Credit goes to two people for this find: commenter hunglikehussain, and the Auburner, who went to the trouble of capturing Tommy Tuberville’s epic performance in a Golden Flake commercial that suggests Auburn football players run fast because someone is beckoning them towards an open bag of Golden Flake potato chips. (For the record: in certain cases, we believe this could be completely true, as in the case of Kenny or David Irons.)

Mesmerizing! Tommy Tuberville doesn’t even have to be in the same moment and place to hypnotize you with a bag of potato chips: all he need do is call, and you will hear his plea from across space and time.

P.S. Just because we’re having fun with Sir Charles today over at the Sporting Blog, a few Auburn relevant quotes from barkleyquotes.com that should convince you not only that Charles is one of the great bon vivants of our time, but also confirm any and all stereotypes about SEC and Auburn athletes and academics:

“When I was recruited at Auburn [university], they took me to a strip joint. When I saw those titties on Buffy, I knew that Auburn met my academic requirements.”

Those titties. An area of study no young male college student can fail to appreciate.

We’ll just summarize every Georgia fan’s retort to anything ever said during the current streak of Gator dominance of the Georgia football game:

Jean shorts Robert Edwards still leading series Lindsay Scott Buck Belue Spurrier gay mullet!

With that out of the way, we re-present Reggie Nelson scaring Mohammed Massaquoi onto the ground. Sit, Mo, sit! Good dog.

Boobs, or the worst song ever recorded: choose the right, reader.

Agenda:

1. Drive to Gainesville

2. DRINK. KILL. GLORY.

3. Come home in time for EDSBS Live on Sunday.

Enjoy your weekend and root for Florida. The choice is yours: root for the Gators, and you root for boobs on the internet. Root for Tennessee, and you get us singing “Rocky Top.” And no one wins there.

See below for details.

me: I, Orson Swindle, being of mind and body, do promise to record a version of “Rocky Top” upon the event of a loss to the Tennessee Volunteers for the Florida Gators football team on Saturday.

The resulting carnage will be photographed, and made available to the internets, within three days of the game. (more…)

It’s Hate week 3.0 on EDSBS, meaning that we play Tennessee on Saturday, and can’t sleep for the bloodrage we’re working up prior to the game. Join us and make INGSOC triumphant.

We give you chapter two of the Chairman’s manual with Reasons 1-25 Florida Rules and Tennessee Sucks Forever. Because they do, indeed, suck forever, sometimes as a football team, sometimes as a state, but most pleasingly to the Florida fan, when they suck together all at the same time in one sorrowful, audible slurp.

1. Tennessee is shaped like a parallelogram. Florida, however, is “America’s Wang.” And where would America be without its wang?

2. Florida great Steve Spurrier is a Volunteer State exile (Johnson City), meaning that the greatest coach ever born in Tennessee ran screaming from it the first chance he got, and never came back. There’s no humor there. It just really sucks for you, Vol fan, and makes us warm and happy inside.

3. Even after thirty years of government interdiction, Florida’s still putting the yayo on your glass coffee tables in piles, America. You’re welcome (sniff).

4. We gave you Creed in order to make you feel good about your own life in a fun way, as in “I’m not Scott Stapp, and that’s great, really.” Nashville gives you music to help you justify your sad, tobacco-stained penniless existence, prole…um, we mean ain’t it great scraping by on 22K with three kids in a place with terrible public schools! WOOOO!!! VOTE PAPPY FOR GUVNAH!!!

5. Our coach has won a championship in the 21st century. (more…)

Our daily affirmation salutes the adventurous soul of our rivals’ qb, the Baby Sex Cannon, the one and only Matt Stafford…known to some as the cuddly “Big Spoon.” (See here in case you are one of the three people who don’t know where that pic came from, ‘k thx?)

We’ve eaten some really, really ill-advised concoctions in our time. A cole slaw burrito. A steak, bacon, egg, and chicken biscuit from Mrs. Winner’s. Once, on a dare, we scarfed down a half-eaten burrito off the bottom of a bus tub while working as a bus boy one summer–after breaking out into a rash of boils, losing consciousness for three days, and forgetting everything that had happened during the month before the incident, we recovered and haven’t been sick since.

We don’t think that with a wife and a dog, we could eat the deadliest catch of all football tailgate foods, brought to us by Run Up The Score: the deep-fried White Castle cheeseburger.

My god, man. Do you want to die?

By mighty Bacharach’s Piano Keys! You should go do something else with a similar danger rating, like playing Russian roulette, or taunting an angry Jon Lovitz, for example. If these existed in Australia, Steve Irwin would have been killed by one. If they were African, mythical oral histories would surround them. If these existed in Tennessee…well, they will, in a matter of minutes, we’re guessing, so scratch that. Someone’s running at a dead sprint to a deep fryer as we speak.

Without coaching a game yet, Gene Chizik has caused a frenzy in global currency markets unseen since the advent of Chiang Kai-Shek’s Golden Yuan: the Chizik-Nickel, or as speculators are already calling it, the “Chickel.” (HT: Keosahawkeye.)

Yours for only $15, the Chickel commemorates the upcoming 2007 season by putting Chizik in profile on antique gold. Looking at the picture, we’ve never noticed what a striking similarity there is between Coach Chizik and Chief Sitting Bull, were one to cut his hair and place him in a three-piece suit.

As compared to other coach-emblazoned swag, it’s impressive. For example, this completely kicks the ass of the [NAME REDACTED] seat cushions they handed out two years ago at Illinois. They were unpopular with reason, however, as they tended to get soft and give out somewhere around the early fourth quarter.

We’ll have some actual content up in a moment. Please, for the moment, accept the wonder that is Alabama’s Magic Man, rocking out here to Laid Back’s classic “White Horse.” He points! He smiles! He displays the best crotch grab we’ve seen in Tuscaloosa since Mike Dubose’s!

The yellow caution tape? That’s to keep his sexiness from stunning you cold.

Florida International University has in its brief football history accomplished one thing: fielding the baddest ass brawler ever, the indomitable A’Mod Ned, who took the field in the middle of the 2006 Lamar Thomas Invitational Brawl on crutches to get his teammate’s back.

Florida International has now added a new line to their resume as a program of esteem and worth: putting on the greatest single spread of pork seen in South Florida since Connie Mack the third was in office. From El Herald:

The ambience — which included complimentary food featuring six roasted pigs, a sale of retro FIU athletic uniforms and gear and the unveiling of the new football stadium design — didn’t disappoint the crowd.

”I have never seen an atmosphere like this at any previous FIU event with the exception of the inaugural football game in 2002,” FIU radio broadcaster Jerry Del Castillo said. “These fans are really soaking up the changes to this football program.”

Hold on…let’s crack out the red pen, Deadspin commenter-style.

“‘These fans are really soaking up the changes to this football program all the greasy, delicious, heart-destroying porkfat they possibly can in 25 minutes without foundering like sick mules.‘”

There! So much better, and likely more accurate. Free pig and all, FIU turned out just 2,500 for their spring scrimmage, approximately the same number as those who volunteered to die if necessary to make Nick Saban the next governor of Alabama that same afternoon on Saturday in Tuscaloosa, bayonets and tear gas be damned.

If you were to attempt the wave at your spring game, after great effort you might get a feeble ripple going two-thirds of the way around the stadium before it petered out in the bald patch of seats in the north endzone. And that’s if you’re lucky enough to get a good 30K to your game.

The wave at Alabama’s spring game looks like this:

Ninety-five! I tooooooooooold yuh! The guy overheard in the video overshoots the actual attendance number by a bit less than three thousand: 92,138 fans showed up to A-Day, Alabama’s spring game, this past Saturday. (Alabama, math, insert joke here.) And look around the stands–these weren’t ne’er-do-wells and collegians loafing in the sun for free and paying lackadaisical attention to the events on the field. There’s grown-ass men in full Alabama garb who likely brought the barbecue, the Direct TV dish, the backup mustache…the whole kit and caboodle.

This was no accident, people. Todd Jones of Roll Bama Roll talked to us on Saturday Night immediately after the game, sounding sun-blasted, tired, and quite happy despite the crowd making more news than the vanilla offense/defense on display on the field.

MP3 File

One thing mentioned in the interview we’ll repeat here is that Saban made fashion news by bringing starchy back to the SEC, appearing in the sweltering heat wearing a grey suit and red tie. We heartily encourage this move toward more idiosyncratic vintage coaching wear, especially because it means Urban’s going to be coaching in Bike-brand coach shorts, high white socks, and wearing Woody Hayes horn rims with a shiny metal whistle around his neck if the trend continues. And that would rule.

We cheat somewhat by mixing a video of abundant, Univision-approved Brazilian cheesecake with humor for our Friday cheesecake this week. It has more jiggle than you’ll likely need for the cheesecake fix, including a majestic cheek-shaking slomo bit with a club dancer. However it also contains the following, cerebrum-knotting elements:

1. The current governor of California making hand-goggles over his eyes at a dancer’s ass.

2. The current governor of California shoving a carrot stick fellatiously in and out of a woman’s mouth.

3. The current governor of California dancing the samba with a rhythm only describable as “Teutonic.”

4. The current governor of California dancing in Carnival garb and molesting helpless dancing girls.

5. The current governor of California saying this:

You know something, after watching the mulattos shake it, I can totally understand why Brazilians are absolutely devoted to their favorite body part: the ass…

and…

Bunda. I like the bunda.

Watch. Learn. Stand in awe. Arnold Schwarzenegger in Rio, 1983:

The bunda. I like the bunda.

Forget that they were the town that once banned a Robert Mappelthorpe exhibit: Cincinnati is just as kinky as any other town in the United States (except for Boise–if you only knew how saddle-sore you can get in Potatotown without ever getting on a horse. HA-ha: numb chundles.)

Their erotic Q rating is enjoying a tumescence lately thanks to University of Cincinnati and their football recruits, who engaged in a totally-not-gay group sex encounter involving current Bearcat football players, recruits, and one brave former female soccer player who played the sexual corollary to Poland in multiple, videotaped acts of sexual European geopolitics. This means she was taken by one power, screwed by another, then thrown back and forth between multiples until she was spent and useless. Being Poland sucks historically, unless we’re talking in sexual metaphors. Then it just might be your kind of thing.

Don’t forget Poland here.

The quote from Cincinnati head coach Brian Kelly:

If anything of the nature described in the allegations did occur, Kelly said, “It’s absolutely inappropriate behavior, period. End of discussion. … That is pretty standard relative to student conduct or even appropriate human-being conduct.”

If the videotape gets out–um, harumphharumph of the yahoo variety if you have a copy–Cincinnati could end up making Colorado’s hookers ‘n cash recruiting strategy of the Gary Barnett era look pretty-kitty tame. It could be worse, though. If Bob Huggins were still coaching there, he would have been the one in the tape visibly hammered and making fierce, drunken, and confused love to a Honeybaked Ham over in the corner.

The promo machine in Tempe cranks it up for the arrival of Dennis Erickson with the marketeer’s weapon of last resort: the door hanger. (HT: The immortal CliffX.)

Valuable Coupons On Back!!! Of course there are, but not the kind we’d expect from college football’s original prototypical piratecoach. No twofers for shots at Grizzlebee’s? No free app with your third birdbath margarita at Don Taco’s? No commission-free bail bonds for ASU ticket holders? No discounted jumbo containers of Anderson Cooper Silver Fox Hair Dye for the Mature Sexy Beastâ„¢ at the local Walgreen’s? The lack of synergy and Erickson branding is simply inexcusable, marketeers.

We’re disappointed, Arizona State. You may as well have used our favorite picture of Dennis Erickson ever–in fact, feel free to take it. It’s him loaded after 18 holes of golf in Hawaii driving his golf cart into a volcano. You just know he’d live to tell about it–anyone who coached the 1990 Miami Hurricanes can live through anything.

ASU Football–if it doesn’t work out, we’ll make Dennis Erickson drive a golf cart into a volcano.

Clay Travis would, in the unchecked world of evolutionary competition, be gone long before you, dear reader. Why? Because he voted Ole Miss women the most attractive in a ranking of SEC women, a judgement call to be sure that in and of itself bears no animus towards this blog.

Unfortunately, he ranked Florida’s women next to last, just above the fine farm girls from Mississippi State. In this unfortunate oversight, Clay has overlooked not only the basic tenets of research design, but has made a crucial error in his basic understanding of evolution and mating strategies that could endanger his reader. There are dangers out there, men. This article is a warning about them.

You see, Clay would die in the wild, and his offspring–should they ever be born–would be eaten by wolves and birds of prey. In the ages-old interplay between male and female, Clay would certainly be a pawn–or perhaps just a mere checker–becoming both slave and feast for his masterful mate. Picking Ole Miss makes this all too apparent.

Explanation of the steps used to trap Darwin’s fools in the dating process follow:

1. Excessive use of camouflage. Ole Miss women certainly fit a very common understanding of attractiveness: heavily mascaraed, blushed, and lipsticked into perfection. Beware wearing of dark blazers or other clothing around them; a direct hit with their face, or even a slight brush, will cover your finery with synthetic fat-infused cosmetics. Also comes off on your face when you’re kissing them, which sucks, especially if–in true collegiate fashion–you’re doing it behind someone’s back. Lipstick has killed as many men as the French Pox, men. This is something you must not forget.

Does makeup mean a no-go? Certainly not. Most women wear to shut other women up. But beware the perfect storm of feminine wile: like wasps who waste valuable hours of their lives mating with orchids that look like female wasps, so too do men blow valuable decades married to the cunning and stunning.

Look closer: there’s a tiny sorority sweater on that mantis.

2. Saccharine overtures.

Also beware the saccharine gesture disguising the devil’s contract. Such gestures are really a code, unknown for generations and brought back for us by our network of spies. Remember: many bachelor spies’ best years died for this information.

Unwitting, doomed male: “Hey, you wanna go out sometime?”

Male to English translation: “God, your boobs are big. And you’ve got on makeup and coordinated clothing? It’s gonna be so much fun touching your boobs!!! You smell of wealth and sex and bein’ together and stuff. Boobs.”

Ole Miss Woman of the Old South Variety: “Whaaaayyyy, that sounds nice. Whut taaaime?”

Female to English. “I have chosen you to be my potential mate, young meatling. You will be administered a series of tasks, many of which you will fail. This happens by design, since my father, Bucksley MacAllister the Fourth, is the paragon of all that is masculine and perfect for me, and will always be. The grave will only enhance his stature in my mind, so don’t count on death eliminating the problem, sucker.

And yet a wedding will occur. And you, you will either pick up a professional degree of some sort or go to work in my father’s business. And all you do–we mean all–will come to dust, since it will all pale to the shining Barbie House Daddy has built for me. I will bear offspring, yes; but the sex will end. I’ll still wear the makeup–it wasn’t for you, anyway, but the lifelong siege campaign against other women I’m engaged in–but when I do have sex, don’t ask for head. It messes up the lipstick.

In exchange, I will let you crawl into a bottle of bourbon and commit a thirty-year suicide. We will only come to life on Saturdays, where we may root for the same football team, part of the elaborate trap that will end with you spending every offseason Saturday in a stinking duck blind to get away from me and every Sunday on your knees praying for death.

Oh, maahhh, I DO carry on sometimes..

3. Daddy. If at any point she actually refers to her father as Daddy, flee the scene immediately. Remember, if necessary make a Batman-style exit with smoke grenade if necessary. If there’s a cliff, leap. You’re saving yourself trouble in the long run, trust us.

One way to end the problem, sure.