The electric cries of the crowd and exultations of the gathered hundreds at the Mid-Northwestern Sons of Lower Umbria Fair of Charlottesville Virginia THRILLED to the brave spiral daredevil antics of young turks Joey “Pancetta” Paterno and Robert “Rocket” Bowden!

The duo placed their moxie and manhoods on the line for the pleasure of the general public by placing their vehicles in the WHEEL OF DEATH, the very same CirVerticular track that claimed the life of the shapely maiden Jeanne Featherbottom and her driver Mack Weekly though gory decapitation in last year’s exciting Mid-Northwestern Sons of Lower Umbria Fair!

Paterno piloted Nemeon, his trusty quadricar, to victory in a twenty lap bout with Rocket Bowden, vehiculating around the center ring with such vociferous a-rat-a-tat-tattling of pistons that decent folk abandoned their interest in other fair exhibits—even the wildly popular anthropological exhbit, “Shemanti: Naked Came the Hottentot!”

An urchin fell into the ring, causing much merriment as he panicked in a comical fashion as the vehicles spewed blue leaded exhaust from their mighty autorectums! Pathos hung heavy in the air as he rattled around the ring like a trapped baboon, but the sentiment turned quickly to excitement as he was devoured by Joey Paterno’s boon companion, Howard the Lion, in a single fortuitous swipe of paw and crunch of jaw!

“Rocket” Bowden, riding his steed Traveller, placed second, and vowed to best Paterno in a race. “The olive oil makes him faster! Check his papers, dadgummit! He’s an ANARCHIST! I’ll outlast him yet!”

Paterno celebrated with a reading of Cicero, a plate of his people’s odious, garlic-reeking food, and by taking his shirt off, revealing a wife-beater and suspenders. When asked if Howard the Lion had helped him to victory, Paterno responded with an ironic wit Petronius himself would have envied: “Lion? What lion? Are you drunk?”

(HT: Flubby)

Cold winds sweep off the jagged teeth of the Hindu Kush. A UH-60 Black Hawk chops through the thin air; as it passes through the azure sky, it seems to be constantly recalibrating its flight path, listing slightly to the right side, correcting, and then listing again. It finally lands on a flat, dusty patch of land surrounded by razor wire, sandbag bunkers, and a lone American flag flapping in the bastard breeze.

The blades come to a slow crawl: four coaches exit from the left side of the plane. All wear black fleece vests and cargo pants. One coach remains in the helicopter, visibly rocking the chopper from the inside as the machine sags to the right.

(A muffled voice yells from the inside:) A little fuckin’ help here? Huh?

Randy Shannon: This place is NICE.

Tommy Tuberville: Smells like…Afghanistan.

Mark Richt: Guys, maybe we should go back and help Charlie.

Tommy Tuberville: Hell, no, padre. I didn’t fry fish in backwoods Tennessee for years just to help some gravity whore yank his whale-sized kiester out of a helicopter.

Randy Shannon: No, I mean it, y’all. This place is really, really nice. (more…)

Apocryphal stories are the best, since even when they may not be completely true their semantic strength holds up most of the time. Why? Because somewhere in that crusty Combo of potential fiction lies the delicious nacho-flavored vegetable shortening of truth.

Like that, times ten.

We received this story about club-rockin’, alleged money-launderin’, baby-kissin’, wife-stealin’, and wheelin’ and dealin’ Ryan Perrilloux, LSU qb and bayou sybarite. The following takes place in a strip club, and has been edited to include two abbreviated profanities and protect the identities of those who may have seen it.

SCENE! And in (silent finger count 3-2-1…)

West BR strip joint last week when RP and Shomari Clemons came in. The two of them behaved themselves (evidently smart enough to know that being tigers won’t keep them from getting an ass whipping if they screw up in a bar. Come to think of it, RP has personal experience with that.) RP told the guy that he is still on the team and will be starting QB next fall.

Then as RP is leaving he yells at the top of his lungs “You motherfuckers are looking at the next 60 motherfucking Million Dollar Man!”

King Kong ain’t got shit on Ryan Perriloux! As the tipster points out, Perrilloux’s of drinking age and has every right–yes, dammit, a right–to be in a strip club and can consume alcohol legally as an adult. (A guy who’s stealing our strip club exit line, though, has got to get some new material. We’ve been saying that shit for years.)

LSU fans should treasure the golden jewel they have, though: a rampaging jewel of a man-beast with passions for all the finest things in life. His strip clubs, you must open them to him; your Hennessy and Hypnotiq, you must mix into a tasty green brew for him. Your abundantly gifted ladies of pleasing proportions, you must bring to his crib in numbers. His empire shall be called Perrilousiana, and it will be be flyer than the United States Air Force high on mushrooms. All else is but frippery, my friends. Let the luxuriaciousness begin.

The next 400 pound LSU quarterback starting in the NFL is en route. Make sure to pave the way with pure platinum, Baton Rouge. (God, this is going to be fun.)

Baron Silas Von Greenback has evil plans to keep all of you from succeeding in 2008. The first: Georgia. Today’s evil plan: Oklahoma.

Have you noticed, dear boy, that your necktie gets tighter at certain times, friend? Or for you, coach Bob Stoops, perhaps it’s your…visor. Yes, your visor. A certain…tightness about the crown of the head? Perhaps during important meetings, or during games with say…

…West Virginia in 2008?

…or with Boise State in 2007?

…or USC in 2004?

…or LSU in 2003?

Not to belabor the point, but you, Oklahoma, have been under one of the dear Baron’s most ingenious and lengthy plots: the slow torture of the CONSTRICTOVISOR, seen here on your head in one of its more effective moments.

None can escape the CONSTRICTOVISOR. Do not attempt removal.

Oh, Bob Stoops, you may not have even noticed that the Nike-approve, one-size-fits-all model you’ve worn for years now is always in your bag, never disappears on road trips, and never seems to pick up a single stain despite your wearing it non-stop for over eight seasons now. Nor, Mr. Stoops, have you been able to explain the gentle glow it emits in the dark, nor the mysterious disappearance of a sandwich from your refrigerator each Tuesday at the office. My friend, the CONSTRICTOVISOR works on two essential types of fuel: anxiety hormones and exactly one turkey club sandwich a week, something you have been unwittingly feeding it. THUS DO YOU FEED YOURSELF YOUR OWN DOOM AND SHAME!!!! AAHHHHH, THE BARON MUST LAUGH!!!

(Two minutes of raspy uninterrupted laughter follow.)

Stiletto, more champagne please! I must soothe my throat after all the merriment.

Coach Stoops, no other explanation is necessary: when your team faces huge games late in the season, my CONSTRICTOVISOR takes your otherwise superior football brain and applies a firm grip to the top of your skull, feeding off your anxiety and exactly one sandwich a week and cutting off just enough blood to your brain to diminish your coaching powers to the merely average. Yes, you have things to look forward to, Coach Stoops: the hyper-efficient play of Sam Bradford (a 36/8 TD/INT ratio as a freshman, Capital!,) the ferocious rushing of DeMarco Murray, solid play across the lines and such, and yes, your trademark ferocity on the defensive side.

And your schedule? If I wasn’t a master of evil myself–and yes, I am, aren’t I?–I would say for shame for the decadent diet of football crumpets you’re working in here: UT-Chattanooga, Cincinnati, at Washington, and Texas Christian? Some fiber, yes, so let’s not call them total crumpets. Rasberry bran crumpets, just durable enough to clean the system out before the meaty bulk of your Big 12 schedule. But then again, even in conference you’re looking at your toughest game on the road at A&M against a transitional Aggie Team, and perhaps fluky games at Oklahoma State and Kansas State.

Baron Von Greenback will help you, but only for a diamond tipped cane, Stoops.

It should be, by all signs, a smashing year for your, Coach Stoops–but all of will come to naught if CONSTRICTOVISOR is allowed to stay on your head and work its devilish, mutated magic. Oh, and it will, it will, Bob Stoops, should you not immediately wire seventy million dollars and a fifty carat diamond-topped walking cane to Swiss Bank Acct. #2839420394 tout de suite.

And perhaps you’re thinking about removing it, Coach Stoops? Or denying it that all important weekly sandwich, eh? Let us just say that that would be very, very ill-advised indeed.

Perhaps you can recoup some of your money by requesting a finders fee from West Virginia coach Bill Stewart, another one of my pawns who fell into a head coaching job thanks to CONSTRICTOVISOR! Or Steve Spurrier, who evaded my clutches until he left for the Redskins, where my operatives tagged him with an all-too-powerful version of CONSTRICTOVISOR that left him sadly and permanently impaired. Something South Carolina fans know all too well! MUHA! MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHH!!!!!!

The offseason ennui has completely taken hold, y’all. I’m reduced to doodling anagrams for D-I coaches.

DID YOU KNOW….that Phillip Fulmer’s name is a perfect anagram for “Lifer Hull Pimp”?

ARE YOU NOW….picturing him patching a hole in a submarine wearing a feathered hat and a grill?

Alternate anagram: “Pulp Refill Him”

‘

(more…)