As an eagle-eyed spectator noticed (along with most of the UGA student section, apparently), yes, that young man was indeed peeing in that little room, and no, nobody has any idea what they did with his, er, leavings.

Kentucky, our apologies in advance.

The Daily Oregonian has a fun widget on making your own nightmare of an Oregon Ducks uniform, which is a fine way to kill ten potentially productive and therefore harmful minutes of your day. The only uniforms we’ve ever been truly appalled by were the “Iron Duck” unis, and that’s just because the iron-grip pattern on the shoulders looked dated and ersatz macho the minute it came off the presses. The all-whites, though? Stunning.

Whatever the combo, they can’t possibly beat whatever those gentlemen have had vomited up on them by the soccer rugby fashion gods. Egads, my lad, that will take a gang of penicillin, some prayer, and possibly a pressure washer to clean up.

(Hat tip/blame: Senator Blutarsky, gouging out his eyes as we speak.)

Drink.

Holly: The Dark and Stormy. It’s summertime, and that means hurricane season for your poor livers. Batten down your hatches with this sweet-but-deadly combination of dark rum, ginger beer, and lime over ice. Make it with black Gosling rum or not at all. (And that’s ginger beer, not ginger ale. What are we, savages?)

Orson: The Rusty Nail.I know. It’s high blasphemy to actually tell scotch fans what you’re actually tasting when they pour you a tumbler full of something expensive that still tastes like fried badger assholes.

“Mmm, can’t you taste the peat? And the hints of caramel?”

“No. All I taste is the reek of stagnant ditchwater and a hint of cheap bubblegum, actually.”

“Oh, come on. You have to let the flavors soak in.”

“Okay.” (waits 30 seconds)

“So?”

“Wow, you’re right. Now it tastes like old stagnant ditchwater.”

Along with not liking jazz and Woody Allen films, my complete inability to taste anything other than moldy cooked animal rectum when drinking scotch is one of the three things keeping me from being a really hip 58 year old man in 1980. I cry myself to sleep over it nightly or never. I forget which one.

Like Joseph Heller and Catch-22, sometimes you get lucky and catch lightning in a bottle-or in this case, in a sturdy tumbler with perfectly globe-shaped ice cubes. The Rusty Nail involves Scotch, which I hate, and Drambuie, a scotch-based liqueur that judging from its flavor was brewed as a pranky that no one got. It even has lemon, a flavor in my universe customarily referred to as “lime’s bitch.”

I hate all three, and yet…mix them in the same glass in a 1.5 oz/0.5 oz/twist ratio, and you’re quaffing the nectar of angry and awesome gods. This is why I only passed chemistry by turning in homework, because I have no idea how it happens, but I don’t care and don’t want to know.

Rusty Nails, when consumed slowly, will make you feel three steps from walking onto the Mad Men set, spanking a random secretary’s ass, and winning the big Magnavox account with an emotional and entirely improvised pitch involving a picture of Donna Reed, your penis, and an allusion to the Odyssey. Drink them. Often.

Comestibles.

Orson: Orson: Masala Dosa. Oh, Masala Dosa, I feel more than confident you are the tastiest food shaped like an anti-tank rocket on the planet.

When they’re done right they look like insurmountable piles of calories wrought into the shape of a pipebomb, and can in variation come filled with the Indian goo/food of your choice: potatoes, lentils, coconut, vegetables, meat curries, whatever. You’ll be hungry an hour later, but that’s fine: reapply rocket launcher to mouth until you achieve desired results.

I can eat three of these without blinking and then immediately launch myself into a colorful dance number where I get dangerously close to kissing my wife, but then instead rub my nose to hers, wink, and fall into perfect sync with my backup dancers while wearing a Members’ Only jacket and jeans pulled up to my navel.

Holly: The other day, thanks to the vagaries of Twitter, I became acquainted with a marketing rep for Revved Up Dip. If you can’t sit through the flash intro screen long enough to find out for yourself, Revved Up Dip appears to be…caffeinated smokeless tobacco. Let us be perfectly clear: I do not recommend this product. I am having a hard time thinking of anything more vile to ingest. But I’m also betting one of you lot is willing to give this stuff a whirl, so let us know how that goes.

Combustibles.

Holly: Destroyed In Seconds, je t’adore:

Orson: Holy crapazoid: The explosive power of a 1990 Ford airbag:

The inspirational power of Steve Winwood’s “When You See a Chance” only heightens the grandeur of it.

Transit.

Orson: Wingsuit. Because if I’m going to shatter any more bones in my back, I want it to happen all at once without a shred of hope for survival:

Holly: The A-10 Warthog.

Basically, the A-10 is a Gatling cannon that just happens to have an airplane built around it. The GAU-8 fires depleted-uranium rounds the size of Coke bottles at a rate of 65 rounds per second, and the recoil is such that it actually slows the plane down in flight. But that doesn’t matter, since the point of the A-10 is not to go fast, it’s just to sort of lope along and then dive-bomb tanks on the battlefield. It is the ugliest, baddest-assest airplane the Army has, and if you have one of these you will never need to worry about anyone taking your parking space, because stuff like this tends to happen.

Canon.

Holly: Sunshine. You know Danny Boyle? Long before your girlfriend dragged you to see Slumdog Millionaire, Boyle was making movies like Trainspotting and 28 Days Later, and right before he ran off to India he made this little gem of a movie. It’s a bleak, gorgeous scifi meditation that turns into an action flick about halfway through, and it won a whole mess of British film awards before being completely shut out of the Oscars, which is why you’ve never heard of it. Let’s fix that, shall we?

Canon. Video games can go here, right? Because the Orange Box might be the most addictive and durable video game ever, as well as the most bang for buck per pixel of any video game ever published. I haven’t even touched what was allegedly the main attraction on the disc–Half-Lifes 1 and 2– and am instead just playing Portal and Team Fortress 2 over and over again.

Just taste the pride of the sniper at work, and feel the pain and strain the job puts on his family life:

Portal is one of those video games you can actually recommend to non-gamers because of the mind-blowingly simple but maddening gameplay, while Team Fortress 2 is just one loving variation after another of ways to blow other poor souls to pieces. If you don’t fall in love with a game where the Demoman speaks with a Scottish brogue and clubs people to death with a bottle of whisky, I don’t even know who you are anymore.

Besides the multiple installments of the NCAA Football series, this remains the only game where I can safely say I’ve gotten more than my money’s worth out of it. That’s a good thing, especially because I paid for the game by keeping it too long from Hollywood Video and never returning it.

The addition of multi-armed Vishnu dancing is really just gravy. These masterworks are the work of Wildcat running back Moncell Allen, whose MySpace page confirms our suspicions of Allen’s genius. There are nine videos, and all are immortal works of genius to be emulated for generations to come. Miss them at the risk of making your life a poor, barren place devoid of love or imagination.

Ladies, shield your ovaries.  Gentlemen, cling fiercely to your wives lest they be led astray by its weapons-grade babymaking prowess.

Moving on: The combine, like childbirth, is a natural process, a rite of passage, and not at all creepy or gross. Nope:

With that, the player is ready to run. He peels away a pair of mesh shorts and the compression pair underneath reveal a set of quad muscles akin to a mountain ridge. [NorthJersey.com]

“In between workouts and class, I usually get a massage, have a chef come over to prepare meals, and different stuff like that,” said Freeman, an OSU senior linebacker. [The Lantern]

But what’s not true, he says, is the unavoidable association between Berkeley and marijuana — “Come on, man, you lived in Berkeley — tell the truth,” a scout reportedly said to Follett in an interview after he had denied ever smoking pot. [The Daily Cal]

“Everyone wants to talk about (Georgia’s) Matthew Stafford , I’ve been at camps and thrown with him,” Hoyer said. “But I feel like my arm is just as strong or just a little bit below his.” [Detroit News]

“[Loadholt] struggles to bend, and he struggles with any kind of elite speed. Orakpo ran by him all day long.” [Tulsa World]

�The doctor looks at my sheet and said, �Did you actually play?� I told him I was a long snapper. Yeah, I just snap and take a leisurely jog down the field.� [Freep]

So, hope then that the Missouri Tigers, already a tad down over losing two games they thought they could win and thus only being kings of the 493 billion square miles of the Big 12 North, avoid the pissy overtones when they trot out the “golden” unis they’re rumored to be using against KU. The early projections are not…um…promising.

That’s close to nail fungus yellow there. Of course, go too far and you get into food colors, and Mangino food association quick offramp to fat joke yes let’s not go there we just did apologies.

This year’s Alabama team will not blow doors on anyone offensively, and is officially Krenzel-bad in terms of the passing game (100th nationally; in their 2002 run, tOSU ranked 92nd.) Auburn sits one spot higher in terms of total passing offense than the Crimson Tide, who have been a run-first sledgehammer on offense, pulverizing early and often with the run, playing field position, and asking John Parker Wilson throw a few fades and play-action passes along the way.

When your defense allows 13.1 points a game, you can afford to be cromagnon-compatible on offense. It is unflashy, unpretty, and everything that makes Alabama fans feel warm and frisky in their pants.

This leads us to Jesse Palmer, who has decreased the size of his tie knots over the course of the season but has not increased bloodflow to the important thinking gland located above his neck. First, we paraphrase an exchange from College Football Final with Robert Smith:

Robert Smith: Being number one’s like being the king. Everyone wants the power, but no one wants the Sword of Damocles hanging over them.

Jesse Palmer: I can’t even spell Damocles. (spits out piece of tinfoil he’s been chewing on)

Not a word from you, Jim Delany. We blame the decrepit and clearly broken Canadian education system for Jesse’s intellectual failures. This is mentioned to highlight Jesse Palmer’s spells of dumbness, first. Second, it leads us to the Bama-relevant point, which is that Palmer and others keep chalking up Atlanta as an insta-win for the Florida Gators, presumably because Florida’s scoring forty a game and OMGZ NATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP SHOT.

Alabama doesn’t care about points; as designed, they’re happy to play grapple ball and turn the game into a rugby scrum if needs be. For those who haven’t watched them, think 2002 Ohio State in Armani. Chalking up a win over a well-coached Nick Saban team determined to sludge the game up and beat people senseless at all eleven positions on the field is insanity. (Okay, ten. John Parker Wilson is just busy handing off and crumbling into the fetal position, for the most part.)

It may be a model T with a boxing glove, but when and if it knocks you on your ass, you’ll curse yourself for laughing at the “OOOOOGGGAAHHHH” horn and tiny headlights on the approach. We pray to the assembled deities that Florida, if they get past South Carolina and Florida State, aren’t listening to anything Jesse Palmer has to say about anything.

Rules of engagement are written for your safety and for that of your team. By all means, enjoy yourselves.