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.

Is it a good or a bad sign when a starter is arrested days prior to an important rivalry game? Georgia offensive lineman Vince Vance was arrested early this morning on classic Bulldog charges, and indeed the only ones they seem to rack up under Mark Richt: driving offenses. (Richt: moral, but negligent on paperwork like a daft pastor.) Vance eschewed the normal “driving on a suspended license” and went a step further by driving without any sort of license at all, an offense that in Georgia gets you thrown straight in jail. Vance was also charged with failing to obey signals, the false start of traffic violations.

Positive implications for Georgia: Feeling bold and lawless. Does not need a license or your permission to go where he needs to go, sir. Try to block him: we dare you.

Negative implications: Feeling forgetful. Easy arrest without resisting charge shows lack of mental toughness. Missing signs=blown blitz coverages.

Overall, we’d say it’s a positive for the Bulldogs, since more arrests=angrier team (see: Florida.) Georgia says it has no elaborate motivational schemes for the game like a secret Christian message embedded in a shirt or anything, just better execution and the loving, guiding hand of Joe Cox. The temperature will be 86 degrees in Jacksonville and the game kicks at 3:30 p.m. Joe Cox remains winless in day games unless you count Vanderbilt, and we don’t, because it pokes a hole in our theory that he cannot win games where he is exposed to direct sunlight.

That’s our favorite Lil Wayne line ever, though “Smoke weed and talk shit like Lane Kiffin” is now up there. (Scroll to the 1:10 mark or so.)

Kiffin got wind of this, and thanked Lieutenant Vagina Beast on his Twitter feed.

There will be some tut-tutting about this, we’re sure. Fans saying things like, “Do you want to brag about an endorsement from a promiscuous, wealthy midget who openly abuses cough syrup and marijuana?” Sure, why not. It’s as good an endorsement football-wise as one from, oh, say someone like Phil Fulmer at this stage in his life, and certainly pleases the backdoor racist recruitnik. Why, the black rapper likes him? Certainly a young black man will do anything the dreadlocked Drank addict says to do! Well played!

Don’t ever, ever overestimate the public, though. To quote Frisky Dingo: “All Americans want is cold beer, warm pussy, and a place to shit with a door on it.” If someone famous says it’s good, then you should go flock to it, meaning all new recruits to Tennessee will commit by tattooing Lane Kiffin’s name in they mouth. If this sounds harsh, reconsider when you think about what body part Ed Orgeron gets to place his large, forceful inky signature on, and then call Lane Kiffin demanding when you’ve burned that image into your head.

UPDATE! Weezy’s not picky with his SEC references, as Andrew points out here. Tim Tebow gets his name checked around the 2:00 mark.

First I was right about Houston Nutt communin’ with the Trilateral Commission, and a then ah told you about the radioactive worms the NSA done put in my tomatoes to keep an eye on me. Then you laft at how ah spotted the Zionists workin on me through the presenze of their agent Seth Roggin in all them Judd Apataw movies tryn to tell me my penis was an atenna transmittin’ Palestian propagandah to the masses to give them a reason to make movies. The cops arrestin me fah showin’ it to ‘em that night at Slankey’s Tavern on 3 for 1 Natty Light night only PROVES HOW REAL THE PENILE BROADCASTIN’ WAS!

And now ah done got another one! Wake up, sheeple! Iss right in God’s own sport!

Lane Kiffin, in his first year in the SEC, got his second reprimand from the conference office today. The Tennessee head coach was scolded by commissioner Mike Slive for his public comments since Tennessee’s 12-10 loss to Alabama.

That’s a violation of the SEC Code of Ethics.

CONSPIRASAH!!! First they get Florda and Alabama in the game, then the Antichristabama appears in thah sky, then as foretold in tha Mothman Propheseez the Werechild dooz battle with the Tebowantichristabama till one of um goes to the BCS and takez control of the guvmint through nappin’ cells in the FDA and ATF. IT’S ALL CONNECTED AND CAN’T POSSIBLY HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH A GREATER FEAR OF PEOPLE BEING MASSIVELY INCOMPETENT IN AN ANARCHIC AN CHAOTIC WORLD NO SIR. I seez it all!

Editor’s note: Lane Kiffin moves one step closer to being Planet Doofus’ Stone Cold Steve Austin. He’s pointing at McMahon! Has he no respect for the Commissioner!

Fun facts from the midpoint of the Chizik era, year one: Auburn’s defense has been on the field or 575 plays, tied for 113th in the nation in total snaps taken by the defense. The side effect of the espresso-paced Malzahn offense is to lengthen the game for everyone, your defense included, which is why you see your Toledos and Texas Techs down in those rankings, too. This leads to more opportunities for the opposing team, which leads to fatigue, which leads to Les Miles’ struggling offense breaking out the good knives and going to work despite struggling through most of the season. Auburn’s defense is tired, and we’d bet even money on them looking more gassed as the season goes on due to the first year of the system and the lack of conditioning. It’s not like Auburn spent the offseason lounging poolside and feasting on gelato, but you can’t really be prepared to take that many snaps unless you’ve seen what switching up-tempo can do to the defense of the team making the switch.

(HT: The ever-cromulent War Eagle Reader.)

That leg! That charm! That musical Biblical name! The boys from Gainesville have found an electric new presence, a thunder-legged Legolas lasering long field goals lethally into the nets of Dixie’s toodly-oodliest of football gin joints. No, his name ain’t Ca-LEG, though you certainly think it could be from the way he uses it!

No, it’s CALEB, a moniker sure to be used as the first name of choice for a thousand bouncing babes across the Sunshine State, since the St. Augustine Striker has the state buzzing with the latest fad in Florida football, THE THREE POINT SKIDOO or THREE THE FOOTSKI WAY, a real hoo-dilly more commonly known in the ol’ rule book as “the field goal.”

Sturgis made double sure that the next time he puts on the old glad rags and gets a wiggle on at his local juice joint he’ll be crawling in Shebas by kicking THREE THREE POINT SKIDOOs tonight versus Mississippi State. What say you, nifty gypsy?

Sturgis, the St. Augustine Striker: “I’m glad I can help. I kick them when we can’t score from the five yard line.”

THAT’S RIGHT, YOU BIG SIX. It’s the craze that’s sweeping Florida football, daddy-o, and from the looks of it you’ll have plenty more chances to THREE POINT SKIDOO your way into being Florida’s most copacetic Heisman nominee this year. Dames: “He’s the bees’ knees!” Fellas: “He’s quite a fella!” Offensive coordinator Steve Addazio: HURRRRRRRRRNNNNGGGGGHHHH WHERE’S MAH THINKIN’ STICK HURGGGNNNNNGHHHH

From here at EDSBS Weekly: You’re the bees knees’, Caleb, and your crazy three-point dance has doing the lindy hop trying to keep up! GET HOT, GONE DADDY!!!

Florida’s offense has reduced us to Jazz Age jibberish. We don’t know what’s going on, either, unless the idea was to feature Caleb Sturgis in this year’s offense exclusively.

This is up late due to throwing things due to continued redzone frustrations and dinner. But it was an angry, grudge-y dinner! We ate two pieces of pizza, and almost ate a third, but it beat us. But it was close, so we’ll claim it as three and move on. <—-Kiffinthink.

How else would one explain a leap from a 53% to a 57% completion percentage? It must be magical tape. As if a rivalry priding itself on pure hate didn’t need an additional spark to create a proper trailer park bonfire. Saban says Tiffin won’t use the tape since risking a five yard penalty would be too much, but let’s focus on the most impressive possibility here: in theory, the same crew assigned to LSU/Georgia and Arkansas Florida could end up working this game, too. Crazy Old Testament God is just begging for this to happen.

Getting away with it. All our lives. Complain about the officiating as much as you like, but if you look as odious as Florida’s offense looked for a half and still win, you did something right. This is what happens when you’ve emptied the hotel suite of all of its contents and stand looking them through the empty rectangle where a Vegas suite window once stood, shimmering under the blue water. It’s all about getting perspective, really. (We missed with the second flatscreen. It made a spectacular sound hitting the pavement from eleven stories up. Fortunately we registered under our pseudonym, Richard Reilly. )

The dazed aftermath doesn’t shield a few essentials about Florida, though. Something is terribly palsied in the offense, in the execution, and in the playcalling. Arkansas played like mad bastards, especially Dennis Johnson the rolling water buffalo on rails, last seen bowling through the entire Florida defense, and wideout Greg Childs. The playcalling is relentlessly uninventive, and the line buckled under pressure from the Razorbacks’ d-line, the other set of Ro-beasts hounding Tebow and sacking him six times. This offense is, in the words of Sophocles, “kinda shitty.”

Arkansas deserves not your pity, nor any opining about the officiating. If they hit two field goals, they win this game, horrific calls and all. The one irritating us most: another inane taunting penalty in the first half, moving SEC officiating further away from the application of rules from a handbook, and more towards the spontaneous review of interpretive dance.

They didn’t, and now Florida will fall to where they properly belong: number two at best, and possibly three if you’re partial to Texas. If they faced Alabama tomorrow, the Gators lose by ten. There’s time to improve, but the problems go deeper than Percy Harvin demonstrating his mutant skills in the NFL. For now, we’re the Iowa of the SEC, and like Iowa, we’re getting away with it for the moment. As dirty as it feels, it is better than the alternative.

(Excuse us. We have to leave the hotel, as “Mr. Reilly” is wanted for a conversation with the management he would rather not have.)

Subway follows the exploits of those living in the Paris Metro, a subculture of misfits, artists, social outcasts who do outrageously French things like walk around filthy sewers wearing avante-garde fashion and holding flourescent light bulbs for hours at a time. You’re not really supposed to be down in les egouts, but that’s the point, just like you’re not supposed to be in alleys in Athens, Georgia. Okay, rephrase: just like you’re not supposed to every come out of an alley in Athens once you go into said alley. There, that’s better.

Georgia junior cornerback Vance Cuff was arrested Tuesday by university police on misdemeanor charges of having a suspended license and emerging from an alley.

We have no idea what Vance Cuff was doing going into an alley in the first place, but we can only assume it was to find his lost love, trapped by the cruel vagaries of poorly written civil code with the lovable, filthy outlanders who live in the alleys, forming terrible rock bands, making filthy love in the dumpster suites they’ve constructed from what “society” can’t use, and smelling artfully horrible. If that is what he was doing, then fight on, Vance. You remain a lonely but brave voice for those afraid of paying the fifty, possibly seventy-five dollar fine to emerge from those alleys, in addition to the suspended license charge.

That charge doesn’t matter either, though, right Vance? The courageous need no license for anything, something those people who see the sweet freedom of the sun every day won’t understand like the alley people do. Keep up the fight, brother. One day the big men in City Hall will pay for what they’ve done, and they’ll pass a law cutting through the bonds of alley-based prejudice as swift as a Jonathan Crompton pass through your secondary. Until that day, though: don’t let the bastards grind you down, warrior.

Oh, make fun of them if you like. That’s genuine affection, the kind you would feel for another man if you weren’t secretly afraid that you would get close and want to feel his rough stubble on your neck, his strong hands caressing your back, his muscular thighs grasping the horse you’re both riding through wine country, the…um…we’re sorry. You were saying?