Orson: I say we do this by order of MEDIOCRE THINGS, because it is a mediocre weekend of football in general.

Holly: Huzzah, Homecoming!

Orson: Northwestern@ Iowa. Mediocre thing to match: Push-ups. Insubstantial, cold, and frustrating because after all that pushing and licking, it’s really just z-grade corn syrup, carageenan, and fake citrus flavoring all jammed in semi-appealing package. Iowa will be the nub left at the end, the little useless plastic wheel you’re left with at the end. We know where this season is headed, and it is sad Push-Up territory.

Holly: That you can’t quite suck all the orange froth out of. Although, don’t get me wrong, a transitive loss to Syracuse would reverse my desire to burn Ricky Stanzi as a witch.

Orson: Right. Neither team wears orange, but that would wreck a barely passable metaphor. (more…)

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.

We really couldn’t face the idea of writing about the ACC today, so what follows is a Hate Week Substitute for the Factor Five, a Competitive Correlative in five extremely important categories discussing Florida and Georgia. Enjoy?

One: Inanity in Governance: (EDITOR’S NOTE: We assume all politicians of all parties to be evil, soulless lizards walking around in human suits masquerading as people. At night, they dine on pickled infants and watch Two and a Half Men, a uniform preference explaining the show’s inexplicably high ratings. Any expression here is one of purely personal distaste, and not DURRR POLITIKS fodder.)

Florida Florida’s governor is an allegedly closeted gay man with a basted ham-toned, George Hamiltonish tan you suspect continues uninterrupted around his entire body. Like anyone with the dimwitted ambition of being governor, he’s not particularly bright and could probably be shot into space without any discernible effect on the overall well-being of the planet as a whole. He also failed the bar twice and sounds suspiciously like Brick Tamland when talking. Naturally, being insubstantial, dim, and tan, he has been mentioned with some seriousness for the Presidency.

Georgia: Sonny Perdue burrows even lower into the warm humus of gubernatorial stupidity, however, by opposing the lifting of the Sunday alcohol ban. Correct, non-Georgia readers: if you want alcohol on Sundays in Georgia, you must first drive to a bar, then pay a fifty percent markup over wholesale, and then wait until you sober up before you drive home because some turkey-wattled Baptist eighty miles away in Hookwormville thinks Crazy Old Testament God is going to turn him into a pillar of salt if the citizens of Atlanta get drunk in the safe, warm, and undoubtedly godless confines of their own house.

Oh, but you could just buy on Saturday. It’s not a big deal! THAT’S WHAT THEY SAID ABOUT THE GHETTOS OF WARSAW, COMMIE. (more…)

Oooh he’ll just have to cry into his millions! Sure. Money comes and goes. Crushing defeat is forever. Good morning!

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.

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Once you get past the shock of seeing a guy painted all-white standing in his undies in the middle of Sanford Stadium, you realize: he’s got excellent mike skills, like Shawn Michaels or the Nature Boy himself in his prime. “SPURRIER? GRRRRRRRRRRRR….YOU THINK VISORS ARE COOOOOOOOOOL!!!!”

(HT: Brandon Cox’s Vagina.) (We have the best commenters.)

The Ginger Ninja confuses his opponents in endless ways! First, he is out with an arm injury…BUT THEN HEALS MIRACULOUSLY THANKS TO POOR SOURCING AND NINJA POWDERS!!! He is playing Samurai Chess while you click away at your pathetic Chinese Checkers. He laughs like the butterfly inches above the reach of the hungry snow monkey, forever fluttering out of your crude grasp. HAHAHAHAHAH!!

/applies eight layers of sunscreen

/underthrows deep ball to A.J. Green by five yards

Keep guessing, fools, for the Ginger Ninja is forever ahead and behind you, watching with an invisible eye and an arsenal of cunning. Now, watch as he disappears in a cloud of mysterious NINJA SMOKE!

/walks off screen muttering profanities to self

(Yup: the Ninja will be in the building Saturday as starter.)

This week’s installment of “excellence in media guide typos” comes courtesy of UGA. You won’t like it, but as usual, the answer to everything is 42:

Photo: Mark Bradley, AJC.

The guide has the 45-42 Tech victory last year in Athens as a 42-42 tie. Please note that the Florida score is accurate, and still registers a full, sexy 39 point margin of victory. Mark Bradley also mentions the differing tallies between Tech and UGA in the series, and takes pains to mention Jasper Sanks’ fumble/non-fumble in the ‘99 game and thus double-Rochambeau Dawg fans. Remember this when you’re kicking Bradley in the balls in person, and feel justified.