Men! Lou Holtz, in case you have not noticed, has tremendous hands, albino tarantulas that flap at the end of his wrists like meaty windmills during the dialogue. Here is he stating that LSU has won “two national titles in the past ten years.” Lou Holtz, in addition to being ape-handed, is also bad at fractions.

Lou Holtz also insisted last night the Tim Tebow Towel is too small to properly shower with, a matter of personal opinion, since Dr. Lou likes to really luxuriate in his baths and then emerge, pink and pruny like a great, giant-handed infant, into the warm embrace of a fluffy bathrobe and towel whipped around his head lady-style. Actually, we’re imagining this right now, and he looks like our grandmother did padding around the kitchen in the morning. She’s dead now, but unlike Lou, she did not rely on steady injections of fetal bone marrow for survival.

Lou Holtz carries around a deck of cards. Of course he does. First, he does the whole deck as pushups depending on the card like the guys in Generation Kill. Keeps the manboobs perky and the ladies sweating. Second, he likes to hook rubes in backalley games of three-card-monte. You’re laughing until you saw the safe house it bought for him in Guadalajara, so don’t snicker, sonny boy. Third, he keeps the ace of spades for himself, because if you like to gamble, we tell you Lou’s your man, you win some, lose some, it’s all the same to him.

AND NOW CARDS RAIN FROM THE SKY. Thanks, dick. Someone’s got to pick those up now. Also, it’s a great idea to remind players just how badly a team beat you last year just prior to walking out. These men played you last year like grown professionals cockslapping a team of Pop Warner brats who just ran out of juiceboxes. In most states it would have qualified as a sex crime and an assault, but in Florida that’s considered foreplay. I’m sure that will change tomorrow. LET’S GO.

Sometimes it takes years to realize someone’s insanity. You know someone for years, interacting with them on a daily basis for months on end, and never suspect it until one day a third party says “You know she’s never forgiven you for not writing a thank you card.” And you think, “Really? For a Starbucks’ gift card for my birthday? The spoken thank you wasn’t enough?” Then, from that point on, you move around them like they’re seconds from stabbing you with the nearest sharpest implement, because their inner crazy has been unveiled in all its glory for you to see, and you can never sit in peace with them for longer than a careless instant ever again.

Some people hide it for years. Lou Holtz, unleashed in front of a camera in a hypothetical dramatic roleplaying situation, takes about 16 seconds to unveil his. In that sense he may be the most honest man on television. He can’t even hide the hideous bandaid he has on his gigantic index finger, the one he waggles at the camera when he really wants to make a point. The three gestures Lou Holtz relies on:

1. Finger-wag.

2. Double Karate Chop (hands six inches apart)

3. Arms Spread Wide for emphasis (aka the Fuck You I’m An Anteater Pose.)

Holtz finishes the segment by flubbing Les Miles’ “Have a Great Day” motto from his 2007 SEC Championship presser by saying “Have a nice day,” which only accentuates the loopy, insane charm of a Lou Holtz pep talk. He had to screw that up, almost as surely as he cut the tip of his index finger on a meat-cutter in his weekday job at a Deli Counter Worker at Kroger. You never know where your next meal is coming from, and that something Lou learned the hard way during the Boxer Rebellion. “Oh, those Koreans. Such passionate, easily riled people!”

Syracuse @ #7 Penn State

Orson: Greg Paulus IS Ed Norton IN The Score. Maybe you don’t remember this movie, but you might remember the most memorable line from its turbulent making when Marlon Brando, his cheeks stuffed with raw ground beef and Fritos, told Frank Oz “I bet you wish I was a puppet so you could stick your hand up my ass and make me do what I want.” Doug Marrone certainly wishes this were true of Paulus, who will be starting his second game after fleeing his puppeteers and going disastrously freelance with an overtime pick against Minnesota. Marrone would even forgo the sterile sleeve and just shove his hand right up the old chow-slough–for that personal touch–if it meant a risk-averse performance from Paulus/Norton, but even that and another solid performance by Syracuse’s suddenly feisty defense can’t prevent Paterno/DeNiro from using the youngster’s worst instincts to his advantage. Like the movie, the old man hoodwinks Syracuse out of a close victory. The similarities don’t end there, either, as both movie and game will suck just a little bit to watch.

Fresno State @ Wisconsin

Holly: Bret Bielema IS Ray Nicolette IN Out of Sight. This game will feature, in no particular order: Offensive ineptitude, defensive ineptitude, fratty assholes in law enforcement shirts, and probably won’t end without somebody’s ass getting locked in a trunk. Wisconsin is favored by 8.5 here, which is awfully generous for a team that had to “rally” to “beat” “Northern Illinois”. Calling the upset today: Methheads West over Methheads Midwest. The real winner? Whoever’s showing a game on a competing network.

Orson: Pat Hill IS Clive Owen IN Closer. Oh, it may be ugly. You might go flirt with someone else for a while, victory, but ultimately you’ll outfox the younger, more privileged contender for your affections and bring you back on your knees, both because you don’t care how ugly it looks as long as you win. Now touch your toes to the floor, bitch, and do it in front of 70,000 blind-drunk Wisconsin fans. Yeaaaah, that’s how Pat Hill likes it. Bret Bielema realizes at the end that the girl he was chasing all along was never really his all along, and by that we mean the Wisconsin program will dye its hair and move to New York City to become a high-class call girl to the stars WHAA–

Iowa @ Iowa State

Holly: Kirk Ferentz IS Melanie Wilkes IN Gone with the Wind. Everybody thinks you’re soooo gorgeous and delicately boned, Ferentz, when you’re really just a sickly layabout with a bitch mentality. Hey, remember that time you needed two blocked field goals to beat Northern Iowa? Because it was LAST WEEK, and surpassed only by the Navy-Ohio State game for irritating and undeserved finishes that left the Big Ten at 10-1. What the hell, let’s call an upset here too. Like the Hawkeye staff putting a gameplan together, we’ll just think about it tomorrow.

Orson: Austen Arnaud IS John Candy in SUMMER RENTAL. No physical similarities except for their sparkling eyes and large calves. The semantic similarities, however, are there: forever under pressure trying to control factors beyond his control, Arnaud has one chance to snatch a victory away from life before returning to the reality of a Big 12 schedule that will, in all likelihood, be the end of his soul. This also puts Kirk Ferentz in the role of Jack Pelley, Richard Crenna’s despicable local captain. We can see him screaming “Are these your shorts TA-TA-TA-TA-TA,” and so can you, you filthy liars.

Ferentz has been in this town 30 years, and every few years a new coach comes along at Iowa State who just thinks he can take over the town! After last week’s performance versus UNI, that is an accurate assumption made by new renter Paul Rhodes, who flies his pants to victory over the black and gold Incisor with first mate Arnaud in support.

#18 Notre Dame @ Michigan

Holly: Harrison Smith IS Elliot Moore IN The Happening. This game is being hyped to the ends of the earth as the be-all, end-all for a pair of alleged geniuses who left their best work behind them years ago. And if there’s any justice in the world, the very trees of the earth will rise up, rustle their leaves, and make a whole lot of people bash their own heads in. (Please?) Lou Holtz sees you eyein’ his lemon-drink, but I’m taking “catastrophic meteor strike” and the points.

Orson: Michigan are THE PENGUINS from MADAGASCAR. Undersized, crafty, and climbing the ropes when you’re not looking. Underestimated underdogs moving at the speed of Barwis past your blitzers and obvious deep passes. Sure, you’re the captain at the ship of state with the ranking, and since last year Michigan have been relegated to flightless birds. You wouldn’t worry about just one of them, but in multiple waves and formations suddenly you’re the one hornswaggled out of the goods and they’re the ones sailing the high seas in your ride. An elegant swindle for Michigan in this game. Afterwards, you’ll have to see it on film to figure out how they did it with such speed and ease.

UCLA @ Tennessee

Orson: Rick Neuheisel IS Christina Ricci IN Black Snake Moan. At the hands of Tennessee’s defense, Rick Neuheisel will realize that not only does he like being chained to a radiator and told what to do by an old man (Monte Kifin), he craves it like nothing else.

Holly: Lane Kiffin IS Chicklet Forrest IN Psycho Beach Party. “Guys only want one thing. I’m going to the snack bar, want a wiener?” Cute, pert in a little-sibling kinda way. Perky. Annoying as fuck-all and looks pretty harmless until he gets possessed with the spirit of some bent tiki god (Ed Orgeron in a star turn cameo) and starts killing folks left and right. He snaps tomorrow, just you watch. The last time I saw Rick Neuheisel he was wearing a sweater vest over a V-neck shirt, in southern California in September, and that kind of transgression just doesn’t go unpunished. UCLA’s going down like a sweet muffin. In the words of Mrs. Forrest, “I believe this is what you kids call a gang bang!”

South Carolina @ #21 Georgia

Holly: Steve Spurrier IS Howard Payne IN Speed. An explosion in the prime of Payne’s career left him with fingers numbering nine, which is about how many points we can expect to see on the board in Sanford tomorrow when the clock hits 00:00. You may be smarter, OBC, but Mark Richt is taller.

Orson: Stephen Garcia IS Dwayne IN Little Miss Sunshine. He wants to fly jets, but realizes he can never play the part in the air show he wants to play so badly because he is colorblind. Dwayne realizes this in the movie when he cannot see different colored dots on a sheet of paper. Stephen Garcia will realize this when he throws his third pick of the night to someone in the wrong color jersey. Dwayne reacts to this by rising above the situation, and growing and maturing as a person. Garcia will react to this by throwing a fourth pick and pumping his fist in celebration.

Missy State @ Auburn

Holly: Dan Mullen IS Selma Jezkovz IN Dancer in the Dark. I will defy anyone to name a single redeeming or validating moment from this game as soon as it’s over. It’s got prestigious roots and you know you’re supposed to be enjoying yourself, but really you’re just so goddamn miserable you’re too focused on wondering when the blasted thing will END END END END END to see anything happening on the field.

Is there hope for any of us? Sure there is. For Von Trier, it’s pissing off people by the roomful at hoity-toity filmfess the world over. For me, it’s getting to post this video one more time:

Orson: Gus Malzahn IS Phillip Seymour Hoffman IN Charlie Wilson’s War. The operator moving behind the scenes to make the machine hum, turning disorganized Afghanis into an organized killing widget set on stun, Malzahn is going to make his boss–a politician who, like Charlie Wilson, isn’t really sure what he’s doing–look far better than he deserves to look. Auburn lights up Mississippi State here thanks to residual Tuberville defensive prowess and just enough Malzahnian innovation to bring the guys in red to their knees in the skeleton-filled wastes of a far-off and desperate land. (Southeastern Alabama, Afghanistan–it’s really a bit of a push, especially if we’re talking landmines per square foot, also known as “Terry Bowden’s Charitable Donation to the School on Departure.)

Vanderbilt @ #11 LSU

***BULLET BULLET BULLET TOKEN DOC HOLLIDAY DEGENERATE GAMBLER PICK***

Holly: The entire Vanderbilt depth chart IS The Mercury Seven IN The Right Stuff. With a special appearance by the players, coaches, talent level, and fans of Baton Rouge as The Ground, The Sound Barrier, Faulty Parts, and Torrents Of Deadly Flame. Yet we’re taking the ‘Dores, against our reason and our character, because even sound barriers get broken, and jeezum crow did LSU look paltry last week against a team riding something like a 15-game losing streak. (Looking up numbers is for sissies.) Vandy, and damn the torpedoes. Torpedoes that are not in the water, but the air. *hic*

Orson: Vanderbilt IS Steven Seagal IN Executive Decision. They both get sucked into space and fall to their deaths sometime in the first fifteen minutes.

Kansas State @ Louisiana-Lafayette

Orson: Bill Snyder IS Laurence Fishburne IN Event Horizon. All I really want to mention here is that while Bill Snyder volunteering to dive into hell to save his crew by retaking an impossible job at K-State is frightening, it is still not as frightening as Event Horizon, which is the scariest fucking movie of the last fifteen years. It is a terrible movie, difficult to watch, a series of torpid expositional scenes interspersed with moments of unwatchable horror. Correction: this actually does describe K-State football this year perfectly, since the program has been to hell and back, and is now just sort of floating there filled with demons. They win this game, but not without scenes containing graphic scenes of violence, gore, and fantasy imagery of a disturbing nature.

Holly: Bill Snyder IS Ben Stone IN Knocked Up. Life is sorta hazy right now, and although there were moments here and there that made him happy, he really can’t recall what led him to this operating room watching something truly gruesome unfold before his very eyes. Childbirth is not a miracle. Childbirth is gross. And hatching this new-old era at KState, if last week’s near-miss at UMass is any indication, is going to be slimy and full of screaming. Ragin’ Cajuns carry the day.

#3 USC @ #8 Ohio State

Holly: Ohio State Football IS Global Warming IN An Inconvenient Truth. (Because it’s a MYTH AND ALSO THE EARTH IS FLAT GOOD NIGHT.)

Orson: USC Trojans ARE the crew in MOBY DICK. Because they’re about to put a harpoon in Ohio State, and then take a Nantucket Sleighride for the entire second half.

The weekend’s agenda:

ORSON (ATL –> NASHVILLE)
Navy @ Ohio State
Georgia @ Oklahoma State
Alabama vs. VT
Charleston Southern @ Florida
Nevada @ Notre Dame
Maryland @ Cal
LSU @ Washington

HOLLY (OAK RIDGE):
Liberty @ West Fuckin’ Virginia
Western Kentucky @ Tennessee
Georgia @ Oklahoma State
Nevada @ Notre Dame
Louisiana Tech @ Auburn
Alabama @ VT
Maryland @ Cal
LSU @ Washington

Phil Knight: In a seedy Vegas backroom bar hiring a pack of mobsters to whack Chip Kelly and “make it look like an accident.”

Et tu, Billy Bobs? Where you’re going, what you’re watching, and what you’re drankin’ on this finest first weekend, below if you please. See y’all monsters in the AM.

You’re on the list, now:

Award-winning country music star Kenny Chesney, known for his high-energy stadium concerts, has written a song exclusively for ESPN’s college football game and studio telecasts during Dick’s Sporting Goods Kickoff Week (Sept. 3-7) and Championship Saturday (Dec. 5) as well as select contests throughout the season and bowl games. ESPN will have the exclusive premiere of the song during its pregame show Thursday, Sept. 3, at 7 p.m.

Needs editing. One moment please. [Sound of screaming, fire, steel clanging, tendons ripping.] Okay, here you go.

Shitty, meaningless Award-winning country music star prize dwarf Kenny Chesney, known for his high-energy stadium concerts lackadaisically humping the dead carcass of a long-dead musical genre pandering to humanity’s most fatuous and ignoble traits, has written a song misbegotten flaming abortion of ass-cramping tripe exclusively for ESPN’s college football game and studio telecasts during Dick’s Sporting Goods Overpriced Jockstrap Hut Kickoff Week (Sept. 3-7) and Championship Saturday (Dec. 5) as well as select cursed contests throughout the season and bowl games. ESPN will have the exclusive premiere public excretion of the song during its pregame show Thursday, Sept. 3, at 7 p.m. a date that shall live in infamy as the day suck conquered the universe.

What the hell is wrong with this?

Just play that, show some people hollering, a few shots of people getting knocked the fuck out, and then Fowler/Lieutenant Beautifulpants/Corso. There! There’s your new intro, not this crapulent piece of faux-cornpone pablum the marketing people pulled from America’s Milquetoast Mecca, Nashville, the home of country music that can go fuck itself in the ear with a wolverine.

She thinks your tractor’s sexy? Bullshit. You drive a fucking Honda Odyssey to work, Sonic, Bass Pro Shops, and that’s about it. God, please: if you exist, send 1988 Steve Earle forward in time to us. We will give him a flamethrower and a suitcase filled with blacktar heroin to burn country music to the ground and make people start writing honest songs about running from the cops, drinking yourself blind, and resigning yourself to your own doomed bastardhood before a premature and giddy death.

To Sam the Eagle, the commenter who will say, “Now, now, pish-posh, this is really all too much–” That dash is you being obliterated by our army of pitbulls. Do you have any idea how many times we are going to listen to this bullshit this fall, and the next, and the next? If Kenny Chesney loved college football at this point, he would go get arrested for a crime of moral turpitude and force DisneySPN to hang back with the old standard, “We’re Coming To Your Citaaaayyyyyyy,” known in our household as “The Song That Makes Daddy Fart Pure Flames Of Rage.” That’s how far you’ve beaten us down, Bristol: we’re rooting for the return of Big and Rich, who have spent years perpetually promising to come to your city without either fulfilling the promise and allowing us to ax a little ax-dang in their chest-tang, or put a little cyanide-tink in their drink-ink.

The official EDSBS policy on this is that Ms. Andrews has been wronged grievously, and that the person behind this should be bankrupted not just for their invasion of her privacy, but also for their intrusion on the privacy of others. From what we understand, this was a completely random act, and in an alternate universe could have been you or us standing there getting our goods pasted all over the internet for profit. That her celebrity has exacerbated the initial violation is an even sadder occurrence, and far exceeds the reasonable cost of fame in its severity.

With that said, we feel we need to publish what we have in the name of full disclosure. New information has come to light, and we cannot sit on it any longer. We did not film this, nor do we intend to sell it. We do not claim it is in fact anyone in particular, and will not comment on any resemblances other than to say this: we have made this SFW, and that if this is who we think it is, then this could very well be the media scandal of the century.

You have been warned.

A thousand cocktails to Freek, and to the person who invented the concept of the jump on an internet post. You really have made some of our lives so much easier through your foresight and clever coding.

The new arrangements for the fall:

Matt Millen’s Inexplicable Employment Continues. What Matt Millen has to offer to college football that Chris Spielman doesn’t is clear: the stigma of reeking, carrion-strong failure from being the worst GM in the history of the NFL. If the stench is real, his new broadcast partners Sean McDonough will have to wear a gas mask. This would probably be just as good as most in-game commentary, now that we think about it. Holly Rowe moves over from ESPN to join them for ABC Saturdays, and it will probably be a bit blander overall than the Spielman/McDonough combo since Millen’s not likely to say anything as cool as “hunt, dog, hunt!”

Spielman moves to work with Dave Pasch and Bob Griese, and they’ll be working the noon game on ESPN.

The Champagne Crew: Nessler, Blackledge, and Andrews keep the ESPN Saturday Prime Time slot, a.k.a. The Ron Franklin Suite. Musberger, Herbstreit, and Salters on Saturday’s Blue-Ribbon game stay strong, as well.

Caucasian Menudo: The trio of James, Fowler, and Palmer remain together, who for our buck were the most gregarious, entertaining, freewheeling, and surprising crew last year in how much fun they had in the booth together.

Palmer gets additional face time as an in-studio analyst on Saturdays, thus expanding the Gator Nation’s reach into even our most hallowed halls of power like College Football Live. The Jort Illuminati grows in power; we approve. Andrews remains with them, and should really just start brandishing a combat shotgun everywhere she goes.

James will also see a shuffle as he joins Mike Patrick and Heather Cox for Saturday broadcasts on ESPN. Thus ends Patrick’s endless bellyaching over Blackledge’s immortal rabbit metabolism during “Todd’s Taste of the Town,” and begins the ascendency of Cox in the rankings of “soon-to-be-ruthlessly-stalked.” Buy options now.

Most importantly: DAVE LIVES. One of them, anyway. The new agreement effectively turning Jefferson Pilot/Lincoln Financial/Nigerian Space Program Television into ESPN Regional brings along one Dave, Dave Neal, who was forced to fight the other Daves to the death with the broken end of a pool cue by Norby Williamson dressed as the Joker. Neal emerged, bloodied and wild-eyed, and could be visibly shaken as he works with Andre Ware and Cara Capuano on the regionals.

This requires revision: The reverse negative of Ole Miss fan Shepherd Smith–Brock Huard–will proved commentary for the new Saturday night SEC game on ESPNU along with Eric Collins. Ron White belongs in this booth as a third banana, and be promises he’ll keep his Scotch off-camera.

“And she would wear a headdress, and call me her naughty little paleface.” “We’re live, coach.” “FAAAAAAHCK”

Besides that perpetually possible event, the rest of the rumor is crap. No sponsor has that kind of pull with a show, as for a sponsor demanding changes in the lineup of a successful program would set a dangerous example for future shows. (”Yes, we will sponsor your show, but you’ll have to have the CEO as the color guy. He plays a lot of Madden!”) Even in a recession economy, the puppeteering of a show by the sponsor is highly unlikely.

Additionally–besides an ESPN source saying flat-out “no” to the case–how on earth would Ravech cover college football when he’s already booked for baseball, a sport that will keep him occupied deep into October? (That is when it ends, right? And someone walks out with the Shanley Cup? Halp?) Though ESPN likes to have their commentainers work across different sports, they also like to have their anchors work on sports while they’re actually occurring. It’s why they’re winners, that ability to use a calendar, there.

Finally, even if Fowler, the admitted king of his discipline, decided not to do Gameday, the taciturn Ravech isn’t the logical choice. That would be Rece Davis, a college football junkie already embedded with the college football staff with an obvious skill for running the point and keeping a nice loose chaos running at all times on air.

Again, this comes courtesy of actual real sources. We know, don’t choke. It’s psuedojournalism, and it happens twice a year here.

It’s been three months since Todd McShay and I updated our mock drafts. It’s time to shake them up a little bit and review our first three rounds.

Detroit Lions, Number One.

Winston Churchill, Great Britain. A true malevolent madman in the making. Comes from good genocidal madman stock, and a program–Cambridge–that knows how to develop and train that stock. Thick. Mean when he has to be. Superb skill set. Like all good genocidal madmen, prefers to wear suits.

St. Louis Rams, Number Two: Teddy Roosevelt. Another slam-dunk pick in the making. A hunter, not a gatherer. Killer instinct. Eyesight may be weak, but so is a rhino’s. They kill things all the time.

Kansas City Chiefs, Number Three: Joseph Stalin. I’m not sold on him: he lacks killer instinct, and thanks to his associations with the clergy may have too much mercy in him for the job. Poor communication skills with teammates. No cult of personality skills. I call bust, but he’s going here.

4. Seattle Seahawks. Woody Hayes. Has the rage you need for the position. Likes titles and uniforms. Dedicated to the powerful kind of ground game you need to go yard by yard in exterminating millions of lives for no reason. Born in Ohio and raised there, so already filled with the urge to murder. A sleeper pick that could yield big dividends for the Seahawks.

5. Cleveland Browns. Pol Pot. A baffling pick here. He’s the ultimate tweener. No idea where his skill set puts him. Another disastrous Browns pick, since he’s more of a third-rounder. Who ever heard of a French tech school grad doing big things?

6. Cincinnati Bengals. King Leopold of Belgium. A bit too old for this high a pick. Has a reputation as a prima donna. Is from Belgium.

7. Oakland Raiders. A scary-looking Dogue du Bordeaux Al found in an email from one of his grandchildren.

I’m not going to talk about the Raiders’ picks in the draft. I have no idea what Al Davis is doing. I do like the dog’s strinth, agility, and toughness, though. Maybe we’ll all be surprised, but I don’t think so.

8. Jacksonville Jaguars. Andre Smith, Alabama. Another sleeper pick. Clearly shows the poor decision-making and gluttony for a real genocidal monster, but the lack of obvious killer instinct shows. They’re clearly hoping he grows into the role and becomes a heart-eating Idi Amin type. A project pick by the Jags. I don’t like project picks at the eight spot.

9. Green Bay Packers. Brett Favre. An unconventional pick? Sure. But he’s got the demonstrated ability to hold thousands of people hostage with dictatorial flair. Also, has a reputation as a gunslinger who doesn’t care who he hurts with his wild ways. This is a must for he position. An innovative pick sure to click for Green Bay.

10. San Francisco 49ers. Adolf Hitler. Undersized. Definite physical issues. Good durability, and has anger issues. Has focus issues, though–is he going to be a genocidal madman, or an artist? Not one of the stronger picks in the draft, in my opinion. The 49ers would have been better off taking a player for a need position, like Jimmy Carter or Francisco Franco. They both make more sense here.

What has a pointing finger and doesn’t give a damn? This guy.

Tuberville seems to have just sauntered into the frame, fresh from skinning a catfish or finishing up a round of 18. We would not be shocked to see the carved wooden head of a rocking chair peek up from over his shoulder. Add the smooth in with the fact that he knows what he’s talking about, presents it in a fluid, folksy manner, and is still being paid by Auburn, and we’re smitten. In fact, go ahead and get him one, ESPNU, and let him whittle while the other guys are talking.

Opening kickoff and WHOOOOP!!! Down to the 35 yard line and David Akers from…from….

Tom Jackson: (sighs) Louisville.

Berman: Tom, Jesus, sound like you gotta pair. Edit that out. Let’s keep going.

Jackson: …

Berman…and the pick by Fred “Rockin!” Robbins! Tweet! Tweet! Tweedly-deet!

Jackson: Heh. Heh.

Berman: Cut. CUT! TJ, you gonna join the land of the living here? I make a funny, and you’re giving me the half-heh. I need a full chuckle out of you to make this happen. You’re here to laugh at me and talk a little football. You ready, Chuckles?

Jackson: Yeah. I’m…I’m ready.

Berman: Why are you wearing a white tux, by the way?

Jackson: I’m going to a party in a minute.

Berman: Hey, are you gonna get your man Boomer in on that party?

Jackson: Oh, I will. I just have to wiggle my finger and you’ll be in.

Berman. All right. Now let’s see some first-rate second banana action here, TJ. Now that’s McNabb to Buckhalter! GENERAL BUCKHALTER!!! KLINK! YOU’RE AN IDIOT!!!

Jackson: That Hogan’s Heroes reference does it. I’m inviting you to the party right now, Boomer. WHOOOOP!!!! Would it pain you to mention something that happened after 1990? DO YOU KNOW HOW FUCKING ANNOYING THAT NOISE IS?

Berman: What? My WHOOOOO—

Jackson: Finger. Wiggling.

Jackson: TAKE YOUR BUSTED ASS BOOMER SCHTICK TO HELL, BERMAN! STRAIGHT TO FIERY HELL, YOU FAT BASTARD! OR SHOULD I SAY, BACK BACK BACK TO HELL, ASSHOLE!!!

God it’s going to suck watching NFL football for the next tree weeks just because of the people who cover it. Especially Chris Berman.

[click to enlarge]

She’s very good at her job, and we respect her immensely. We have to. We’re what a feminist looks like.

That said, HEY LOOK HER BOOBS!!!

Always, always ask for a light test unless you want dorks on the internet to point these things out. (HT: The Starter Wife.) Also, mad daps for looking that good after two kids and pushing fifty. She’s no Nigella in the midlife-mistress department, but it needs mentioning all the same. BTW, Nigella Lawson can still use us for medical experiments anytime she likes. That’s standing policy.

It’s doubly worth it for Lou’s unparalleled trash talking, which he’s more than happy to say right to your face:

“All of those orange fans up there. I would say to our players, they wear orange so they can cheer for their team. They’ll wear the same orange outfit tomorrow to go hunting. And they’ll wear the same orange outfit the last five days of the week in order to pick up trash.”

Lou Holtz’s longevity as a coach can only be explained by the well-calibrated periodicity of his sanity rating. Listen to him for two minutes, and you’re convinced he’s a raving madman; go five minutes, and you’re reconvinced of his essential sanity, but then wait another ten and you’re back wondering whether someone just dropped tabs of mescaline in his coffee. That’s precisely how he survived, by being just mad enough to convince people that he was too scary to fire, but just insane enough to outcrazy the opposition.

Mark May shouldn’t fear him at his most animated, but should fear him when he’s at his calmest, since like an angry dog he’s only going to bite you when the tail stops wagging and he gets very, very serious. And by that we mean he will bite Mark May on camera soon, and when it happens you will applaud like spring-loaded monkeys.

LISA SALTERS:  Well, Bob, we’ve set up a series of motion-activated cameras and microphones throughout the stadium, in the hopes of capturing footage of the rare Syracuse football fans in their natural environment.  It’s a technique pioneered by–Bob!  [hissing]  BOB!!

BOB DAVIE [quietly, urgently]: Don’t move.  Their visual acuity is based on motion.
[cautiously reaches into pocket, removes bag of corn nuts, shakes it]
Hey.  Hey.  We’re not gonna hurt you.  C’mere, little guy.  C’mon.

SYRACUSE FAN [slumping into frame]: …Can I help you?

BOB DAVIE:  It’s all right.  Everything’s gonna be all right.  Want a corn nut?  Do ya?

SYRACUSE FAN:  Uh…sure?

BOB DAVIE:  There you go.  Isn’t that nice.  Oh, Lisa, look, he’s shaking!

LISA SALTERS [cooing]: It’s OK.  It’s OK.  You’ve had a rough month, haven’t you, little fella?

SYRACUSE FAN: Well, I mean, we lost our first three games by a combined total of over seventy points.  One of those losses was to Akron.  We just managed to hang on against Northeastern, of all places, so yeah, I feel like the bag’s pretty justified at this–

BOB DAVIE:  Bill!  Bill, are you getting this?  I think he’s trying to communicate!  Are we getting this, Bill?

SYRACUSE FAN:  …uh, anyway, like I was saying, Coach Robinson seems like a nice enough guy and all, but it’s come to a point where all this neverending positivity just seems almost farcical, y’know?

BOB DAVIE: Lisa?  Lisa, can you get close enough to touch him?

SYRACUSE FAN: Wait, what?

LISA SALTERS: I’m not gonna hurt you, sweetie.  Ssssshhhh.  Ssssshhhh.  [delicately pats paper bag]

SYRACUSE FAN:  I…I mean, I’m a rational guy.  I recognize there are rebuilding years in every program, but all we hear is “gradual improvement” this and “learning all the time” that, and at the end of the day, what kind of curve are we talking about?

BOB DAVIE:  Lisa!  See if he’ll eat a corn nut out of your hand!

SYRACUSE FAN: Because I don’t know about you, but I come here to watch football, not plate tectonics–hey!  HEY!!

LISA SALTERS [attempting to push corn nuts through hole in bag]:  Bill, are you getting this??

SYRACUSE FAN:  WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE!    THIS ISN’T A FUCKING PETTING ZOO.

LISA SALTERS: Look, he’s sitting upright!

SYRACUSE FAN:  I’M A HUMAN BEING! SYRACUSE FANS ARE PEOPLE!  WE’RE PEOPLE JUST LIKE YOU!

CAMERAMAN: See if it likes Fritos!

SYRACUSE FAN:  SKREEEEEEEEEEEEEEECHSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS [rips off paper bag, bolts for nearest wall, climbs with astonishing speed to rafters, where he perches, hissing and spitting]

BOB DAVIE [turning to camera]:  The Big East, ladies and gentlemen:  It’s bat country. I’m Bob Davie, EEEessPEEenn.