Arian Foster is sorry he dropped your baby on his head. He would have held onto it, but it flew out of his hands while he was busy trying to catch the coffee he’d just dropped, which he paid for with money that slipped out of his hand while attempting to pay, which came from a wallet he also fumbled onto the pavement, which he dropped while thinking about the other cup of coffee he’d just dropped on a woman, staining her dress permanently, something he’d done while trying to hold a door for her, which he’d let slip and crash into her forehead, knocking her onto the pavement, where he’d dropped the coffee on her while simultaneously trying to catch her baby, who she had dropped because Arian Foster cannot hold onto things for longer than a second before his hands repel matter and send it crashing to the ground, because he is Arian Foster and has powers like that.

Fortunately, Dallas Baker came in, caught everything before it hit the ground, and saved the day.

“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.

PRESEEZUN BUZZ: UR DOIN IT WRONG. Seriously, Pac-10, that is bush. In the interest of a more literary comparison, if SEC Media Days is “Animal House” — a lot of shenanigans go on, nobody really learns anything, but nobody gets hurt — then Pac-10 Media Day (yup, that’s Day, singular) is the equivalent of a Tom Stoppard play: very low-key and dignified, a lot of people talk for what seems like a very long time, but in the end nothing happens.

As further evidence of just how much Scott’s appearance fizzled, Oregon coach Chip Kelly brought the house down, comparatively speaking, with his explanation of how his spread offense relates to the Pythagorean theorem. (As someone who counts finagling his way out of AP Calculus in high school as one of his life’s greatest victories, I find this inconceivable: Math?!? In college football? Too complicated! FIRE BAD!) Even Dennis Erickson’s interview with Fanster.com was positively vanilla (not to mention barely audible), with Erickson offering up nary a story about golf carts, volcanoes, drunken sexual shenanigans in the Far East, or any of the other things for which you’d bother to listen to such an interview in the first place.

Meanwhile, even Big XII Media Days gave fans more excitement in a single tattoo on Brandon Carter’s skull than the Pac-10 had in an entire day. Clearly, Pac-10, you guys need an adrenaline shot, but we, the SEC, are willing to provide it. How ’bout we loan Clay Travis out to you for future Media Days, just to liven things up a bit? Once you’ve watched Aaron Corp field the question of whether he’s saving himself for marriage, your eyes will be opened to a whole new world of possibilities.

Play me off for 6-8 weeks, Keyboard Cat.

No permanent or lasting damage, as the piece of angry, disunited bones in my back aren’t load bearing. They do hurt like I swallowed a plugged-in soldering gun, which is why I’m waking up in a few hours to dust off some more delicious, nutritious Percocet.

Thanks to all the well-wishers on Twitter and Facebook. (Our phone doesn’t work, as the iPhone battery died last night, too.) It’s pill and sleep time, and we’ll see what “we” feel like tomorrow.

“’Tis the maddest trick a man can ever play in his whole life, to let his breath sneak out of his body without any more ado, and without so much as a rap o’er the pate, or a kick of the guts; to go out like the snuff of a farthing candle, and die merely of the mulligrubs, or the sullens.”

On October 31, 2006, Knowshon responded to Brad but resubmitted the same incorrect sanction. Brad once again informed Knowshon that he needed to format the paper correctly and resubmit the sanction. In addition, he warned Knowshon about the possibility of having his record flagged…

And then there’s the essay itself. From the conclusion:

To show the responsibility that I have gained over this situation I was recently asked in my room one night after quiet hours if I could do a back flip. My answer to this was yes because I can, but I kindly stated that I would not be able to perform this act at the time because I did not want to disturb my fellow neighbors below and around me.

He goes on to state that he will resolve this issue by living off-campus next year. The document further informs us that Knowshon’s record “remains flagged.” Knowshon himself….does not.

Clearly, the wrath of Brad has had devastating and far-reaching consequences.

We care, just like a tiger does: with their claws and teeth first.

Tennessee has a minor, eeny-tiny-bit of a discipline problem, and not the sort that professional paste-eater and push-door puller Mike Freeman suggests should end up in the firing of Phil Fulmer. (Mike: Tyler Durden IS the narrator!) Fire him for being only good to excellent, sure; we’ve seen that in the SEC before. Fire him for blackmailing Trace Adkins with incriminating gay sex photos into performing at his daughter’s birthday party. (Unsee that, dear reader, and you have achieved enlightenment. We just typed it, and will not eat for several days.) Fire him for picking up field mice and bopping them on the head, and then dipping them in panko crumbs, deep frying them, and eating them during film sessions.

Fire him for any of these, but not the juvenile aborted Liverventures™* most Vol players get arrested for these days. The Vols just need a special blend of caring, discipline, and caring discipline outlined below. Because we care. We really do. In that kind of foster kid kind of care, the one where you don’t buy them fresh produce, turn on the heat for them in the winter, or buy them clothes that fit.

Actin’ Straight with EDSBS: Vol-arity Edition.

1: Pat Summitt. This doesn’t even have to take longer than 15 minutes. Simply invite Pat over, have the winningest coach at Tennessee ever come to a Vol team meeting and then allow her to rip each of the Vols’ gridiron types a new, perfectly torn second asshole. Summitt is the kind of thin-lipped, wiry, kerosene-eyed women who drove schoolbuses in my childhood: very, very quiet schoolbuses. There were rumors one kid, once, had spoken, and that only a red mark the birds liked to pick at on the school driveway stood as testament to her wrath. The team would be a lot like that schoolbus for the next year, at least.

2. Hedge mazes outside dorm entrances. Bull your way through fifteen rows of thorny hedge without bleeding to death? Do I smell starting defense?

3. The ChastiT belt. Fierce, made of stainless steel. Adorned with picture of John Chavis on codpiece for extra contraceptive power.

4. Additional cash bonuses for good behavior.

5. Instituting of naptime, with mats and graham crackers, to cut down on violent behavior after dark. We’d even throw in a few of those boss blue and red nap mats done in custom orange and white. If successful, consider implementing stop-light code in team cafeteria during training table meals.

6. Waiver of delivery fee on pizzas, wings, whores. It adds up, and it would keep them in the dorm.

7. Super Nanny She could have them singing the cleanup song in no time. Bonus: being British, capable of drinking 320 pound men into under-table tears.

8. Reading “The Secret” to unlock the power of wishing for wealth instead of robbing convenience stores. That’s Louisville’s thing this year, anyway.

9. Installing court-ordered breathlocks on their legs. When you blow into them, if drunk, your legs cease to work. Tracy Morgan hasn’t walked in months due to this technology. If it can keep him home, it can keep anyone home.

10. Give them all mini-ponies to take care of to teach them responsibility. It’s a bit like the egg experiment in civics class, or the time your parents gave you a puppy to test your ability to take care of things. And once it was over and you’d sold the puppy to the Bolivian space program, didn’t you feel so much more adult?

Plus: on first sight, people’s mind will be blown. Is it a little horse, a really huge man…OR BOTH?

11. Endow Urban Studies Chair for Chamillionaire, allowing him to lecture players about his theories on “riding dirty” while “staying clean.” If we want Chamilitary men properly trained, then we need a proper Chamilitary academy to train them. The University of Tennessee is just begging to be this place.

12. Turn players onto new video game sensation Wiisault and Battery. Feloniis and misdemiinors were never so harmless as in Nintendo’s latest party classic for America’s favorite video game system.

13. To prevent dogfighting, channel their energies into alternate fighting rings. Siamese fighting fish are a good proxy, or even better: theater majors, who will fight with feeling so long as they “know where they’re supposed to be in the scene” and understand their motivation. (”Your motivation is the five thousand dollars at the top of that ladder, motherfucker. Go get it!”)

14. When all else fails: send them to Up With People. Yes, they still exist, and they can still wilt a good solid erection from fifty paces with the sound of their melodious unity.

It’s all an excuse to see Britton Colquitt dance around with streamers. But at least we’re admitting it.

*Our failed VH1 reality series pitch starring Anthony Haden-Guest, Mario Batali, and legendary guzzler Kofi Annan. We’re praying it gets picked up by Fuel.

Another! Now!

Bobby: BARTENDER! Another Screaming Orgasm over here.

Bartender: You’re really pouring it on.

Bobby: Fuck it, I’m drunk. And put another one on that old guy’s tab over there. He’s not even paying attention.

Mr. Blank, at the opposite end of the bar watching tv: Love ya, babe!

Bobby: Kiss my ass, limpdick. See? He didn’t even hear it. Limpdick!

Mr. Blank: (Blows kiss, winks.)

Bobby: Fuck. (downs shot)

(A stiff, tweedy middle aged man fiddling with his cell phone approaches the bar and the empty seat next to Bobby.)

Bill Martin, Michigan AD: Good evening, madam. Mind if i sit…

Bobby: Go right fucking ahead. ANOTHER! (taps empty shot glass)

Martin: Bartender, a Latour ‘64, if you’ve got it?

Bartender: (Stares, pauses, continues.) We have wine coolers.

Martin: Ooh! That sounds quite refreshing. I’ll try one.

(Turns to Bobby)

The weather has been delightful this year. Perfect for some late fall sailing, don’t you think?

Bobby: Sailing? Who the hell are you, Captain Ron? Who the hell sails anymore? They invented motors for a reason, asshole: speed. I’d rather run my jumbles over a cheese grater than get bored to tears watching a bunch of preppie assholes unwinding old laundry in the wind.

Martin: My, you’re quite adamant in your views. And such…language! Do you always speak like this to strange men?

Bobby: I do whatever with strange men, as long as they’ve got the luchini, fuck-o. (Adjusts bra strap.) Especially when they start waltzing up to me and blabbing about yachts and messing around with their cell phones.

Martin: Well, I…I’m sorry, but these things are so hard to figure out. And it gets stuck on this ingenious little game called Breakout. You see, the ball bounces like this…

Bobby: Cut to the chase, Dorky McPreppiepants. Daylight’s burning, and I gotta ditch Mr. Phantomstache yesterday. Hey, Limpdick!

Mr. Blank: (Smiles, points, winks.)

Bobby: You really wouldn’t believe the gullibility. I would feel for him, if I had a soul. BARTENDER!!!

Bill Martin: Well, you see, I arrived unaccompanied tonight to this establishment. And I endeavor to leave with some company, though I’m stunned at the lack of character in this place. My first choice went…well…somewhat unsuccessfully.

(Across the bar, Les Miles sits on a stool. He is wearing a pair of hot pants, a tied-off bandana bra, and is in the process of getting a tattoo that reads “MIKE.” A man in a tiger costume glowers at him with dead, angry mascot eyes.)

Miles: Tell your boy Carr to kiss my fucking ass, Martin! Hold this tiger! (Extends middle finger.)

Bobby: I like the broad’s style.

Martin: Yes, she gave me this prominent ocular indigo halo you can see here with heel of her hand in a tussle we had over some media relations. Anyway, I was wondering if I might have the pleasure of perhaps, if you’re willing and interested, of course, of giving me your phone…

(A large man in a cowboy hat roars into the bar. He begins throwing cash in every direction from a large sack he has slung around his back. He smells of wealth and bacon. Bar patrons scatter on the floor for dollars.)

Arkansas: WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!! SOOOOOOOOOOOIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!! AHHHHHMMM LOOOKIN FOR SOME PRIME SOW AND CAIN’T BEEE DENAAAAAAAAHHHD!!!!

Bobby: That is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. Gimme.

Arkansas: Let’s boogie, baby! Off with them drawers! IT’S RUTTIN’ TAAAAAAHHHME!!!

Martin: Excuse me, but I–

(Arkansas and Bobby begin copulating at the bar without shame, inches from Martin.)

Blank: Love ya babe!

Bobby: I’ve never been so satisfied. Ever. I’ll be yours forever. You’re huge.

Arkansas: WHOOOOOO WEEEEEEEE!!!! YOU’RE GONNA BE MY REGULAR SATURDAY NIGHT THING, BABAAAAAY!

Mr. Blank: Baby!!! How could you, honeybun?

Bobby: He’s a real man, not like you! Just watch him! He grows out his mustache ALL THE WAY!!!

Martin: This is just all…so…vulgar. Don’t any of you have any class anymore? Any of you? Do you know how hard this is for me, to try and do this with some sort of decorum, to find some esteem without wallowing in this whore-trough you call a bar? You should all be…be…

Bobby: (in between simulated groans) Ashamed?

Martin: YES! Some perspective, at last! Ashamed is precisely the word for it all! Ashamed!

Bobby: Sounds a lot like that guy Notre Dame. He left the bar years ago.

Arkansas: YEAAAAHHHH!!! I’M ON MAH TOES FOR THE FINISH, WOMAN!

Clemson Keeps Bowden
Fan 1: How do you know the 2007 season was fucked up?

Fan 2: Appy State over Michigan!

Fan 1: No, jackass.

Fan 2: Stanford over USC?

Fan 1: Bah – no, not that. Dude, there were multiple teams competing with one another for Tommy Bowden’s services.

Charlie Weis Wants You To Judge Him
Next year, that is.

Asked how quickly he can get things righted, Weis responded: “Not fast enough. That’s probably as fair an answer as I can say,” Weis said Monday at a news conference. “I think that the arrow is definitely pointing up. You already know what my goal is every time we play, and every time we play my expectation is to win that game. But we can’t get good enough fast enough as far as I’m concerned.”

I have to agree here: things are looking up. I honestly thought they’d lose to Duke and Stanford.

UCLA Needs To Hire Coach With Swagger
So says a crusty looking old dude at the LA Times, anyway: “Those who lead the teams that get the attention in Los Angeles have a common thread. They are people who conduct their business with a style and a swagger. They either came with name recognition or quickly acquired it here. The style and swagger aren’t always the same, but all have some form of it… So, for at least a couple of weeks, Guerrero has our spotlight. We don’t ask much, just a coach with style, swagger and success.”

If you’re having trouble imagining Pete Carroll reading the LA Times this morning, allow me to assist you…

Les Miles Still In Play At Michigan
Or wait, no, maybe it’s Ferentz. Wasn’t I talking about Brady Hoke this morning? Am I a candidate for this job?

If you’re having trouble imagining Ohio State fans reading Michigan blogs this morning, allow me to assist you…

Give the man a monkey. And his 4 million dollars.

“According to the win, I’m undervalued by 97 percent of what I should be paid,” said Weatherbie, who earns a mere $130,000 as the coach of the Warhawks. “I’m looking forward to being paid what I’m truly owed and living out one of my lifelong dreams: buying a monkey, and then training it to smoke and drink beer.”

ULM had no formal statement in response to Weatherbie’s demands, but off-the-record sources were quoted as saying that “there was no fucking way” they could pay Weatherbie’s new salary, citing the fact that “paying almost one-tenth of our total budget to a 5-6 football coach would be completely fucking insane.”

Weatherbie, though, is confident something could be worked out. “Perhaps they could sell some land or something. I don’t know. Have a bake sale. Charlie wants his monkey, and it’s time to give him some bananas for all his hard work. Tell the sob stories to my agent, pencilnecks. Bananas, motherfuckers.”

Weatherbie’s not the only one making cash from the hash of the Crimson Tide’s loss. With Saban’s wage skewing all coaching salaries, agents are rushing to the gates to demand audiences with ADs across the nation.

“It’s criminal that with six wins and a likely defeat in the Iron Bowl to come, my client is skimping along on $1.5 million dollars a year,” said Kyle Torvald, agent for Kansas coach Mark Mangino. “At the very least, the going rate for a win on a mere 4 million dollars a year as Alabama’s paying would take Mark Mangino up to $8 million a year, enough to pay for the pangolin flesh and whole pickled beluga whales that fuel his championship gameplanning.”

Torvald paused, and looked pointedly at the back of the room where Kansas AD Lew Perkins stood. He then said, “And if Kansas doesn’t want to put quality lye-infused whalemeat on Mark Mangino’s bloodstained sideboard of victory, we’re sure someone else will.”

The inflationary effect still “pales in comparison to what most CEOs make,” says economist Kevin Bridesworthy of the Brookings Institute, “but it’s catching up.”

“Soon we’ll see coaches begin to make demands they previously couldn’t dream of: sedan chairs, private brothels, payment in bricks of platinum, stacks of euros, private jets, you name it. They’re gonna have it,” says Bridesworthy, who also pointed out that Saban, building on his own contract’s record-setting salary, could reasonably expect to renegotiate his own contract in the coming months to reach a $10-12 million dollar level on salary based on the overall increase.

The other form could even include custom luxury goods in the form of dedicated staff to manage the whims and likes of coaches. Les Miles’ pending contract at Michigan includes an office stocked with its own private taffy-making machine and taffymakers on staff. When asked about the deal, Miles had no comment besides, “Mmmm, taffy.”

Weatherbie’s agent, Jimmy Sexton, is giddy with anticipation. “Certainly, the Saban deal establishes a level more in line with a coach’s actual value to an organization. But it’s really just a start. My client clearly is just as capable of going 6-6 as someone making 4 million dollars a year; why not reward him thusly?” asks Sexton, who also represents Nick Saban and negotiated the original $4 million dollar deal with Alabama.

And while the salary race is set to begin, Weatherbie’s already living the dream.

“I really don’t care where they get the money. I just want that monkey. He’s gonna be funny as shit, right? Beer in his hand, cigarette in the other. Maybe I’ll teach him to get me beer out of the fridge, or even blow the whistle during practice. Man, this is…this is just gonna be awesome.”

Actually, you weren’t, both because ACC games are hell to watch and purgatorially boring. Instead, you were treated to the Red Raiders’ upset of Oklahoma played to the accompaniment of the most anarchic crew in broadcasting, the Nessler/Maguire/Griese team of ABC. The anarchy comes mostly from Maguire, who’s game for anything: riding on the camera boom most of the day like The Watcher, chiming in on whatever strikes his fancy at the moment no matter what’s going on, and giddily living each second not paired with Joe Theissmann like it was his last.

Maguire even tried on the Red Raider outfit Saturday night, a getup made to look like a Zorro costume with a few extra swatches of red thrown in there. The original picture is funny enough, but we have yet to see a photo The Cheezburger Factory can’t improve on at least a little.

He is Paul Maguire, and he is here to steal your heart.

How much do they really own it, though? So much so that the flyover for the Alabama game was done by what appears to be a crop duster or the Baron Von Richtofen himself flying all the way from Hell for the game.

Gadzooks! Was that the dashing Wiley Post? Or the rakish Jimmy Doolittle? Or perhaps Amelia Earhart, who overcomes the crippling handicap of having a vagina every time she bravely enters an aircraft! O, those wily aviators! Someday, might they fly to sun?

The little hysterical WOOO! at the end may be one of the most nuanced crowd noises we’ve ever heard: part shame, part acceptance, and part ironic barbaric yawp. Whatever–they can tie weather balloons to pigs and let the recreational shooting crowd loose on them as long as Mississippi State keeps winning. Bowl-eligible means you can fly whatever you want over the stadium, even if it does sound like a motorized go-cart with wings.

A clarification: From reader Bulldog, who invites us to eat him.

That was our President, retired Air Force commander Gen. Robert H. “Doc” Foglesong. It is his Mississippi State biplane. He always buzzes over the stadium before the game. So eat me and the rest of the bulldog nation.

Their president buzzes the stadium in his own biplane? Is he a botanist/humanitarian with a penchant for archaeology, arctic exploration, and jujitsu? Does this man have limits, we ask?

Franz Berliner, Captain, LZ 129 Hindenburg

Flew the world’s largest balloon into the world’s largest needle. Not sure what he was doing, but I don’t think it takes hindsight to see that Franz was not watching where he was going. His poor floating skills singlehandedly brought down the entire Zeppelin Industry. 

Mort Lipshitz, Fire Chief, Chicago 1870-1871

Far be it from me to tell a fireman how to do his job, but jesus, Lipshitz*, you gotta let the whole city burn? I know there are intangibles here, but generally the recipe for doing your job successfully is: see flames, add water. So you were saddled with horses, buggies, and lanterns, but come on, firefighting is no profession for excuses. You really dropped the ball here, brother. To add insult to injury, they’ve named a soccer team after your failure. You are on the Mt. Rushmore of fuck-ups.

Charlie Weis, Head Coach, Notre Dame

Charlie Chalupa’s not just famous for his girth anymore. He’s led the Irish to their worst season in school history. The offensive guru has also led this tactiley talented team to their worst offensive season in school history, which is no easy task. He compiles his failures with blind arrogance and the cocksure attitude of someone who’s wildly successful at their job. He’s being heavily rewarded for his failures too. No matter what he does from here on out in his coaching career, this season, this trainwreck, this audacious failure, will be his legacy. Chew on that, Charles.

M Beanie, Boy Toy Wrangler/Driver, George Michael

This job seems pretty easy -

Step 1: Find a fucktoy for a rich, faded, liquid-hipped pop chanteuse a couple times a week.

Step 2: …

Step 3: Profit!

M was good at it too. He had Michael elbow deep in ass for a year. However, in an embarrassing parallel parking incident, Michael carped one time too many and his driver quit, leaving M holding the keys. When M was promoted to driver, things went to hell in a handbasket. In the past year alone, Mr. Michael’s been arrested three times for drunk driving, twice for soliciting sex in a park (who knew that was illegal?), he’s been to rehab twice, had Hoof & Mouth Disease once, and is now the more pathetic of the two (2) former members of Wham! This is a bad year and elevates Beanie instantly into the Hall of Fame.

Pam Ward, Broadcaster of Iowa football games, ESPN2

Pammy is not pretty. This is no crime, to be sure, but she sought out a career in television so I think this shows a tremendous lack of self-awareness. She also talks for a living and her voice is… unfortunate. Her voice has the deaf tones of a demolitions expert and all the warmth of a well digger’s ass. To complete the hat trick, she talks about football for living and doesn’t know anything about football, at all. She is positively the worst announcer in the history of man.

General Pickett, Confederate General, Battle of Gettysburg

You don’t need to be a military strategist to see why this was the turning point in the Civil War (GO NORTH!!! WOOOO!!!). I’ve been to Gettysburg. I’ve seen the battlefield and I can tell you, it’s no small jaunt. It’s really flat, but it’s a hell of a long way from one side to the other. I made it in cargo shorts and running shoes and I was tired and crabby as shit when I got to the other side. Also, I did it in March, not in July when Pickett made his hike. I can just imagine doing it with a musket and those fucking hideous wool unis! Were they a marching band or an army? Horrible fashion choice on their part, nearly as bad as their walk directly into the line of fire across that field. The Confederacy suffered a casualty rate of over 50%, many of which were Pickett’s men. Pickett’s Charge** was the beginning of the end for the South in the Civil War. Bad move, George.

Lucious Picard, Dialect Coach, Kevin Costner for Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves

Costner was doing what all American actors do when they’re surrounded by “yes” men, he decided to take a role with an accent. The studio fearlessly cast the paunchy 40-ish rock hound as the young Brit Robin of Locksley. All they needed was someone to help the would-be archer to sound authentically British so they went with wunderkind Lucious Picard from the Royal Albert Hall of Drama. This did not go well. Costner’s accent came and went like a Yorkshire breeze; when it was good it was bad and when it was bad it was awesome. Sadly, unintentional comedy is not what they were going for and Picard spends these days replying to Madonna’s fan mail using “British sounding words”.  

* Mort would be higher on this list (or lower?) but he made the best bratwurst chili in the history of man. This cannot be discounted.

** Pickett’s Charge inspired the Lost Cause, which was one of Beck’s best singles from his “mopey period”.

The quarterbacking carousel at Notre Dame continues on apace, as Jimmy Clausen is slated to start in Saturday’s Air Force game. Near the end of the AP article, this telling passage (emphasis added):

Weis said at the time he named Sharpley the starter for the USC game that he was doing so because Sharpley was steadily improving and because Clausen, who had been sacked 23 times, was banged up. He said Tuesday that Clausen was getting healthier. Sharpley was 34-of-60 passing for 257 yards with one interception and two touchdown passes in his two starts. He was sacked nine times.

I suppose if you can’t fashion even the merest facsimile of an O-line, this stratagem makes perfect sense. There are two-quarterback schemes founded on the basis of wildly differing styles of play. There are two-quarterback schemes founded on getting a young player integrated into an offense. And then there’s Charlie Weis, sniffing his two prospects like past-dated cartons of milk and selecting whichever smells like it’ll do the least damage to his vitals. The system works!

Observe:

September 1: Demetrius Jones starts against Georgia Tech, fumbles twice, is promptly benched (after what, a quarter?), and still finishes as ND’s leading rusher for the day.
September 15: Clausen starts, completes 11 of 17 for 74 yards and an interception, is sacked eight times by the Wolverines. Sharpley enters in fourth quarter and ends a potential scoring drive with an INT of his own.
September 22: 86 passing yards amassed between Clausen and Sharpley, and four more sacks at the hands of Michigan State, bringing the season total to 27.
September 29: Clausen throws his first career TD (against Purdue, but it still counts) and promptly injures his hip.
October 13: Clausen benched after two INTS en route to Notre Dame being smacked in the mouth by “little brother” Boston College.
October 20: Sharpley gets the start, is sacked five times by USC. The school record for single-season sacks, 38, is supassed with a third of a season to go. And Charlie Weis intones: “So let me just say people better enjoy it now, have their fun now.”
November 3: Careful what you wish for, Charles. Navy snaps a 43-game losing streak that Weis dismissed as inconsequential. Sharpley, in his turn at the chopping block, is brought down with 45 seconds to play.

Three games remain. The writing’s on the wall, and it doesn’t take much foresight to extrapolate the rest of the season:

November 10: Clausen botches the first two quarters badly, repeatedly throwing into double coverage, is pulled at the half. Sharpley is sacked three times on the first possession of the third quarter and spends the rest of the game swatting at imaginary fireflies in the huddle.
November 17: In the final home game of the season, Clausen manages a third-quarter touchdown pass against the vaunted Duke secondary. Lighting up a peach-flavored victory cigarillo on the sidelines, he accidentally sets fire to a small portion of the field and is suspended for the season’s final game.
November 24: Sharpley gets the start against Stanford. And little Jimmy Clausen, heard muttering on the sidelines about “being released into his natural habitat”, vanishes into his native California night in the aftermath of the game, leaving no trace save for a hastily written, largely illegible note stuck to the team bus windshield signed, “Butterflies Are Free.”