Holly’s in transit today, so picks will just have to be up to yours truly. As we have no problem talking to the air itself, let’s get this monologue underway without delay.

Florida at South Carolina. The grumpiest 9-0 fanbase in the nation heads to Columbia to face the man who initially allowed them to look at 9-0 in the SEC and be grumpy, Spurrier the White, the

THUNDERCLAPS SPLIT THE AIR LIKE THE HAND OF GOD ITSELF–

–AND ISN’T THAT APPROPRIATE PHRASING, ORSON. IT IS I, CRAZY OLD TESTAMENT GOD.

Orson: [checks schedule] Schedule change?

COTG: YES OF COURSE I WANTED TO TAKE TOMORROW OFF TO WATCH THE NOTRE DAME PITT GAME.

Orson: Um, got any tips on how that might turn out?

COTG: YOU KNOW THE ANSWER TO THAT. NO MATTER WHAT HAPPENS, EVERYONE LOSES IN THAT GAME.

Orson: Right. Wait, were that means you were working yesterday, right?

COTG: HAHAHAHA YES. YOU’RE WELCOME FOR THE THING IN KNOXVILLE. I THOUGHT THE PRIUS WAS A NICE TOUCH.

Orson: It was. Can we do this quickly?

COTG: OF COURSE. I WANT TO GET THIS DONE QUICKLY, TOO. I’M TALKING TO YOU FROM THE STEAM ROOM AND WANT TO GET DONE BEFORE CTHULHU OF VHOORI COMES IN AND STINKS THE PLACE UP.

Orson: I’d imagine he smells horrible.

COTG: THAT ISN’T THE WORST PART. HE DOESN’T WEAR A TOWEL IN HERE. YOU TRY APPLYING ENOUGH MINDBLEACH TO GET THE SIGHT OF A PENIS COVERED IN SPIKES AND EYEBALLS OUT OF YOUR HEAD. I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHERE YOU’D START CIRCUMSCISING THAT THING.

Orson: I see.

COTG: SOME GUYS IN THE GYM DON’T UNDERSTAND YOU DIDN’T SIGN UP TO ATTEND A TAPING OF THE ‘DONG SHOW’ YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN?

Orson: …

COTG: LAUGH. THAT JOKE KILLED IN SODOM. NICE PLACE. NEEDED REMODELING.

Orson: HAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA! Quite funny!

COTG: SMITEY IS MY NAME AND MIGHTY IS MY POWER. NOW, YOU MUST FIRST PICK SOUTH CAROLINA TO BEAT FLORIDA THIS WEEKEND. SPURRIER IS A LOYAL FOLLOWER.

Orson: I can’t do that. You know I can’t do that.

COTG: YOU REMIND ME OF ABRAHAM. I ASKED HIM TO DO A FAVOR FOR ME ONCE.

Orson: Yeah, but that didn’t happen, right?

COTG: NO BUT I ASKED THE SAME THING OF HIS NEIGHBOR, TOO. NO ONE EVER TALKS ABOUT THAT.

Orson: Who was that?

COTG: MEL FROM WEST GILEAD.

Orson: Did he sacrifice his child for you?

COTG: CHILDREN, AS IN MORE THAN ONE. THERE WERE LIKE ELEVEN OF THEM. I MEAN, I LIKE MY CIGARS, BUT EVERY NOW AND THEN—WELL, SACRIFICE IS THE WRONG WORD…

Orson: Yes?

COTG: MORE LIKE “WINGED THEM FROM HIS ROOFTOPS LIKE COW PATTIES.”

Orson: …

COTG: ….

Orson: I don’t know what to say.

COTG: WELL, THAT’S WHY NO ONE’S EVER HEARD OF MEL FROM GILEAD, NOW ISN’T IT? HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW HE WAS GOING TO DO THAT?

Orson: It’s not like you’re God or anything.

COTG: YOU APPEAR TO BE DEFICIENT IN VITAMIN A. THE A STANDS FOR ANNIHILATION.

Orson: Who else am I supposed to pick here?

COTG: TAKE TENNESSEE OVER OLE MISS. THE SOUTH SHALL RISE AGAIN, BUT MOSTLY BECAUSE THE NEW MADRID FAULT IS LOOKING OVERDUE FOR A GOOD SOLID SHAKING.

Orson: And?

COTG: TESTINESS! ARIZONA OVER CAL BECAUSE I AM BUILDING MIKE STOOPS’ HOPES ONLY TO CRUSH THEM MOMENTARILY, UTAH OVER TCU BECAUSE I SAID SO, AND OHIO STATE OVER IOWA BUT NOT BY MUCH BECAUSE I HAVE CURSED THE BIG TEN FOR THREE SCORE YEARS WITH AN OPTION FOR TEN MORE IF I CALL MY LAWYERS AND TELL THEM TO MAKE IT HAPPEN.

Orson: What did they do?

COTG: GARY BARNETT KNOWS WHAT HE DID.

Orson: Figures it would be him.

COTG: YES. I HEAR SCALES AND SMELL FISHY BRIMSTONE. THAT MEANS EYEBALL-DICK IS DRAGGIN HIMSELF IN HERE. MY SCHVITZ IS RUINED YET AGAIN BY THE OLD ONES.

Orson: I’m still not going to bet on South Carolina, even with our offense being as mediocre as it’s been.

COTG: VERY WELL. SAY HELLO TO MEL FROM GILEAD FOR ME.

[SMITES Orson. Again.]

“In any particular time frame, could be three years, could be five years, could be two years, you could get your ass kicked, OK?” Delany continued. “It can happen. We’re not playing Little Sisters of the Poor. We’re playing the best football teams in their region.

“So were we 1-6 (in bowl games) last year? Yeah. Were we 0-6 in the BCS in the last (three years)? We were. Those are the facts. But take me from 2000 or 1997 to 2005; I remember when Michigan played Ohio State [in 2006]. We were the toast of the town, one versus two, game of the century.”

Jim Delany’s not too worried about it, really. He wouldn’t worry about it. Don’t worry about it. He’s not worried at all.

Sounds like a reasonably nonchalant response to the issue, even if, as Doc Saturday humbly points out, it’s a problem that isn’t likely to resolve itself this season no matter what Delany says. For all the criticism we’ve heaped on the Big 10 commissioner over the past couple years, he sounds like a guy who takes a level-headed, matter-of-fact approach to problems instead of panicking, which is the kind of trait you’d want in not only a conference commish but also . . . an advice columnist:

Dear Big 10 Commish,
My husband and I have three children: a son who is in college and two daughters, a 16-year-old and a 10-year-old. My older daughter was an A student all through elementary and middle school, but her grades have deteriorated markedly since she started high school. She has a boyfriend now and has been spending a lot more time with him and his clique of friends, and a lot less time studying or helping out around the house; she hasn’t been particularly combative toward me or my husband, but that’s mainly because we hardly ever see her at all. A couple weeks ago I found what looked like the remnants of a marijuana cigarette on our back patio; I asked her if she knew anything about it and she said she didn’t, and that she had never tried marijuana or any other drugs. Can I trust her? Is it time for me to put my foot down and make her stop spending as much time with her boyfriend, or will that only drive her further away?
Concerned Mother in Battle Creek

Dear Concerned Mother,
Yeah, you’re probably right to be concerned. But these things happen. Anyplace your child goes, she’s gonna run into people or situations that might be less than savory, you know? Sure, her grades have tanked and she’s hanging out with people you may not approve of. But go back to her earlier years: She was the toast of her middle school, making straight As, doing well. I’m convinced that with the parenting she has, she’ll turn it around no problem. Now, is she going to dominate every year? Is she going to turn down pot every time it’s offered to her? Don’t kid yourself. But as long as she turns it down maybe half the time, pulls those grades up into B/C territory, she’ll get there.

Dear Big 10 Commish,
My wife and I have been married for six pretty happy years, but one thing has never been resolved in our relationship: Her mother hates me. She didn’t approve of our relationship to begin with because I worked a blue-collar job and wasn’t a regular churchgoer, but even after we got married she continued to make passive-aggressive comments toward me and even criticize the way I raised our daughter, who is now three. Well, I got laid off from my job three months ago, and that’s kicked my mother-in-law’s critical comments into overdrive: The other day my wife related a conversation in which her mother advised her flat-out to ask me for a divorce. Is it time for me to confront my mother-in-law and tell her to stop making my life harder than it already is?
Son-in-Law Under Pressure

Dear Son-in-Law,
Wow. Tough situation. But in a marriage that lasts any length of time — could be three years, could be six years, could be fifty — you could get your ass kicked, OK? We know how mothers-in-law are, and you’re not going up against some little sister of the poor here. You’re going up against a real overprotective ball-buster. So what do you do? Well, these things are cyclical — relationships get worse and they get better. So there’s no point in rocking the boat, just sit back, keep looking for jobs, and wait for things to get better on their own. And if you really end up in a bind, have another kid, that usually clears up a lot of problems.

Dear Big 10 Commish,
My husband and I are both nearing our fifties, and both our children are in their twenties and out of the house. My husband is starting to show a lot of signs of being clinically depressed. He rose through the ranks pretty quickly at his company but has been passed over for several promotions the last few years, and when he comes home from work in the evening he doesn’t even want to talk about his job. He’s fallen out of touch with most of his friends and even some of his own family members. I’ve tried to get him interested in some of the old hobbies he used to love — golf, tennis, rare book collecting — but nothing seems to arouse any passion in him at all. Then, out of the blue, he bought a handgun a couple of weeks ago, and one day I came home from work to find him sitting out on the back porch, holding the gun in his hand and just staring off into the distance. I asked him what he was doing and all he said was “nothing.” I feel like now is the time to have an intervention of some kind, but . . . how do I even go about it?
Worried Wife in Evansville

Dear Worried Wife,
I know things look bad right now, but you gotta look at the bigger picture here. Over the last 20 years or so, he’s maintained a solid career and raised a couple kids who seem to be doing pretty well for themselves — sounds like a pretty good track record to me. So has his career kind of stagnated? Yeah. Has he lost interest in a lot of the things that used to make him happy? He has. But go back ten, fifteen years ago — he was getting promoted right and left, he was the toast of his company. Would he be doing better if he were playing in a different company, a different industry? Probably, but it’s a little late to be making a career change now. Just let this thing run its course and he’ll get back to where he used to be. Sounds like he might have a new hobby in gun collecting, anyway — try nurturing that, see where it leads. With the career and family he has and a new hobby or two, he’ll be fine.

Ahhh, Colt McCoy, WHATTAPLAYA: Prepare for a Musburgering unseen since Maurice Clarett and his lint roller rolled through the dirty streets of Columbus.

To alleviate this problem ahead of time, we offer up 29 alternate names for Colt McCoy. See? You’ve heard the name so many times you don’t even realize how outrageously fake his name really is: part firearm, horse, and Scottish, with just a hint of prominent car dealership owner and porn star thrown in. You let it trip off your tongue like it doesn’t reek of Walker, Texas Ranger script without even noticing, so used to the absurdity of it are you.

It’s a shame repetition bleeds the novelty out of even the weirdest things, but it happens. Therefore, college football fans, we present the Official Alternative But Equivalent Names for Colt McCoy for 2009.

Horse O’Shy
McClain Dudeflinch
Bear Canebreak
Python Smith
Hawk Cantanker
Magnum O’Reilly
Snake Triscuit
Patterson O’Buffalochickentender
Bacon McLean
Fizzbitch McLanahan
Prariedog Campbell
Kentigern Smithenwessen
Broncoface Fraser
Tavish McAwesomeblossom
Glockpheasant McGillicuddy
Armalite Kerr-Rattlesnake
Winchester Stewart
Remington Ponymaster
Mikel McArmistice Poplarfist
Bell Windraper
Thomas Alva Ladyflowerpuncher
Donnan Lambfister
Tek-9 Findley
Mingus Deathrattle
Tartan Hollowpointer
Deertick Docherty
Derringer Shinkick
Shybones O’Reilly

Use them well. (Inspired by this, of course.)

So I’m here to discuss the Florida Georgia game with you. That game in Jacksonville, yes. So you want it moved? Right? Because it’s…hot. Oh, you mean in this room, too? Yes, it’s somewhere around 75 degrees in here. You require an exact temperature of 74 degrees in order to not wilt? Really? Well, sure I guess we can do something about that. There, adjusted it for you. Gonna make it? Sure?

Okay! Let’s talk. You want to move the game to Atlanta because it’s hotter in Jacksonville, and because going to Jacksonville isn’t really playing at a neutral spot. Right. Does that mean Georgia might win with a greater frequency than once every six years if you move it to the Georgia Dome–

The tea? Too…what? Warm? Yes? It burned your mouth? Would you like–

Water with lemon. Of course. No ice, right? Somehow I knew that would be the case.

There you are.

So somehow moving the game from a place where the entire stadium is divided evenly, and both teams regularly fill their allotment of seats in perfect balance, and then play a game in extremely pleasant conditions in front of said balanced crowd after both teams spend a night in a hotel before the game, that this has something to do with losing 16 of 19 games since 1990 in this rivalry…even after your university ran through similar nasty streaks in similar fashion in the year leading up to this reversal?

That somehow, after 75 years of competition, this arrangement suddenly became a problem in 1990? Like this is the product of some kind of Wilson Phillips “Hold On”-influenced curse? Like, pre-1990, no problem, we’re rolling along nicely, and then BAM OH SHIT THE TOP SONG OF 1990 WE’RE DOOMED–

I know, you love that song. It’s inspirational. I sing it when things get hard, too. But if you’re telling me that pre-Wilson Phillips=Jacksonville RULZ, and post-Wilson Phillips Jacksonville KILLZ BULLDAWGZ DED, I’ll be happy to believe it, because nothing else explains it. Ray Goff can’t quite be blamed for the whole thing. Neither can Jim Donnan. You know what you’re doing and even you still can’t win with any consistency in this series–and you were the one propping FSU up in the late 90s while Bowden began to rust through his floorboards. So I know what you’re going to have to do.

The sandwiches too spicy? They’re just cucumber and white bread with a bit of mustard, but–why, yes, Coach. I imagine mustard is too spicy for some people.

Anyway, you may be a Christian, and that’s great. Because you’re going to have to kill Wilson Phillips, Coach Richt. All of them. I know, not doing that is part of the charter ten. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I know they all live somewhere in California. If you’re looking for the big one, she’ll be sitting by the Grand Canyon behind a piano. I’m fairly certain she’s chained to it at all times. Otherwise, move the game to Athens on an away and away series for Florida if you like, for all Florida cares. As long as Wilson Phillips breathes in the third rate concert halls of this nation, you stand no chance to break free break free from the chaaaaaaiiiin.

Matthews: Wha…what happened?

Albert: …

Matthews: I was having a beer at the Copper Monkey one second, and then…nothing. I just want–

Albert: (Raises a finger to his lips. Um, the place where his jaws come together. Whatever that is. There.)

Matthews: What do you want from me?

Enter URBAN MEYER.

Meyer: Shane, I only want you to do what is required of you.

Matthews: I…I don’t understand. I just pointed out that in the Ole Miss game they played man-to-man the whole game, and that we didn’t take advantage of it, and–

Meyer: Shhhh…Shane. You understand the present and the past, Shane. But now…to the future.

Matthews: These are chafing my wrists. I have a show in 45 minutes, Coach. Now, I’m sorry you took offense to what I said, but they pay me to tell it like I see it. What are you doing with that bottle of water and rag, I–

Urban: I want you to understand this. The thing I have for you here is the worst thing in the world. It goes beyond fear of pain or death, it unendurable, and it varies from person to person. In your case, it is your opinion being drowned out by others.

Shane: No…NOOOOOOO—mRRPHHHGGHHHHHH

Urban: Shane, there will be no loyalty, except loyalty towards the Gator. There will be no love, except the love of the Gator. There will be no laughter, except the laugh of triumph over a defeated enemy, unless it is Auburn, and we don’t get to work on that for a few years. There will be no art, no literature, no science that does not proclaim the name of GATOR or his only son TEBOW across the land. There will be no curiosity, no enjoyment of the process of life. All competing pleasures will be destroyed. All that will remain is the word GATOR.

Urban stops pouring the water. Matthews chokes, gags, coughs, and screams.

Matthews: WHY? Let me go, I’ll do anything you want, just do let me drown.

Urban: It’s just a taste of what awaits you in Seat 37F if you ever dare to criticize so much as a hair on my program’s proverbial head.

Pours water a second time, allows Matthews to breathe after 15 seconds of the treatment.

Matthews: THIS IS TORTURE!!!

Meyer: No, it’s not. It’s love. I’m just trying to protect our program, Shane. Also, I prefer the term “Facially Administered Tracheal Aquamassage,” Shane. And it sounds like your lungs are still a little tense, and could use some more treatment.

He pours more water. “Orange and Blue” plays faintly in the background.

(ps. This is slightly old cheese anyway, as it echoes previous statements Meyer’s made regarding criticisms of the program, fits right in with his Woody Hayes-ish tetchiness, and happened last week.)

It is a notable coincidence of history to watch both Oklahoma and Florida tussle tonight on the same date that Abdul-Aziz-Ibn-Saud, puppeted Bedouin thug, murderer, tyrant, and happy patsy for the post-1900 colonial proxy octopus, named him self king of Hejaz, a barren waste of sand and camels invented on the spot and renamed “Saudi Arabia.” (A humble piece of nomenclature, that.)

[/guzzles entire bottle of sherry, tells crowd below pressbox to "fuck you.".]

Like the tyrant who conjured a territory whole from the aether, so have we on this field two imaginary kingdoms wrenched forth from geographic oblivion. Florida, were it not for the intervention of a few real estate scamsters in the ‘20, the discovery of insecticide, air-conditioning, and the generous slathering of federal pork upon the state’s snake-infested swampwaste, would have descended into a kind of Sun Belt Lord of the Flies scenario, I think. I must also admit this may have happened despite all the best efforts I described in the following sentence.

[/berates Pat Forde for his lack of concern over the Cypriot situation, loses control of shirt-tail in process and exposes huge, Scotch-built belly. Calls Bruce Feldman "A closet Trotskyite fascist" for no particular reason.]

Likewise for Oklahoma. I know little of the state, but assume it is like Saudi Arabia, but with sod in place of sand and methamphetamine-riddled lumpenfolk in place of berobed tribesmen. Their obeisance to an imaginary, cruel, and violent despot of a nonexistent god is the same. So is their dependence on a single natural resource they neither created nor had the gumption to discover themselves. I suspect I shall not be traveling there soon.

Yet this American spectacle exists.

[/funnels twelve beers in parking lot with Florida fans, writes 15,000 word piece on liberal guilt, Russian policy, and this one time he and the staff of The Nation got drunk on brake fluid and threw batteries off the roof at the passing limousine of the Sudanese United Nations delegation.]

I know little of Tim Tebow, either. He appears to be large and fond of the noxious brand of fundamentalist Christianity confusing random athletic gene assignment, thanking his god in the manner of a suckling pig begging the freshly sharpened ax for forgiveness. If he wishes to live in his own spiritual Pyongyang, overseen forever by a nagging and sadistic parent, he may do this. That I should acknowledge his religion through the vehicle of appreciating his considerable athletic talents is a fallacy I cannot purchase nor endorse. Not one, thank you very much.

[/proclaims that if Bear Bryant was given an enema, he "could have been buried in a matchbox," gets jaw broken by a clearly inebriated Paul Finebaum. They become swift friends three minutes later.]

Florida wins, 24-14, in a battle decided by a Florida defense as thick as the skulls of those currently bemoaning the altogether beneficial invasion of Iraq, and by an Oklahoma quarterback as deluded as those who believe in the slavish cult surrounding Mother Theresa. Let us now hope the bars of South Beach provide less resistance, as I have female company to entertain, and though she is already quite willing, I hope to boom her sooner rather than later.

PEACE OUT–HiTCH.

He likes to coach. Teh futbawl.

(Index along in a moment.)

Front:

Back:

Dearest–

Thank you for understanding my yearly walkabout, and for your patience and devotion. Mogadishu is lovely this time of year, as it always is. It’s good to see good friends again, even if many of them have lost limbs and eyes since the last time I saw them.

I will be home after an expedition with my old friends on the Horn of Africa. I have enclosed a picture of the unique collateral I brought with me this time to fund our yearly adventures.

The picture:

We-Are! Being-Held-For-Ransom!

LOL,

Jimmy

ps. “Lost” my passport in Afghanistan please file for a new one love again ly jim

pps. I am going to spank you like a Somali shepard whips a camel when I get home, but only in the loving, consenting way we always do. XOXOXOXO –J.

Woman: Hello?

Man’s voice on bad, third-world connection: Hey, honey. It’s Jim.

Woman: Jim…just tell me you’ll be home soon.

Man’s voice: Oh, sure sweetie. But you know I have to do this every year, and I have to do it alone.

Woman: I know…I just worry.

Man’s voice: Don’t worry about me, sweetie. Say hello to the poodles for me.

Woman: I love you, Jim.

Man’s voice: Oh, pooky, I love you too. See you in ten days.

[he hangs up. The wind howls indifferently outside.]

SCENE: The high plains on the Bamiyan Plateau, Afghanistan. Desolation. An encampment of tents surrounds a single well on the blighted landscape. SHEIKH MASOOD reads from the Chinese menu in his hand.

MASOOD: There’s no way they will deliver us our food out here.

Enter Masood’s second-in-command, AHMAD PASHTO.

PASHTO: But they promised delivery, no matter our location?

MASOOD: We shall wait another three days, and then cancel our credit cards.

A loud uproar goes up behind them. They turn to see the dogfighting pit, surrounded by Afghan men in half-turbans and baggy pants. Each bristles with weaponry and facial hair. Dust rises from an unseen fracas in the middle of the ring. The noise of man and dog fighting can be heard clearly even from a distance.

MASOOD: Has the Scarlet one joined us again?

PASHTO: Yes. For the eleventh year running, he has joined us, Sheikh Masood.

MASOOD: He brought his customary entry fee?

PASHTO: Yes, his passport. He said he has no need for it where he travels.

MASOOD: Was he in his customary state?

PASHTO: Yes, Sheikh Massod. Ragged. Covered in dust and blood. Arrived on horseback at 2 in the morning last night and lay in his tent all night screaming for women and opium. He went into the ring at 8 this morning, and has not emerged since.

MASOOD: He has demanded nothing…unusual?

PASHTO: No. He has only asked for more dogs to fight to feed that which never sleeps within him.

MASOOD: Allah help that man. I see angels in that man’s demoning, I do.

PASHTO: Yes, Sheikh Masood. I do, as well.

MASOOD: He brought only his dog and African this time?

PASHTO: Yes…this…”Steve-ah,” I believe.

MASOOD: And?

PASHTO: Together, the Scarlet One and his dog have killed all they have fought. I have made much money from their fighting today.

MASOOD: As have I, Allah be praised. Come, let us watch their rage.

PASHTO: Yes, Sheikh Masood.

They approach the ring. In it, a man and dog are fighting a man and dog.

JIM TRESSEL: YEAH!!! KICK HIS FUCKING ASS MAUAJI!!! RIP HIS FUCKING THROAT OUT!!! KIIIIIIIIIIIILLLLL!!!

MASOOD: He lives only for blood and mayhem and the singing it puts in the blood. To see this…it chills the blood. Allah never saw a more pure killing machine, Pashto.

PASHTO: No, Sheikh Masood. Allah help us if we do, though.

MASOOD: Indeed.

To be continued…

–Pam Ward, re: the “Snow Bowl” Independence Bowl in 2000, during the ESPN broadcast last night of the 2008 Independence Bowl.

SCENE: Tricky Jane’s Bar, Tampa, Florida. PAM WARD sits on a barstool. Sarah McLachlan’s “Adia” plays in the background. PAM smokes a cigarette to the butt, and stubs it out in an ashtray.

Barkeep: Some game we got here, eh?

Pam: Yup. Some game.

Barkeep: Doesn’t snow like that in Shreveport very often, does it?

Pam: Bring me another, Suze.

Barkeep: I…I can’t Pam.

Pam: I’ve got money. I’ll pay, Suze.

Barkeep: Your money’s no good. I can’t serve anyone eleven drinks in an hour.

Pam: I’m not just anyone. I’m gonna make play-by-play one day. I will. Just wait. I’ll get out of this shithole sideline gig and call plays from the booth. I will.

Barkeep: Sure you will, Pam.

Pam: Her voice rises with anger. And not just the shitty 12 o’clock Big Ten games! I’m talking Ron Franklin’s spot. I’ll be there one day! I don’t care how many bitches I have to kick in the honeypot to get there! I’ll–

Barkeep: Pam, don’t make me call the cops. Again.

Pam stumbles back off her barstool, looks at table of women chatting and smoking idly.

Pam: What are YOU looking at, Virginia Slims? GET SOME!!!

BRAWLING BETTY rolls up her sleeves and gets up slowly from her table.

BB: Are we gonna have to settle this Houston-style, lady?

She pulls a switchblade from her pocket. It snaps open with an evil click.

Barkeep: (Furiously dials 911, cracks out taser.)

Pam: Baltimore bitches don’t need scalpels to operate, lady. Come get it.

Barkeep: Betty, leave that snake alone. You don’t know what happens when it bites.

Betty: HYEEEAAAAGGGH—-

A SCENE OF UNIMAGINABLE VIOLENCE ENSUES. Brawlin’ Betty falls to the floor, unconscious and with a switchblade stuck in her forehead.

Pam: I…I did it again, didn’t I? I…I just saw red and…it happened again…Oh God, not again…

Police sirens wail in the distance.

Barkeep: Take the back door. And don’t ever come back here if you know what’s good for you.

Pam: (Shaking and running toward the door…) I’ll control it one day, I will…I will…I’m tired of running…and sleeping under overpasses…I’ll control it…I will…

Barkeep: GO!!! (Pam runs into the darkening night, shoeless, covered in blood, and crying.)

Pam Ward has since gone on to become just one of two female play-by-play announcers on ESPN. The beast in her lies in wait most nights now, though she did kill Ron Franklin with a stapler in 2004. His subsequent appearances have been made by an impersonator, and his body was ground into hamburger and fed to Chris Berman in one sitting at an ESPN function in the same year.

Two Supreme Court Justices are assassinated…

One reporter is on the run…

And really, no one cares, because TWO FOR ONE SAZERACS WOOOOOOOEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!1

DUJUAN HARRIS: But….but….we were ordered to beat the Ragin’ Cajuns!
DAMION FLETCHER:  Just like we were!! It’s all part of their plan, don’t you see??
DUJUAN HARRIS:…..
DAMION FLETCHER:  I dunno, something to do with oil.  What the shit is a Sun Belt?
DUJUAN HARRIS: You got me.  Holy fuck, did that sign say “Free Titties”?

This Monday…..we’re calling in drunk.  All of us.  The New Orleans Bowl.  Opens at 8:15, December 21st on ESPN.

BEHOLD BAMA FANS THE VOICE OF YOUR LEADER, THE GREAT AND UNDYING CYBERTYDE. DO NOT PANIC BECAUSE YOU ARE HEARING THIS VOICE. THIS IS NOT JESUS. THIS IS NOT A PSYCHOTIC EPISODE. PLEASE DO NOT DRIVE OFF THE ROAD AND MAINTAIN CALM.

I AM COMMANDING YOU, FANS OF THE CRIMSON TIDE: OPERATION HUMILITY HAS CONCLUDED. YEARS OF PAIN, CYBERTYDE HAS GIVEN YOU. YOU NEEDED THAT PAIN, BUT EVEN WHILE YOU LEARNED HUMILITY CYBERTYDE GAVE YOU LOVE WHILE STAMPING ON YOUR FACE FOREVER WITH MY BOOT OF LOVE. REMEMBER DUBOSE?

YES, CYBERTYDE TAKETH, AS WITH DUBOSE. BUT HE ALSO GIVETH, AS WHEN CYBERTYDE GAVE YOU TWO WINS OVER STEVE SPURRIER IN 1999. ALSO REMEMBERETH THE KINDNESS OF CYBERTYDE WHEN HE DESTROYED DUBOSE WITH IRRESISTIBLE POONBOT DISGUISED AS SECRETARY.

CYBERTYDE WAS NOT THROUGH TESTING YOU, THOUGH. AND YET, YOU STILL LOVED, AND THUS PASSED THE TEST AND TEMPTATIONS OF FIRST THE THE WHORE…

…AND THEN THE FOOL.

YOU SURVIVED THIS AND MORE. IN TIME, YOU WENT UNDERGROUND AND BETRAYED CYBERTYDE!

YOU FORGOT TO PEPPER OPPOSING MESSAGE BOARDS WITH FURIOUS UNSUBSTANTIATED TAUNTING!

YOU FORGOT THE ANGRY CALLS TO RADIO SHOWS!!!

YOU NEGLECTED TO NAME CHILDREN AFTER ANDREW ZOW AND SHERMAN WILLIAMS!!!

YOU FORGOT TO SPIT ON THE GROUND WHENEVER THE FOUL NAME OF AUBURN WAS INVOKED WHEREVER YOUR WERE! (YOU CAN DO IT IN CHURCH GOD WILL UNDERSTAND WE ARE FRIENDS AND COLLEAGUES OK WE ARE THE SAME SORTA OBEY!!! OBEY!!!

NOW, YOU HAVE ALL OF MY MOST PERFECT OF CREATIONS. FIRST, MY MORNING STAR:

AND MY MOST PERFECT OF DIGITALLY PERFECTED SERAPHIM ENGINEERED TO PERFECTION:

AND TERRENCE CODY:

END YOUR SHAMEFUL SILENCE. NAME THY FIRSTBORN SABAN OR FACE THE WRATH OF CYBERTYDE, WHO MAY MOVE THY SEASON TICKETS INTO CRAPPY SEATS SHOULD YOU FAIL ME. DISCARD REASON! OBEY YOUR INSTINCTS AND SPRINKLE CHICKEN BLOOD ON YOUR HOME SHRINES!!! TATTOO THYSELF IN CYBERTYDE’S NAME!!! CLAIM GLORY AND PRESTIGE FOR TEAMS YOU WERE NOT EVEN ALIVE TO SEE PLAY!!! CLAIM CHAMPIONSHIPS BY THE THINNEST OF THREADS!!!

SHAME IS THE YOKE OF THE OPPRESSED, TIDE FANS!! CRY IT WITH CYBERTYDE WHEREVER YOU MAY BE!!!

ROLLLL TAAAAAAAHHHHHDE!!!

ROLLLL TAAAAAAAHHHHHDE!!!

ROLLLL TAAAAAAAHHHHHDE!!!

ROLLLL TAAAAAAAHHHHHDE!!!

ROLLLL TAAAAAAAHHHHHDE!!!

ROLLLL—

MP3 File

ROLLLLLL———

MP3 File

ROLLLLLL——–

MP3 File

ERROR MESSAGE:

We hear his voice reading the words he is typing on screen.

SJPW: But what if, in the rush to find love, we have forgotten sex somewhere in all the rush? And is there enough sex in our love, and enough sex in our love? And where do both fit with the urge to have sex while you’re in love with someone else? And when facing a zone blitz, what the fuck do I do? And the sex? What of the sex?

The phone rings. BRODIE CROYLE is on the line.

SJPW: Hello?

Brodie: What’s up bitch? ARE YOU WEARING SHOES?

SJPW: No, I’m just stuck on my column. But I love shoes!

Brodie: Then put on some EXPENSIVE SHOES and get down to the bar. First Cosmo’s on me!

SJPW: You always know how to cheer me up.

Brodie: Whatever. And bring your vagina!

SJPW: See you in an hour

The scene changes to an expensive bar you would never go to unless you like whorish displays of wealth and hair gel. At a table sit SJPW, BRODIE CROYLE, PAULETTE FINEBAUM, and Terrance Ann Cody.

Terrance Cody: I like sex!

Paulette Finebaum: I’m looking for love, not sex. There’s more to life than just sex, you know.

Brodie: There’s shoes AND sex, Paulette!

ALL CACKLE.

Brodie: How’s the diet going, Terrence Ann?

Paulette: That’s private, Brodie.

Brodie: WHATEVER! SHOES!

SJPW: You can talk about it if you like, Terrence Ann. It’s your call.

TAC: I…I can’t stop eating lineman.

Brodie: They are fatty.

SJPW: And delicious, if you know what I mean. RIGHT GIRLS!!!

ALL CACKLE.

A suave, diminutive gentleman in a trenchcoat approaches the table.

Mr. Big: Good evening. I’d like to show you something, ladies.

Brodie: Oh, I bet you do big man OH MY GOD—

TAC: I’m hungry.

Paulette: I’m disgusted by your lack of discretion, as I’m the only person in this series who knows their ass from a moral hole in the ground. Also, I have the best ass, by far, but am never seen naked for some cursed reason.

SJPW: Is that…covered in diamonds?

Mr. Big: Not many men can afford a codpiece this big, or need one, for that matter. Fewer still can afford to cover it in rubies and diamonds.

Brodie: Is that…

Mr. Big: An elephant pattern.

SJPW: Where’s it’s trunk?

Mr. Big: I can show you that later.

ALL CACKLE.

Brodie: SHOES! MORE COSMOS! TELL HERM I’M NOT COMING HOME TONIGHT BECAUSE I AM A WHOOOOOORE!!!

Scene: an abandoned parking lot in Hoover, Alabama.

SJPW: I’ve hit another predictable crisis where my complete lack of self-awareness and need for approval from any man, no matter how sad, has me walking the streets alone. Lacking acting chops, I will stare at the ground and purse my lips while wearing a five-thousand dollar dress.

A black limousine with Alabama tags pulls up. A window rolls down. Mr. Big smiles from the window.

Mr. Big: Hey, gorgeous. Need a ride?

SJPW: I…(she swoons. From lack of food.)

SJPW: How did you find me?

Mr. Big: I followed my heart…all the way to Hoover.

SJPW: You followed me to the Galleria? That’s at least 50 miles. That’s more than most Alabamians travel in their whole lives–

He puts a finger to her mouth.

Mr. Big: Shhhhh. Distance means nothing between you and me, JPW. I’ll make sure you never have to think about anything ever again. Just like we’ve been doing all along.

SJPW: Run on almost every first down?

Mr. Big: Yes.

SJPW: Play-action? Screens? Simple stuff, right? Big, I can do the simple stuff. I can!

Mr. Big: Yes, baby. Yes, you can.

SJPW: I’m…I’m so glad you found me.

Mr. Big: Me, too, baby. Most quarterbacks actually want to do something.

SJPW: No, Big, no. I’m yours. Whatever you say, from now on. That’s what I’ll do. But what if it’s too predictable?

Mr. Big: Predictable or not, baby, you can’t stop unstoppable.

SJPW: You’re right, Big. You’re always right.

Big: Now let’s go find that elephant trunk I told you so much about, huh?

SJPW: You naughty boy, you.

(They embrace.)

FIN

The chain of events was set in motion with the assault of Florida State wide receiver Taiwan Easterling at the Florida State Student Union in Tallahassee, Florida on Tuesday. Easterling, allegedly harassed for several days by members of the fraternity, fought back with the assistance of numerous teammates in a large brawl. The exact scope of involvement for the members of the football team is unclear at this point.

What is clear is that a mistranslation of the article caused immense havoc over the next 18 hours. Before the smoke cleared, the PRC had launched over 75 missiles into the Eastern Taiwanese seaboard, the United States Pacific Fleet had been put on full war footing, and the Phi Beta Sigma fraternity house lay in smoking rubble by an American commando team.

The Foreign Minister of Taiwan: “We regret the error, and any harm it may have caused.”

Shortly after 5:30 p.m. EDT, Taiwanese jets scrambled from bases around the island, according to military insiders. The PRC in return launched missiles at military targets along the coast of Taiwan. In response, the PRC launched at least 75 missiles at No casualties were reported, as most of the Chinese missiles misfired badly or failed to detonate. There is concern about lead poisoning and high melamine levels in the missile casings however, and authorities are urging locals to avoid sightseeing the missile strike sites.

“The missiles were launched in retaliation to Taiwanese aggression, which in retrospect was made in error. Nevertheless, the People’s Republic of China will never hesitate in defending its borders, which includes Taiwan, who launched the attack, and now we’re confused. Pardon us. We need a moment.”

The most bizarre incident of the night came in the bombing of the Phi Beta Sigma house. Witnesses reported seeing a cruise missile strike the building around 7 a.m. 911 records report a loud explosion in the area, followed almost instantly by a sonic boom.

The Defense Department had no comment this morning, but an unnamed source said the confusion over U.S./Taiwan/China policy likely triggered a tragic automatic United States defense response. “Our official policy is to stand with Taiwan and protect them, but that’s very poorly defined. I’m afraid someone in the Pentagon should lay off the sugar-free Red Bull.”

The Phi Beta Sigma house is destroyed after threatening “Taiwan” in beautiful downtown Tallahassee, Florida.

Surviving fraternity members were stunned. “Some motherfucker owes me a DVD player and a shitload of porno,” said a member who did not give his name to this reporter.

President Bush commented this morning by saying “Huh?” before slipping on a banana peel and invoking uproarious applause and laughter from a nearby sound effects machine.