The World’s Largest Outdoor Coke Orgy will feature even more “safety zones” this year to help not just students, but anyone at all escape the carnage, cannibalism, random baby-punching, and wholesale slaughter commonplace at the Coke Orgy, where three people have died in the last ten years.* From the AJC:

The five “sideline student safety zones” outside the stadium are places where fans can get help — any kind of help. “Maybe their phone has died or they’ve lost their group or they need directions or they need to take a nap. We have a bevy of services available,” Langston said.

If the the safety zones are truly “safety zones,” then the organizers of the Coke Orgy have done the worst thing they could have possibly done: turned the rest of the event into one huge DANGER ZONE. There’s only one acceptable way to get to said DANGERZONE, and that is running one step ahead of the DANGER ZONE’S most initimidating resident, GALACTOHOCKEYBEAR.

Be sure to stay in front of him if you do make it, because falling behind him was the Moon’s first mistake.

*We bet three people have died at the Kroger closest to our house in the past decade. Most likely in the dog food aisle, because there’s no cell reception in that part of the store and it would be easy to get lost and stranded.

The Alphabetical is up and running over at SBNation. Inspect it in all its semi-coherent glory, since it took unusually long on very little sleep to produce. No, no. No lingering effects from Las Vegas whatsoever besides a hacking cough, 200 bucks in winning, and the inability to type any faster than fifty words a minute in between long stretches of staring at the screen blankly.

We now think, in retrospect, that David Hasselhoff handled that moment quite well. We woke up with an olive stuck in our chest hair on Sunday after destroying a tuna nicoise sandwich in a sleep-deprived moment the previous evening. This is why you eat with a shirt on, kids, even when you’re drunk. A manpelt is NOT a takeout container.

The underworld holds a certain romance for some people. We do not mean the criminal underworld, but instead the literal one, like the one depicted in Jean-Luc Besson’s movie Subway, where Besson took Jean Reno and made the poor man wear an Outback hat and safari suit while playing in the worst “rock music as the French imagined rock music in the 80s, and we don’t mean Stereolab.” It’s a moment of extreme cruelty, and the sensitive may want to shield their eyes.

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.

This is so wonderful you’ll have to click over to see it, but TNIAAM goes far toward proving that blogging about a bad football team is usually far more entertaining than blogging about a good football team. Or, failing that, blogging about football players doing stupid things against the laws of most municipalities, states, nations, and common sense in general.

Segway! Segue! Thing transitioning you from one topic to another!

LAST MINUTE FULMER CUPDATES

Gary Pinkel will send you to hell, child. “Future Chase Daniel” Blaine Dalton now becomes “future D-11 quarterback” with his dismissal from Missouri for an on-campus DWI. The incident is the second incident for Dalton, who was charged with driving with an open container earlier this summer. He also had a third incident where no charges were filed when pills belonging to a friend were found in his car, so three made a trend for Pinkel, who gave his qb of the future the boot from campus. (Soft boot or hard boot remains to be seen; he may be able to get back on the team with good behavior and time, but DWI with no style points (i.e. hitting a donkey, ridiculously high BAC, etc.) gets you two points in the Fulmer Cup.

Stealing Georgia’s thunder already. Oklahoma State is already attempting to pre-empt Georgia scoring, and is doing it by biting their style, too: senior DB Perrish Cox pulled a page from the Bulldog playbook by picking up a measly one-point suspended license charge in Stillwater. Let us congratulate the Dawgs, btw, on an offseason free of license-related foolishness or other driving charges. Either they hired the driving paperwork coordinator we’d always said they needed, or more likely than not someone performed an exorcism to rid the roads of the spirit of Mudcat Elmore’s car. For the 20 Georgia fans who got that reference: you’re welcome.

The Fulmer Cup ends at noon on Wednesday. If anyone’s going to rob a bank or pistol-whip an elephant, now’s the time to do these things.

This will be this year’s final installment of Spicy Livin’, as real, actual, smashy football returns in several short days and will occupy our every thought and action. Also, to help give ourselves a proper extended sendoff, we welcome guest Viking Doug Gillett.

Today’s patron saint is Hugh Millais, who died earlier this month at the age of 79.

For why you should care, we refer to his Telegraph obituary:

The great-grandson of the Pre-Raphaelite painter Sir John Everett Millais, Bt, Hugh Geoffroy Millais was born on December 23 1929. Bereft of artistic talent, as a small boy he was taken ferreting by his father, and was going to shoots throughout the country with his .410 shotgun at the age of eight.
[...]
His Irish-Canadian mother next sent him off to gain some discipline as a Mountie. Instead he obtained a job covering the city’s mortuaries for the Montreal Star and took in a lodger, the singer Josh White, who offered no rent but taught him to play the calypso guitar. When they parted company Millais, like many an Englishman in wintry Montreal before and since, longed for warmth; so he hitchhiked to South America. In Mexico he contracted a brief first marriage and enrolled in a philosophy course conducted in Latin while earning extra money driving two bullfighters around in their Hispano-Suiza.

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EDSBS Live!, the unfiltered, slightly scripted, and altogether amateur cocktail hour for the masses, returns tonight at 9:00 p.m. This means you need to stop by the liquor store on the way home, and do so with some seriousness.

This marks the return of our four questions format for callers. This week’s menu focuses on ACTUAL FOOTBALL BY DAMN, and on the games of our first week of college football.

1. Who will get the Flamenco Upset of week one? You know, the exotic rhythms of an upset a la Boise State/Oregon 2008, who rematch on the Smurf Turf in week one?

2. What is the Game of Most Importance? The answer may be for sheer spectacle the VT/Alabama game, but given the low-wattage offensive potential, the UGA/OSU game may end up being far more watchable. Neither has long-term conference implications, however, so think along those lines: which games will end up meaning more down the road?

3. Will you, brave East Coaster, stay up for the entirety of the Oregon/Boise State game? And if so, STIMULANT CHECK! Our zoinkfuel of choice will be a quadruple latte consumed sometime around 5:30 p.m. The only downside is when your wife has to get out the flashlight and pull you out of your crawlspace at 7 a.m. when you’re holed up with 80 gallons of freshwater and MREs and waiting for “the vengeance of the God who comes.”

4. Essential viewing item for in-game viewing. Blue Diamond Smokehouse Almonds. We could pour liquid smoke and salt directly into our mouths, but then we’d miss the possibility of consuming eight hundred calories in three minutes. Only the small can, or otherwise you’ll hit the big can like an addict hits a tub of percocet, and then shit like a woodchipper at full roar for two days. Come near them, and we will gut you.

We’ll post the link to the chat forum and broadcast at the EOB here.

This week’s update brought to you by Brian, whose mighty bait ‘n tackle could dig the Euphrates River Valley as Enkidu’s once did, or as Reggie Nelson’s certainly could if it weren’t already busy slapping bitches dead in the NFL. The home stretch means sirens, people. Two of ‘em, actually.

South Carolina, What! South Carolina Gamecocks defensive end Clifton Geathers went to Club Ice early Sunday Morning. Why? Because Club Ice is on Lady Street, and that’s where ladies are. (That is a real photo from Club Ice, btw, and a reminder that though you may look drunk in a photo, you will look eight hundred times more drunk with redeye.)

Then Clifton Geathers got hero-drunk and did what heroes do when they’re drunk: he looked for a dragon to slay, or failing that, a security detail to scuffle with as a 6′8″, 281 pound man. EPIC MUGSHOT WIN after the jump: (more…)

Today’s Patron Saint of Spicy Living: Fela Kuti. The Nigerian musician who founded the Afro-funk movement, Kuti did everything you’ve hoped and dreamed of doing, but were simply too chickenshit to try. He dropped out of med school to pursue music, declared his own independent country called the Kalakuta republic, turned 25 minute long jams into hit singles, often performed only in his underwear, married 27 women in one year alone but only keeping 12 on a regular rotation, and pissed off the military dictatorship of Nigeria so badly they burned down his mini-republic, beat him to a pulp, threw his grandmother out a window, and later charged him with currency smuggling.

Throw in a lifelong habit of being constantly high, fathering a veritable Afro-orchestra sized passel of children, renaming himself Anikulapo (”he who carries death in his pouch,”) and the occasional time spent running from the law before a premature death (falling dick-first into HIV,) and Fela Kuti was Ol’ Dirty Bastard before ODB was so much as a ranting glint in his father’s eye, but with a much bigger backup band, a saxophone, and a convenient and extremely nasty villain to rant against in the Nigerian government. Not many are spicy enough to go into battle clad only in a pair of bikini briefs and carrying only a microphone and a joint the size of a baseball bat, but Fela was peppery enough for several lifetimes. Cheers, Fela.

Drink.

Holly: I’m making a triumphant return to civilization in a couple weeks, (more…)

A few Fulmer Cupdates from the hot August home stretch on the Fulmer Cup beat. A reminder: the final day of the competition will be September 1st, with all points becoming null and void at noon. The traditional Fulmer Cup Amnesty Day of September 2nd will be observed in concert with Football’s Eve, so if you know someone looking for a day when their offenses will neither be tallied in points or reported as in-season shame, this is the day to do it. The current standings are here, but a full EDSBS Scoreboard will be up on Friday.

To the awarding of the points:

–Penn State has two boozy outstanding cases pending. Senior lineman Ako Poti decided to go-cart drunk, and substituted the go-cart portion with a car, which is illegal in all states everywhere. (Except for Arkansas, where it’s termed “breezy ridin’,” and punishable by a stern talkin’ to by the local sheriff.) Poti blew somewhere between a .10 and a .16, a formidable sum for a huge man and worthy of two points for standard and unexceptional DUI.

Penn State gets no points for recruit Glenn Carson’s drunk and disorderly, as he was not an early enrollee or on the team at the time of his arrest. He does get an appreciative nod from Joaquin Phoenix, who only hopes Carson belted out a response of “MONEY!!!” when asked any questions by the police.

–Occasional Fulmer Cup contributor Ohio University gives us nothing as grandiose as Frank Solich’s mickey-fueled DUI arrest or the punching of a police horse, but the theft of two laptops will give you four points in the Fulmer Cup: one for the misdemeanor plea deal Travis Carrie took, and three for the felony charges on the books for Corey Moncrief. Moncrief is also planning to major in criminal justice, and seems to be failing the fieldwork portion. Ironic juxtaposition, bitches! (HT: DevilGrad.)

A goodly number of our past Patron Saints have been hard-drinkin’, poon-houndin’ actors who have played bank robbers or secret agents or what have you. This week’s Saint, Ian Fleming, has the added cred of having been a secret agent: Years before he commenced the writing of the James Bond novel series, Fleming was handpicked by the Royal Navy’s director of intelligence to be his personal assistant, and spent much of World War II planning covert operations before taking control of the elite 30 Assault Unit commando force in 1944. According to Wikipedia, “30AU” specialized in

targeting enemy headquarters to secure documentation and items of equipment with an intelligence value that the ordinary Allied soldier, or even commando, might ignore or even destroy. They trained in lock picking, safe cracking, unarmed combat, and general techniques and skills for collecting intelligence. The unit contained some of the most “gung-ho” operatives in the commandos. . . . [B]ecause of their successes in Sicily and Italy, 30AU (based at the The Marine Hotel Littlehampton, West Sussex, now a public house and venue for the annual reunion of the 30AU veterans) became greatly trusted by naval intelligence. Having seen the scope of its achievements and its potential, with the right support and the right direction, to deliver even more, the unit was much enlarged and it was given direct tasks: specific items and documents to acquire. Fleming was the man who would give these specific directives.

After the war, Fleming spun his experiences with 30AU and naval intelligence into the Bond series, which him earned enough money to retire to his Jamaican estate in the late 1950s. At “Goldeneye,” named after one of the operations he’d planned with the Royal Navy, Fleming engaged in pretty much the same behavior you would if you’d written an incredibly famous series of spy novels and had carved out a little slice of Jamaica all for yourself:

“I have always smoked and drunk and loved too much. In fact I have lived not too long but too much. One day the Iron Crab will get me. Then I shall have died of living too much.”

The “Iron Crab,” whatever the hell that is, did get him at the age of 54, but not before he’d married the widow of a baron, achieved the rank of Commander in the Royal Navy, and written 14 Bond novels and “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.” One hundred cocktails at Boodle’s to you, sir, wherever you are.

Onward:

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