged at Your Purchase of a Nice Merlot on a Sunday Afternoon, Rennie Curran, rattlesnakes, the state, chunks of batter lodged in your heart, obesity.

Things that will kill you in Florida: Serial killers who only kill serial killers who only kill other serial killers but sometimes you in a pinch, 13 year olds with guns, the state, hurricanes, lightning, rattlesnakes with herpes, wild and huge Burmese Pythons in the Everglades, planes falling from the sky, cars running off the road and into your house without warning, shark attack, rogue stingrays, rogue waves, heatstroke, malaria, Channing Crowder, Channing Crowder’s pet gator Ted.

Winner/Loser: Florida by a bloody mile.

Five: Movie Summing Up The Entire State In A Single Film:

Georgia:

Florida:

Winner/Loser: Tied.

Clear Winner: Um…we’re not really sure if anyone won this exercise. Except sadness. Sadness clearly came away with a massive victory here.