Ohhh, fine. Just fine.

(If anyone’s intrigued by this combination of football and girls in chaps, and would like more information, here you go.)

Hey, kids. If you’re reading this, it’s because we were in the emergency room all night getting a pesky couple of broken transverse processes of the L1 and L2 lumbar vertebrae taken care of by the fine medical professionals at Emory Hospital. You ever had Dilaudid? It’s like morphine, but with robot arms, a trust fund, and a horrendous gambling problem. We met last night.

Play me off for 6-8 weeks, Keyboard Cat.

No permanent or lasting damage, as the piece of angry, disunited bones in my back aren’t load bearing. They do hurt like I swallowed a plugged-in soldering gun, which is why I’m waking up in a few hours to dust off some more delicious, nutritious Percocet.

Thanks to all the well-wishers on Twitter and Facebook. (Our phone doesn’t work, as the iPhone battery died last night, too.) It’s pill and sleep time, and we’ll see what “we” feel like tomorrow.

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

Drink.

Holly: Aviation Gin. They say: “With its full and weighty mouth feel, regionally inspired flavors of earth and spice, and a uniquely cool finish, Aviation is a rare expression of gin that shines both on its own and in one of a large number of resurrected and modern culinary cocktails colliding with ice and tin on the insides of Boston Shakers at discerning cocktail bars around the world.” I say: Aviation tastes like it’s crushed from juniper berries plucked from the titty of a naked angel of God. (I don’t know why the angel is sprouting things in this particular scenario, but this is the kind of hyperbolic bliss Aviation drives me into. Also, it renders the drinker completely comfortable with ending sentences with prepositions.)

Orson: The Harrier. God, we feel so ready to put on a pith helmet and oppress people when we drink this, and we mean that in the kindest, most polite and thorough way possible: the British way. (more…)

Orson: Enemies of the State—EDSBS needs them for 2009. We will split the votes for Lane Kiffin and Urban between the two of us and run for common foes, okay?

Holly: I was just thinking about this the other day—with Nate Longshore and JPW gone, I need new punching bags. I assume we are taking Crompton and Bill Stewart in some sort of special category reserved for me. Like a playpen.

Orson: Of course. It’ll work like Federal versus State here. You’re a state.

Holly Anderson: I’m a commonwealth, beetch. First nominee: Bob Davie for crimes against the English language.
Exhibit A: “Will Muskamp.”

Orson: Actually, I’ve come to like the word “FOOTBAW”

Holly: Let that be his legacy. After he’s dead. Because we killt him. Number two: Petrino. (more…)

Who’s that guy screaming into my tight Sam Bradford rap? We tryin’ to spit some fire here. Hold on, lemme get that tight “Get Low” sample in here.

[crackle]OF THE YEAR!![/crackle]

DAMMIT!!! I’m trying to spit game! Where the hell’z that comin’ from?

They’ll never see that “Throw” and “Sco’” rhyme comin’. It’ll go BAM!!! like Jason White’s knee. Either of them, mayun.

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

We sat down for an interview with Mark Richt. Or maybe we didn’t. Anyway, there’s little point in doing it for the purposes of a hit piece, because he’s a terrible target, as the following script suggests, unlike targeting many of the fatuous ignoramuses who root for Georgia, which is like shooting a cow stuffed into a barrel.

Orson: Thanks for joining me, Coach Richt. Not that I’m happy about it.

Mark Richt: No problem. I’m happy either way. Excuse me, I have to put away these photos of my trip visiting troops in Afghanistan this offseason. Such inspiring bravery and commitment, you know?

Orson: No problem. First, Coach Richt: what’s it like to suck so much?

Mark Richt: That’s funny, Orson. I’m actually 79-20 as a head coach, have two SEC titles, and was a successful coordinator at Florida State. I don’t know if suck is the right word.

Orson: Ha! There you go again with…um…numbers. (more…)

Really? Yes? This is happening? He saddles up: shoulder pads, kneebrace, helmet. He reviews his playbook, the script for the first fifteen plays, and takes a quiet knee to collect his thoughts and ask God for protection and the wisdom to make the right decisions on the field. He rises, and the click-clack of his cleats against the concrete floor are his metronome: the symphony is about to begin.

He takes the stand, a conductor in full possession of his powers. Assmann, ready to go.

Capital quarterback Marty Assmann and Ohio State backup quarterback Todd Boeckman are total strangers, but they should do lunch sometime. Chances are the conversation wouldn’t have to start with the weather.

The conversation would probably begin: “Holy shit! You’re name is ASSMANN? YES!!! (fistpump/awkwardmoment)” Because his name really is Assmann, and he plays quarterback for Capital University, a D-III Evangelical Lutheran school in the suburbs of Columbus, Ohio. Assmann is the second-leading passer in the Ohio Athletic Conference, and is totally and completely actually named Assmann.

Capital University, if you make the jersey, we will buy it…so long as it’s made with the Original Assmann Quality we’ve come to expect from all things Assmann. You don’t want to ruin a fine name like that. Like Assmann. Assmann. (Giggle.)

How did your Saturday go? Get some laundry done? Watch your team sputter for three quarters before waking up and going for the balls in the fourth quarter? Get caught in a class 2 sex act on national television during the Texas/UTEP game? You did? We think we saw that. (Warning: video shows no nudity, but instead just a blurry, suggestive motion of immense humorous content. Nevertheless, viewer discretion is advised.)

This video represents the greatest amount of fun anyone has ever had with a Bob Davie football-related event, though you wouldn’t know it from the guy’s relatively impassive face. Footbaw! (HT: Dave.)

The sexiest football coach in all the game is Alvin Wyatt, the father of the Wyattbone offense and noted exemplar of the philosophy that stuntin’ is not a talent, but instead a habit instilled by hard work and the choice of only the finest African-American menswear from 1974.

Backstabbers…BACKSTAAABAAAARS!!!

How does Alvin Wyatt afford such fine threads on a Bethune-Cookman salary? Without raiding George Benson’s closet? And on top of the Caddy bill? Easy. He lives in the dorm with his players.