Ladies and gentlemen, leave it to Dan Savage to turn even the twisted mind of Lewis Grizzard on its end:

I recently visited the University of Georgia in Athens, where the kids asked me to come up with a dirty meaning for “between the hedges,” which is their football stadium’s nickname. Off the top of my head, I said, “The boy in a girl-boy-girl three-way could be described as being between the hedges.” But upon further reflection, I think the term is a better description of going down on a woman with a particularly hairy bush—and the tongue, not the boy/girl doing the tonguing, is “between the hedges.”

Lewis would approve, if his marital history is any indication of his fondness for going between the hedges. (Or perhaps not, actually. Refusing to play home games between the hedges could shorten a marriage by a considerable margin.) Looking around the rest of college football, there’s certainly promising territory.

Death Valley. If an LSU fan hasn’t already called her vagina this, we’ll eat a bowl of driveway gravel, because you know “scoring in Death Valley” is low-hanging fruit for the degenerate minds of LSU fans.

The Big House. Oh, that’s not kind.

The Swamp. Too easy.

The Shoe. Kind of a rugged endearment for it, but sure.

Home of the 12th Man. Now we’re talking! Wait, whaaaa…

(HT: JCCW.)

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!

By Crom, Josh McNeil is a happy man.

Get this man an AXE body spray endorsement:

Several hours after the University of Tennessee football team thumped its opponent on the field Saturday, UT center Josh McNeil was quizzed by police about a broken window at his apartment and the three intoxicated women in his bed.

He celebrates like Conan the Barbarian, that Josh McNeil. We think the running for the Thighsman Award may be done, since McNeil just grabbed it by its brassy crotch and wrestled it back to his bed/animal husbandry lot/one man European sex club. Those trashy Euro orgy videos where everyone’s hooting on the participants? All filmed in Josh McNeil’s bed. Travis Henry just called him to urge him to wear a condom, and Colin Farrell wants to go to Dubai with him for the weekend just to watch him work a hotel room with eight escorts and twenty bottles of Cristal.

McNeil can’t be charged with anything in the incident, since banging three girls at once in a drunken victory celebration is only illegal in France and the Republic of Third-grade-gaysylvania. (Real, honest homosexuals, on the other hand, have no problem celebrating in multiples.)

McNeil cannot even be charged with sexual assault on an animal, since the “half bear, other half cat” formula for Tennessee women on Rocky Top means McNeil technically made love to 3/2 of a cat and 3/2 of a bear. Charging him with anything like this means lawyers in Tennessee would have to work with fractions, and no one wants to get into that shit. That’s why they went to law school and not med school, which requires math and a hunger for human blood.)

There’s details here, sure: a potted plant thrown through a window, an argument, several guns including rifles, shotguns, and a handgun found in apartment. Read the article if you actually care what happened, including the fact that the three women were charged with underage consumption of alcohol. (Note: consumption of Josh McNeil is totally legal and obviously in demand, ladies of the 865. And in plentiful supply, judging from this.)

All we want to say is that the Josh McNeil, the video game industry needs to make Intercourse Hero and set whatever you do as the Expert Level. ONE HUNDRED COCKTAILS to you, sir.

(HT: Voluminous.)