For $100 per share, anyone can buy stock in the new corporation, and will have the ability to vote on a board of directors that will oversee and make decisions related to the school’s athletics programs – including football and other programs. The initial share offering will be $20-million.

Boise State Broncos, Inc. will be modeled on a similar idea put forth by the Green Bay Packers of the NFL.

We’re in for a grand to own a chunk of a team we’ve never even seen, and for an investment we can’t be sure we’ll ever see back. Talley-ho, American investing strategies! Some changes will have to be made if we are to have any input on the future of the franchise.

Out with this…bronco. In with the combat bear ridden by a man in a Master Chief outfit with a flamethrower.

Lead Pipe Twirling:  Priscilla Abernathy, 10, Upper Arlington

The pageant’s youngest entrant hopes to prove to her father, Dillard, that even lacking the requisite chromosomes she can be the son he told her he always wanted.  She wowed judges at last April’s Columbus Cotillion with her deft handling of even the rustiest metal shards.

Evening Wear:  Duke Jonas, 34, and Walter McCord, 42, both of Bexley

These fine-feathered beasts credit their mental edge over the competition to a complete lack of irony.

Wolverine Skinning:  Martha Shaw, 35, Whitehall

Mrs. Shaw, a paralegal and mother of two, set a personal best record of 16.7 seconds at the 2007 Greater Ohio Evisceration Games.

Overall:  The Salk Brothers, 26, Grove City

With their unparalleled Musberger imitations, natty sweatervests, and solid grasp of the entire Alan Menken oeuvre, these triple threat triplets are carrying the banner for Buckeye spirit and are a lock for prime Michigan seats.

Kirk Herbstreit, the WWL’s Golden Frosted Boy, is not a bad guy. We believe that. And we’re all about the dude-on-dude love, believe us. But there are LINES, man. Somewhere, there’s got to be a line, and we draw it here.

It brings us absolutely no pleasure, in fact, to share the following video, because, again, gross:

THE HUMANITARIAN HAS TRANSCENDED SEX, HERBSTREIT. HE IMBIBES THE ESSENCE OF THE SUN AND MOON AND FLOATS A FULL FOUR ATMOSPHERIC LAYERS ABOVE YOUR DESIRES OF THE FLESH. For shame, sir. For shame.

(LSUFreek, world without end, amen.)

Server glitch? Price of fame? Low-level NCAA violation potential? Who knows, but one way or another Pete Carroll’s Facebook profile is no more. And while it brought us all incalculable joy to tread just a little closer to his radiance, I have to say—as a mortal being of woman born, having to look at his status updates every morning was forcing me to examine my life in ways I’m not sure I was ready for.

February 22:

February 25:

March 1:

March 8:

March 13:

I’ll miss you, sir. But my self-worth is drinking to your departure.

[HT: The Great Barstoolio, who screencapped my face ten times.]

Miami Northwestern High sent 283 players to the Miami Hurricanes this year. (Perhaps that number is high, but we’ll stand by it, dammit. You have to take a stand.) Of those, four seemed to be a package deal not only in football, but in…um…everything.

DT Marcus Forston is happy to be with his fellow Miami Northwestern freshmen teammates Sean Spence, Jacory Harris and Aldarius Johnson at UM.

“Everyone says we’re like quadruplets,” Forston said. “Every day everybody sees us together. We take a shower together, go to class together, do everything together. We wait for the shower to clear out, go in there and talk. We go to the bathroom together, everything. So that’s the bond we need this year.”

The team that shits together, stays together–as long as they washed those hands first.

It’s just astonishing, really. We’ve been married for a long, long time, and even now catbox time is strictly one cat at a time. Perhaps a change in diet is in order, or the purchase of a love toilet: grumpies that require the assistance of not one, but three other men aren’t mere medical issues: they’re matters of national security. It’s the South Florida diet, so Cuban triple-stack carbs may be to blame, since it’s one of the few places where you’ll be given rice, plaintains, and bread in a single meal.

(HT: The Great Barstoolio.)

You can’t have a modern bathroom without a bidet. I know what you’re saying, now: what kind of man uses something French to lick his ass that can’t be charged anonymously to a credit card as “PERSONAL SERVICES, INC” from a Lyon hotel room? Not me, you say!

Wrong. It’s time to show some modern fluffy sensitivity and stop smearing the brown ghost of last night’s pot roast around your ass and get with the squeaky-clean, watery goodness of a behind blasted immaculate with the gentle but firm touch of a bidet.

We’ll even show you how to make your very own, extremely masculine Ohio State bidet just like the one that keeps Tressel’s trundle clean every week on ABC. Ready?

Step one: the bidet. Be careful–you can overpay for your bidet, as some built-in toilet/bidet models can run into the thousands of dollars. We can only say that the decision is yours, but for value’s sake the extra water you’ll use with a separate bidet is negligible. We say keep them separate to save a few bucks, and pick up a model such as the Kohler “San Tropez” for no more than $500 total.

Step Two: Installation. Don’t make the mistake of just drilling a few holes in the floor, hooking up a pipe, and firing away at the old log-mouth with a poorly installed bidet. Precision matters here. First, make sure your tiling is level, and that you’ve got your piping lined up accurately. Trace the outline of the bidet on the floor, and crack out the chalk line and level to make sure the bidet is attractively and evenly placed next to the toilet.

Now take a drill and make two 3/16″ holes in the floor for the anchor. Don’t forget your sealant! This all-important element will save you from nagging leaks and drips in the future, and you’ll thank yourself for the extra effort later.

Connect your pipes, drain, and you’re almost there.

Add some style. In this case, we’re going to jazz up the bidet with a familiar loving face. We’ve taken an image off the internet, printed and laminated it, and blown it up on an 8X12 scale. Then we we did a quick outline of the image on some pressed 1/16 inch aluminum, matched up the image, and cut a quick 1/2 inch hole to allow for the bidet faucet to poke through. Make sure your faucet hole is just big enough–a tight fit is essential here.

Take the mounting and run a quick solder and seal job around the faucet, and we’re ready to scrub. Oh, and don’t forget the waterproof sticker at the bottom of the trough for effect.

Step Four: Get that undercarriage Musburger-clean! Pardner, even in defeat no one washes your Buckeye balls more thoroughly and forcefully than the Brentster. You’re looking live! At my ass being cleaned just like Jim Tressel’s is on a weekly basis! Turn on thE water and feel the force of America’s announcer getting you a squeaky kind of clean only previously possible
with four hours of feverish man-amour.

This has been EDSBS Home and Garden Weekly. Enjoy the freshness, y’all!

(BTW, our refusal to waste a Saturday during grad school watching Chan Gailey coach football looks better and better after last night. Tech is a putrid offensive football team, and in the middle of the third quarter the stadium was half-empty and resembled less a division one football stadium and more a European soccer stadium after a riot.)

So accept this joint project between Joel and ourselves involving the most bitter matchup this weekend, the LSU/Alabama game between the team that made Saban the 4 million commodity he is and the team currently paying the price tag. He was working as a football coach in Michigan–that much is true. But even then he knew he’d find a much better place, either with or without you, LSU

If your Youtube is blocked, click here for the Flash version.

Fine, fine work by Joel as always. The Viewer’s Guide should be up around lunch, so check in for Hannibal’s guide to couching it with the precision of a team of commandos and making the most of the waning weeks of the season.

Dear Mr. Forde,

Oh, man, am I into my Washington Huskies. I mean, I get live with it. Stupid. Just ludicrously enthusiastic. See that pennant on the wall? I’ve got one just like it in my office. My co-workers look at it and just shake their heads sometimes. But I can’t hide my passion. It just flows from me like the waters of Puget Sound Lake Washington past beautiful Husky stadium.

That’s why I take offense at Pat Forde’s accusation that Pac-10 fans don’t care as much. I go to every game, no matter the weather. (And up here in the Northwest, believe me, we get more than our share of rain!) I wear my Huskies sweatshirt, my hat, and even a my Huskies jacket to some of the games. I’m just “one big purple nightmare!” as my wife and kids say, but it’s all to show my commitment to my team. You can get pretty hoarse yelling “Go, Huskies!” as much as I do during the games!

Football doesn’t rule my life, but it sure comes close. I wish you could just see that, Mr. Forde. If you come out to Husky Stadium for a game sometime, me and some loyal Husky fans would be more than happy to show you our love for our team in person.

Sincerely,

Jason Richardson, a.k.a. the “Purple Nightmare.

And letter number two:

Pat–

I strongly object to you implying that we Georgia fans were throwing “projectiles” at the Auburn team following the November 12th, 2005 complete and total nutpunching of the Georgia Bulldogs at beautiful, rat and pedophile hobo-free Sanford Stadium. (The same cannot be said of that rat anus of a shack Auburn calls home. Hobo pedophiles and rats galore pollute its filthy wings.)

As a longtime UGA season ticket holder and close confidante of innumerable Bulldog powerbrokers I can’t mention here, I can assert fully and truthfully that the characterization is both inaccurate and slanderous, and demand an instant retraction by you with a subsequent apology from ESPN.com

We were throwing very specific items, Mr Forde, not mere projectiles. The man next to me, fellow Sigma Chi and attorney Henry Dickson, threw a blasting cap we stole personally from a Georgia Department of Transportation work zone on the way to the game. My wife threw a full bottle of Jim Beam, which broke without effect over Kenny Iron’s exposed skull. Might I say that despite my undying, murderous hatred for the Auburn Tigers, the toughness of his skull is such that even an archenemy like myself must pay respect. That was almost Bulldawg tough of you, Kenny, and would have killed a lesser Auburn bastard-tiger-bird like Brad Lester or Cadillac Williams.

But your calumny also overlooks those of us who do not “throw,” but instead “launch carefully planned and preserved artifacts of football history” at our loathsome, flesh-eating heathen opponents. The man behind me, a delightful accountant for the firm of Porter, Keadle and Moore whose daddy played for the Bulldogs under Vince Dooley, threw an Olympic javelin once tossed by the Czech legend Jan Zelezny; the woman in front of me, a fine church-going lady of substance who would not want her name mentioned in this space, threw a jar containing a fetus preserved from shortly after the Hiroshima blast.

I’m proud to say that both of these hit Aubie the Tiger and killed him. Go Dawgs!

As for myself, I “threw” no mere “projectile.” I proudly hefted a brick baked in the kilns of Macon, Georgia toward the head of one large-eared Beelzebub himself, Tommy “I’ll leave Oxford in a pine box” Tuberville. Nothing special, you say? A fine Dawg fan such as myself would disagree, but only because I know that this brick, like 27 others I have stored in my basement, is made from both sacred Georgia clay and the mixed feces of (his name be praised) 1980 Heisman Winner and Best Running Back Ever Herschel Walker, a sample collected at the opening the Alpharetta D’Lites franchise restaurant in 1984 following my hero’s effortless, heroic run to the men’s room.

My brick went errant, however, and merely grazed the shoulder of an Alabama state trooper on the way down. I plan to atone for my miss this year, however, and redeem myself.

Oh, and shame on you for suggesting Pac-10 fans don’t care as much.

Go Dawgs,

Tucker Paulding IV
Attorney-at-law
Garland and Garland
UGA ‘74

You be the judge!–ed.

Pete then, according to witness UCngLA from the openly biased folks at Bruins Nation, addressed the crowd with the following opening line, excerpted from the post at BN:

“It’s great to be in this place, to be among all these angels.” And by angels he was referring to the audience.

Pete Carroll will be with you angels in a minute. First he’s got a Palestinian crisis to mediate. Then he’s got Pilates. Then: you, angels.

This is true. We’re taking it as true. Even if it’s not true we’ll never admit it. You angels, you can’t take this away from us. Pete Carroll is the guy who names trees in his yard. Pete Carroll really does ride a golden unicycle. Pete Carroll is the nearly 60 guy with sculpted abs who hangs with Will Ferrell. Pete Carroll really does drive a Range Rover, because you never know when you’ll be called to lead an aid convoy in Darfur. Pete Carroll is the youth pastor who will write a check made out to you with the sum line filled out as “complete happiness,” and sign it with the name “God.” He is Kevin Rawley from Meet the Parents, and is making you a stunning hand-carved gazebo with his own hands as we speak.

Like God, if Pete Carroll didn’t exist, we’d have to make him up.

Kenny Irons: friend to all, big…and small?

Their immortal resume (lettered into the marble in gold leaf, natch):

–David’s Wonderlic score: quatro, amigo. (Chinese for “a fucking four, big nose!”)

–David’s own quote about his brother in the greatest single interview ever conducted with a division one football player:

I told him the end zone is his zoo and if he runs to the end zone he can be with all of his little animal friends. I just told him to treat the football like a banana. You treat the football like a banana and you won’t let anybody at the zoo take your banana peel. He was like, “Yeah, that’s true.” And I was like, “Kenny, but it’s not yellow, it’s brown.”

–Kenny’s own interview where he discusses water polo:

“I tell people that I play water polo and if they ask me what position I play I tell them right water. I don’t even know if that is a position but I tell them that I play right water.â€�

Like all our little NCAA babies, they grow up to be men, eventually: midget-loving, unashamed, polymorphously perverse men, according to Kissing Suzy Kolber. From their intrepid reader Joel, who saw Irons at LAX on the way to the NFL’s rookie conference:

A few weeks ago I was working check-in at LAX airport for the rookie conference held in LA. JaMarcus Russell never said a word, Dwayne Jarrett dissed Keyshawn, and Bengals running back Kenny Irons brought more luggage than I’ve ever seen in my life. I asked him what was in the luggage, an innocent question, which prompted Kenny to hoist the luggage and proudly proclaim,

“I got a midget in here to suck my dick.”

Another line of gold leaf just went up on that wall, readers. God bless you, you midgetfucking geniuses of the gridiron. ONE HUNDRED COCKTAILS to Kenny and David Irons, and the typhoon of joy they bring with them everywhere.

Oregon State offensive coordinator Danny Langsdorf donated a kidney to offensive line coach Mike Cavanaugh’s wife. Laurie Cavanaugh, 48, had living-donor kidney transplant surgery on Tuesday at Portland’s Oregon Health & Science University Hospital.

Cavanaugh has autosomal dominant polycystic kidney disease, an inherited condition usually dormant until the patient hits their forties of fifties. Almost all patients experience renal failure before they hit the age of sixty, however, and the morbidity rate is nothing to scoff at: before dialysis and transplants, most patients died within ten years of the onset of symptoms.

Mike Cavanaugh, Laurie’s husband, was understandably overwhelmed.

“When you work as closely as a coaching staff does, you develop some really deep and solid friendships — I guess you could say this is the ultimate in friendship,” said Mike Cavanaugh, who like Langsdorf is in his third season with the Beavers.

Langsdorf will likely have to seriously curtail any beer-drinking he might have been doing prior to surgery. That, sir, is friendship. ONE HUNDRED COCKTAILS of a non-alcoholic variety for you, Mr. Landgsdorf.

Cavanaugh and Langsdorf, post-op.

And now, he wants to share his greatest joy with you: the joy of music. Please, bear with the atrocious audio quality of the first minute (the producers said the song “needed edge!”) and listen to Sylvester Croom’s debut album, available on Mud Dog Records for only $39.95, including bonus concert DVD.

We now present to the world…Sylvester Croom, laying down hot tracks on his debut album dropping right here, right now: Sylvester…Croons.

(Psst! Hey! All you need to know is that Sylvester Croom has a very, very deep voice. Proceed!)

MP3 File

Finally, it’s happened to all of us: Sylvester Croom sings.