Luchini fever has clearly broken out among the Vols, who have both engaged in heistin’ merchandise and gunnin’ (of the pellet variety) this week.

Next up in the revival: the heistin’ merchandise portion.

Freshman safety Nyshier Oliver was arrested on November 7 and charged with shoplifting at a department store in West Town Mall.

The police report says Oliver was spotted putting a brown shirt worth approximately $110 in a Dillard’s bag. He was arrested around 1:45 that Saturday.

…the Saturday of homecoming about six hours before the Memphis game, to be precise. We welcome the Vols back to the land of the competitive SEC East teams, and now up their possibility of winning an SEC East title next year thanks to the increased verve and hunger of the youngsters clearly energized by the new regime in Knoxville. DA COACHO HE BE SIPPIN’ ARMAREDDA! DA LANEKIFFUH HE BE SIPPIN ARMAREDDA!

And now, a song with no relation to this incident or story.

On different occasions and including July 26, the sports page has covered the fact that Coach Lane Kiffin had been having a tough time trying to find a top-quality quarterback to come to Tennessee that would be able to fit into his game plan.

I would like to offer a real possibility why he hasn’t been able to do so: 19 years ago, this child was killed by abortion, and so he is not here now available for recruiting.

Yes….BY TIME TRAVELING ABORTIONBOTS EMPLOYED BY THE SEC MUAHAHAAHAHHAHAH!!! You know all our secrets now, Tennessee. It’s part of the vast officiating conspiracy, which is co-funded by the SEC, ESPN, and the Elders of Zion. As we speak samples of Tim Tebow’s sperm are being turkey-basted into female sprinters in 1992, 95, and 98 in order to create an unbroken chain of succession between the Baby Rhino and his multiracial test-tube spawn. (Diversification is key; wouldn’t want it to be too obvious a ploy.)

(Auburn has the same project, but for some reason they chose to keep breeding different variations of Daniel Cobb over and over, including model 3.0, the “Chris Todd.” They must all smell like cookies or something.)

Daniel Cobb: his clones smell like cookies.

From the Tennessee/Bama game, and toted into Bryant-Denny by reader CB. (Photo from SI; Credit Kevin C. Cox, Getty Images. Gallery: here.)

First I was right about Houston Nutt communin’ with the Trilateral Commission, and a then ah told you about the radioactive worms the NSA done put in my tomatoes to keep an eye on me. Then you laft at how ah spotted the Zionists workin on me through the presenze of their agent Seth Roggin in all them Judd Apataw movies tryn to tell me my penis was an atenna transmittin’ Palestian propagandah to the masses to give them a reason to make movies. The cops arrestin me fah showin’ it to ‘em that night at Slankey’s Tavern on 3 for 1 Natty Light night only PROVES HOW REAL THE PENILE BROADCASTIN’ WAS!

And now ah done got another one! Wake up, sheeple! Iss right in God’s own sport!

Lane Kiffin, in his first year in the SEC, got his second reprimand from the conference office today. The Tennessee head coach was scolded by commissioner Mike Slive for his public comments since Tennessee’s 12-10 loss to Alabama.

That’s a violation of the SEC Code of Ethics.

CONSPIRASAH!!! First they get Florda and Alabama in the game, then the Antichristabama appears in thah sky, then as foretold in tha Mothman Propheseez the Werechild dooz battle with the Tebowantichristabama till one of um goes to the BCS and takez control of the guvmint through nappin’ cells in the FDA and ATF. IT’S ALL CONNECTED AND CAN’T POSSIBLY HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH A GREATER FEAR OF PEOPLE BEING MASSIVELY INCOMPETENT IN AN ANARCHIC AN CHAOTIC WORLD NO SIR. I seez it all!

Editor’s note: Lane Kiffin moves one step closer to being Planet Doofus’ Stone Cold Steve Austin. He’s pointing at McMahon! Has he no respect for the Commissioner!

Orson: I was going to open by suggesting that I will wrap you in a giant sheet of latex, and then tell Tim Tebow you were an enormous penis in need of circumcision.

Holly: Tebow heard that. And he’s very disappointed. Not as disappointed as he’s gonna be on Saturday, but sad.

Orson: When your opponent lays down in the second quarter of a rivalry game for years at a time, it does disappoint.

Holly: Which is, in turn, not as sad as you will be when I link your 401K to Bobby Bowden’s retirement, and bring back David Cutcliffe to rain down fire and brimstone and perfectly executed indefensible slant passes.

Orson: Funny you should mention that. I just made a killing off selling Lane Kiffin a bridge I do not own. It has a hole in the railing where Johnny Majors drunkenly plunged off it in a Chrysler Cordoba, but he said that was fine, he’d take it as is. Also, if Cutcliffe came back, we’d just hire Richmond’s defensive coordinator. They did a fine job with him last week.

Holly: Speaking of Johnny, he should be turning up on your doorstep at any moment. You’ve been named his sponsor. He’ll be the one rolling up to the door in a barrel.

Orson: I have appointed you as Rex Grossman’s squeegee girl.

Holly: I’ve set the Clemson Tiger to watch you while you sleep. If you sleep. If you ever sleep.

Holly: Actually, no. I’ve assigned Wondy to deliver your unborn two-headed jackal baby. Catch!

Orson: He will drop it. And then do a festive dance. I will put Phil Fulmer in charge of your PTA cake walk, and watch him destroy it from the inside with his gossipy ways.

Holly: You’re forgetting the cake. You’re the one changing his bibs, didn’t you know?

Orson: You’re in charge of Big Orange’s Colonic, though. Randy Sanders will appreciate finally being freed from his imprisonment in Fulmer’s duodenum.

Holly: Ssssh. Don’t attempt to speak. You’ve been dropped into an impassable hedge labyrinth entirely covered in bees. It’s all right, though. That’s the Georgia Tech D-line chained to your left wrist. They’re smart lads. They’ll have a plan.

Orson: So does Lane Kiffin. Has he told you about the part where you lose to Kentucky yet?

Holly: You’re alive! As a reward, you may spoon fat-free Miracle Whip into Ralph Friedgen’s maw while he frantically gameplans for Middle Tennessee State.

Orson: The real football power in the state.

Holly: No, that’s baby Berry. Remember his name. You’ll be screaming it in agony 30 hours from now.

Orson: Eric Berry is a magnificent stallion surrounded by ponies, and tomorrow we eat horse steaks just like Mama Khan used to make them. Shhh. That sound you hear? It’s Mike Hamilton choking himself to death with a Raiders bandana. Or the usual goatfucking, as you would say.

Holly: Mike Hamilton is quite twee, you know. He’ll fit right down your windpipe. Wanna see?

Orson: No, it’s currently occupied by Tim Tebow’s penis, as we Florida fans have to take turns with the man. True love waits, but hurried lust can take the one hole in a pinch without breaking any rules. (Just wish Shanoff would share. Selfish!) By the way, afterwards, you shit diamonds for a week. And they said I didn’t need to keep my pool skimmer!

Holly: THOSE ARE DIAMONIQUES, MOTHERFUCKER JOKE’S ON YOU. I can actually imagine this exchange taking place in the swamp.

Orson: I will name Lane Kiffin your head coach. < —-THAT ACTUALLY HAPPENED

Holly: See, I thought the point of doing this three years in a row was that we come up with NEW jokes. You can’t even make it ten minutes.

Orson: Much like the Tennessee defensive line

Holly: ….demonstrably untrue, chap.

Orson: Western Kentucky was quite a test. Big Red shouldn’t be asked to play weakside defensive end, though. He’s more of a tackle at heart.

Holly: Perhaps Randy Shannon can jog your memory. He heard what you said about his sainted mother.

Orson: ALL OF RANDY SHANNON’S FRIENDS ARE DEAD.

Holly: That’s Tom O’Brien on the other line. He wants you to prep his fire-baton routine for America’s Got Talent.

Orson: Two ACC mentions in a row clearly mean you’ve adjusted your idea of football greatness to appropriate levels. You’ll love Charlotte. They have a mall!

Holly: I’m going in alphabetical order. You’d think you’d recognize it, English grad. NOW LET US PRAISE THE BIG 12. Dan Hawkins wants to know if he can crash on your futon. You’ve got a futon, right? Just for a couple days, until he gets his head right. Darrell Scott can run to the groc if y’all need anything. He’s getting real good at errands.

Orson: I have decided to improve your quarterback position by having USC’s third string punter transfer to Tennessee. You may remember him as Mitch Mustain. His mother’s coming with him.

Holly: Spurrier called. He said he just wanted to talk, but he keeps mentioning all his free time and how the air in Columbia doesn’t suit his wife. Want him back? I’m sure he could whip those receivers right back out of shape.

Orson: Georgia called. They want to remind you that…oh, that’s right. That’s the last team you reliably spread cheeks on year in and year out. HIGH FIVE.

Holly: UP TOP…ew. But seriously, congrats on what’s sure to be a bang-up title run. Since he won’t have much to do this winter, Bob Stoops is coming aboard as a consultant. He’s been to the big games. He knows.

Orson: I made you a sculpture. It’s a three thousand pound, 15 foot high statue of Ed Orgeron trying to coach a football team. I’m conflicted on the title, though: “Failure,” or “Immense Failure.” Houston Nutt says you were doin’ it wrong.

Holly: Houston Nutt would know from SEC teams doin’ it wrong. He says hello. I think it was hello. There was cackling.

Orson: cracklesnacklecrackleGIGGITAHcrackle. I don’t even know if these are making sense, as I’ve been up since five thanks to my in-laws and their geriatric, floor-pissing dog. BUT ENOUGH ABOUT MONTE KIFFIN. I will slap you and call you Casey Clausen.

Holly: I will cut you and call you RONALD ELIZABETH ZOOK. (It’s probably Elizabeth, right? I wouldn’t know. You would. Because he was your football coach, remember?)

Orson: I do remember. Know how to say Zook in German? Das ist pronounced “Kiffin.”

Holly: Kiffykins is more of a wakeboarding type.

Orson: He’s been riding the wave of being born in the right place quite well, that’s true.

Holly: Nepotism! Does a body good. How IS Steve Jr?

Orson: Not foolishly in charge of a major football program.

Holly: (Seriously, how is he? I have no idea.)

Orson: Remember that Steve Spurrier, Jr. cannot possibly be overshadowed by his father’s shadow now that the OBC has passed away.

Holly: Sidebar: you know what coach’s son I’d swap Kiffykins for? Skip Holtz, for the sole reason that I bet Kiffy would wear a pirate hat to press conferences at ECU as though nothing was amiss. This would be unassailably awesome.

Orson: In two years, your dream can come true…provided Notre Dame doesn’t hire him first.

Holly: It’s ready when you are:

Orson: The only consolation when Kiffykins makes his exit is that UT and Notre Dame will fight for the same highly coveted coach, and we can exult in the common joy of watching an SEC outmaneuver ND for a coach. Again.

Holly: I will cut you.

Orson: I have named Jonathan Crompton your starting quarterback for the year.

Holly: I have named Wondy Pierre-Louis your starting corner.

Orson: (Only one of these is true.)

Holly: I will fucking cut you.

(HT: GatorSports.) That is a stencil and not a sticker, so it will remain on the urinal until years of focused urine blast it off the porcelain. The average intake at Balls per customer is something around 38 beers per person per night, so this should only be a matter of a few weeks before it fades. Shame; pair it with a toilet stencil of Bobby Bowden with his mouth open at the bottom of a bowl, and we’d have the ideal bathroom for Gator fans everywhere. (Better yet, write “Music City Bowl” for maximum effect on the side.)

KIFFIN jogs down a wooded Tennessee lane in the morning mist.

Kiffin: I got that boom boom wow/ tan checks and plaid turnstiles/ I’m coaching them up wow/ boom boom boom boom boom how…boom boom BOOOOOOOM…

KIFFIN notices he is lost.

Kiffin: Uh-oh. This looks as unfamiliar to me as

A bright light explodes from the sky above him. A charismatic man with flowing hair appears above him. The smell of Stetson cologne and cigarettes is overpowering and intoxicating.

Kiffin: The ghost of Road House Patrick Swayze!

Ghost of Road House Patrick Swayze: Hello, Lane Kiffin. You have journeyed far today to a magical place beyond your understanding.

Kiffin: But there’s a Stuckey’s right behind us.

Ghost of Road House Patrick Swayze: Those pecan logs are as far from you now as the moons of Uranus.

Kiffin: [giggles]

Ghost of Road House Patrick Swayze: [sighs, shakes head.] You must now come to the place you have been chosen to see. It is a magical place, filled with enchantment, mystery, and music.

Kiffin: Ooh, Branson!

Ghost of Road House Patrick Swayze: No, Lane. I present to you the magical village of…PRIG-A-DOON!!!

Kiffin: Wait…how’d I get this skirt on? And why am I dancing? Are we undefeated?

Ghost of Road House Patrick Swayze: Yes, you are. You beat UCLA last week. Tennessee is undefeated. You’re going in at even money against Florida. You just got a particularly talented fifth grader with sweet dodgeball skills to commit seven years ahead of time. Ed Orgeron doesn’t urinate on your desk to mark his territory every morning. In short, Lane Kiffin, life is perfect here in Prig-a-doon, all the time, every day.

Kiffin: So I can act like a total clueless dick, and it will still work no matter what I do?

Ghost of Road House Patrick Swayze: Yes, Lane. In Prig-a-doon, everything you do works.

Kiffin: Hey, high school coach? Gimme your recruits, you backwater dickneck who doesn’t understand my impressive credentials?

High school coach with coveted recruits: Sure! I’ll throw in my wife for free!

Kiffin: Dad, wake up! Tell me I got here on my own merits!

Monte Kiffin: [/stirs from nap] Failing with the Raiders is like succeeding as a retirement home pickpocket, son. Either way you’re robbing a sick old man for money. Oh, and you deserve everything you have, and your relentless networking and family connections had nothing to do with your otherwise inexplicable rise to becoming the head coach of a major program. [/falls back asleep]

Kiffin: Ed, get me a cup of coffee!

Ed Orgeron: PUTTA DA CREMEINDERE JUSSALIKEA YOULIKEIT. WIFFATWOSPLENDAFORMAHBOSS!!!

Kiffin: Wow, Ghost of Road House Patrick Swayze! Everything IS perfect in Prig-a-doon! What about Jonathan Crompton? Is that him over there playing horseshoes?

Jonathan Crompton, dressed in barmaid’s outfit with lace up bustier and wig: Hey, coach! Watch!

Crompton winds up and throws three horseshoes in succession hitting a small girl in the face, breaking a window twenty feet to the right, and fumblng the last out of his hand before completing his throw.

Ghost of Road House Patrick Swayze: There are some things not even the most fantastic fantasy can fix, Lane.

Kiffin: That’s okay. Say, when can I come back here?

Ghost of Road House Patrick Swayze: Everytime you win a game, Lane Kiffin, the magical village of Prig-a-doon will appear in the woods behind this Stuckey’s. Then you may enter and feast and dance to your heart’s content.

Kiffin: Wow, so I can come here every weekend, then!

Ghost of Road House Patrick Swayze: We have you scheduled for four visits this year not counting the Ohio game, and most definitely not after this weekend. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to ramble on, Lane Kiffin.

Kiffin: Hey, Ghost of Road House Patrick Swayze, pain don’t hurt, right? Unless it’s the pain of having multiple inoperable tumors, right?

Ghost of Road House Patrick Swayze: You’re gonna have to leave now.

Lane: But I’m having a good time!

Ghost of Road House Patrick Swayze: You’re too stupid to have a good time.

GHOST OF ROAD HOUSE PATRICK SWAYZE roundhouse kicks LANE KIFFIN into Stuckey’s parking lot and out of Prig-a-doon.

FIN

Burn…you will burn…you will burn in hell, yeah you’ll burn in hell…

There is a special place in our blackest of hearts for Tennessee, and it is entirely personal. We don’t especially like where we’re from, mostly because it’s one of those places where ketchup is considered spicy, the slightest wrinkle of oddity is cause for grave concern, and country music of deplorable quality bubbles from its pores like congealed fat hardening on the surface of fetid stew. You like it? Great. We don’t, and that’s why we live in Atlanta, home of Adult Swim, a quiet but huge adult industry, a horde of swamp real estate investors spending money poorly, and a crumbling infrastructure and half-assedness more suitable for our tastes. Interstates are magnificent things.

We have, from birth, hated Tennessee: the indigestible-to-the-eyes shade of orange, the somnolent pre-games, the sludgy brand of football designed to eke out wins by field goals, their abuse of a fine coonhound by putting an inherently curious dog in front of 100K and daring it not to go insane with overstimulation. (Watch Smokey sometime: he is seconds away from cracking into an insane rage. We can’t blame them.)

In terms of rivalry, though, things had gone limp in recent years thanks to Urban Meyer’s superior coaching acumen, Erik Ainge’s ability to cough up a game when you most needed him to, and Tennessee’s complete inability to score points when it mattered. It felt hollow, after a while: rivalry requires a certain degree of competence on the part of your opponent, a bare minimum of respect for their inability. It is difficult to respect an opponent who lets you play the part of Dr. Manhattan: you point, they explode, and suddenly you’re the child giddily holding the magnifying glass.

This all assumes you don’t find someone to genuinely loathe on the other team. Ahem.

Like someone who’s already said how much he is going enjoy singing “Rocky Top” all night when they beat Florida in Gainesville, or someone who accused your coach of cheating in public. Don’t look at us: there’s little deep emotional bonding with Urban Meyer, since his relationship with the Florida fanbase is like that of a mob boss with his prize assassin. We pay him to eliminate people in cold cash. He does that. We exchange Christmas cards and formal handshakes. Urban Meyer is not a cuddler with anyone, as far as we know, and only prizes the sweet embrace of victory and cold vengeance.

Ask Mark Richt about that. Mark Richt is the nicest human being on the planet, a man who takes in the stray children of the world, bonds with his players in teary team meetings, and probably always leaves too much money in the Starbucks’ tip jar even though the barista simply turned, poured coffee, and then presented said coffee to you. Mark Richt is a saint walking among us, and Urban Meyer dropped a motherfucking safe on him and Georgia for dancing. Dancing. Dancing is festive, celebratory, nay, even cheeky, and Urban Meyer took that as justification to put UGA on the rack for four quarters and call timeouts at the end to prolong the agony.

Jack Warner once said of the director Raoul Walsh: “To Raoul Walsh burning down a whorehouse is a tender love scene.’ Ditto for Urban Meyer, whose deepest satisfactions as a coach have always come from the moments where he has his opponent Dexter’d up on the operating table bound and terrified. Now he, a lowly assistant who tacked up the coaching ladder from Bowling Green, to Utah, and then to Florida, faces a guy who at 34 is riding a genetic lottery win all the way to the bank and beyond, a guy who called him a cheater in the offseason riding in with an error machine at quarterback coming off a loss to UCLA at home.

We don’t think it’s going to be a blowout, since Tennessee’s defense should be quite good, and Florida hasn’t faced someone with the defensive speed of the Volunteer line. If there’s an opening though, a quivering moment where this game could turn into a complete and utter mass murder, safes are going to get dropped, and in great numbers. Never mind the fans: mind the guy they hired to take you out sitting down on the sidelines, the one with his arms folded who’ll call two extra timeouts just to watch you squirm before the clock strikes and breaks the last bone in your collective bodies. He’s the scary one.

Death…he brings death…

Brandon Carter, your new facepaint for the Oklahoma game awaits this year: Stephen Good, starting right guard for the Oklahoma Sooners, is terrified of Pennywise.

What’s something about yourself that not many people know?

I’m afraid of clowns. The movie “It” got to me.

It’s okay. We all float down here, Stephen. If you didn’t see IT when you were a kid, we can save you the trauma and summarize it thusly: you get scared shitless by a clown that talks to you from the drains and tries to persuade you to join him in the gutter, and then watch as it turns out he’s just a poorly animated stop-motion animation monster of little substance in the finale. In other words, he’s what every non-Tennessee fan hopes Lane Kiffin’s narrative arc as football coach at Tennessee will be. Glad we could save you the time, and good luck sleeping anyway thinking about a.) what will happen if that’s not true, and b.) Tim Curry talking to you from sewer grates. (HT: Barking Carnival.)

(HT: Papa Shark)

SCENE: A muggy midsummer day in an expansive backyard in a Knoxville suburb. Five young men occupy a treehouse high in the branches of a stately oak: Tennessee head coach LANE KIFFIN, assistant coaches ED ORGERON, EDDIE GRAN and LANCE THOMPSON, and strength and conditioning coach AARON AUSMUS. KIFFIN bangs a mallet on a wooden box.

KIFFIN: This meeting of our super-secret club will now come to order! Gentlemen, I have called you all here because you are my best friends and the perfect people to become charter members of the most secret club in all of Tennessee. You can’t tell anyone about our clubhouse or about this meeting, understood?

ORGERON: WHEDDUHSNAXXAT? AHWONSUMMOHTATTACHIPS!

GRAN: What’d he say?

THOMPSON: I think he said he wants some more potato chips.

KIFFIN: Dangit, Ed, you just ate the entire can of Pringles! If I want more, I’m gonna have to go all the way down and sneak some out of the kitchen, and my dad’s down there! Now, the first order of business is to decide what kind of club this is gonna be, and I’ve got an idea that I think is really —

AUSMUS: The superhero justice league!

KIFFIN: No, Aaron, that’s stupid —

THOMPSON: Pirates!

GRAN: Mike Leach already took pirates.

ORGERON: WAMPRATUNNAJUNGAFATTINFOWAHHSS!

GRAN: What’d he say?

THOMPSON: Swamp rat, jungle — OK, I have no idea.

KIFFIN: No, no, guys, I already have an idea! We’ll be the “Super-Secret Junior G-Men Club.”

GRAN: Uh . . . what’s a G-man?

KIFFIN: Like a FBI agent. They fight crime and catch bank robbers.

AUSMUS: Oooh, let’s be bank robbers!

KIFFIN: No, Aaron, I just said we’re gonna be G-men!

AUSMUS: Why? I don’t want to be a G-man.

KIFFIN: But I already got all these decoder rings! I had to eat five boxes of Raisin Bran to get these! All right, time to vote: Who votes that we become the Super-Secret Junior G-Men Club?

KIFFIN’s hand shoots up, and ORGERON’s and THOMPSON’s follow.

KIFFIN: That’s three votes! So it’s settled — we’re the Super-Secret Junior G-Men Club, and our mission is to foil the plans of evildoers. Now we need to decide on officers. Since this club was my idea, I think I should get to be president. And as president, I appoint Ed my vice-president, since he’s my muscle and my right-hand man.

ORGERON: YEEEAHHHH! AHMMAVAHPREZNENT!

GRAN: What do I get to be?

KIFFIN: You can be the treasurer and handle all the money.

THOMPSON: I want to be prime minister!

KIFFIN: We can’t have a prime minister and a president.

THOMPSON: Russia has a prime minister and a president!

KIFFIN: We’re not Russia. We need someone to take down the minutes of our meetings — you can be the secretary.

THOMPSON: Secretary? That’s a girl’s job!

KIFFIN: But this club is no girls allowed.

THOMPSON: So what, I don’t want to be secretary! I didn’t even have to come here in the first place, you know — I could be hanging out over at Nick Saban’s house right now. He has a Wii.

KIFFIN: All right, all right — I’ll be the prime minister, since that one’s more powerful, Ed will be my, uh, vice-prime minister, and you can be the president.

ORGERON: YEEEAHHHH! AHMMAVAHPRAHMINNISTUH!

KIFFIN: And Aaron, you can be the secretary.

AUSMUS: Why do I have to be the secretary?

KIFFIN: Because we need one and there’s no one left! Now that all that’s decided, we need to recruit more members. Ed, you take the neighborhood around the lake, Eddie, you take the mall . . .

AUSMUS: And then we go foil the plans of evildoers, right?

KIFFIN: No, once we have about a dozen members, then we have a big club meeting with all the new members, and we’ll talk about how to recruit even more people.

AUSMUS: Um, are we ever gonna do anything besides recruiting?

KIFFIN: Do you want this to be the biggest secret club in town, or not?

THOMPSON: Besides, recruiting is more fun, retard!

AUSMUS: If all we’re gonna do is go out and recruit more members, I don’t know if I even wanna be in this stupid club!

KIFFIN: Then guess what, you’re no longer a member! You’re banished from this clubhouse!

AUSMUS: FINE! Maybe I’ll go back and re-join Steve Spurrier’s club! HE has a national-title ring!

AUSMUS storms out the door and climbs down the rope ladder to the ground, and stomps off in a huff.

ORGERON: YAKNOWWHAAA, WEGON’ HAFTACOMMUPWIFF SUMMFORAHH NEWMEMMUZTADDOO. MEBBEWEHSHUDDOOO SUMMASIDES RAKROOTIN’.

GRAN: What’d he say?

THOMPSON: Think he said we’re gonna need something for our new members to do, so maybe we should do something besides recruiting.

ORGERON: YEEAHHHH! SUMMASIDES RAKROOTIN’!

KIFFIN: Yeah, I guess we’re going to have to launch our mission against Urban Meyer eventually.

THOMPSON: You mean like . . . fight him?

Long pause. KIFFIN looks uncomfortable.

KIFFIN: No, we can’t actually fight him until we’ve recruited more members. Let’s . . . leave a mean note in his mailbox!

ORGERON: YEEEAHHHH!

KIFFIN: Eddie, since our secretary has been banished from the club, I’m appointing you temporary secretary. Write this down: “Dear Urban Meyer . . . you, uh, don’t know who we are, but we are your worst enemy, and . . . uh . . . we’re going to sing ‘Rocky Top’ all night long after we defeat your club! And we will have a BLAST! Signed, Lane Kiffin’s Super-Secret Junior G-Men Club.”

GRAN: Wait, should we put it in code with our decoder rings?

THOMPSON: Yeah! Put it in code! Then he’ll be even MORE confused!

KIFFIN: Uh . . . guys, I don’t actually have the decoder rings yet. It said they take six to eight weeks for delivery.

THOMPSON: . . . Oh.

GRAN: Should we put it in his mailbox anyway?

KIFFIN: No, no, let’s wait until we have the rings. For right now, let’s just concentrate on new members. Who else do we know that we can recruit? . . .

The treehouse begins to shake ever so slightly, and presently the wizened face of Lane’s dad, MONTE KIFFIN, appears in the doorway.

MONTE: Goddammit, Lane, are you still up here?

KIFFIN: Jeez, dad, we’re trying to have a secret meeting here! We’ve got all these new members of our secret club to recruit!

MONTE: You know what you should try? Recruiting some answers to your homework.

KIFFIN: Dad, I said I’d do it later! God!!

MONTE: Or how about that playbook project you were working on for school? I told you I’d help you out with the defensive part, but I’ll be damned if I’m gonna do the whole thing for you by myself. You gonna get to that or what?

KIFFIN: As soon as we finish with our meeting!

MONTE: (sighs) Fine. You’ve got five minutes.

KIFFIN: Ten minutes!

MONTE: Five minutes, young man, and don’t make me come up here again, ‘cause next time I’ll be comin’ with my belt.

KIFFIN: Fine! Five minutes! Just leave us alone so we can make our list of new members!

MONTE: Fine. And maybe while you’re at it you can make a list of places where that can of Pringles might’ve gotten off to.

MONTE, grumbling, clambers back down the rope ladder.

KIFFIN: God, my dad is so embarrassing.

ORGERON: AY, DIDDNYOOSAY YODADDYADDA BUNCHAPLAYBOWAHS INNAHWUHKSHOP?

GRAN: What’d he say?

THOMPSON: Something about Lane’s dad having a bunch of Playboys in his workshop.

KIFFIN: NO GIRLS ALLOWED!!

FIN

“From one active recruiter of 13 year olds to another, we thank Coach Kiffin for his moving tribute to Michael’s work with youth,” read the statement. “We certainly appreciate it in this trying and difficult time, especially from someone so busy. Sincerely, the Jacksons.”

Kiffin could not be reached for comment, as he currently has his arm caught in a snack machine on the Tennessee campus.

Tad: Coach Kiffin, thanks for coming to your performance review.

Kiffin: No problem

Tad: So you’re in charge around here, is that fair to say?

Kiffin: Absolutely. I’m the coach.

Tad: Okay, so take us through a day in the life of the coach.

Kiffin: Well the first thing I do is…

Wake my dad up (LIKE A COACH)

Play action bootleg (LIKE A COACH)

On every down (LIKE A COACH)

Remember birthdays (LIKE A COACH)

Eat some paste (LIKE A COACH)

My own whiteboard (LIKE A COACH)

Piss off Meyer (LIKE A COACH)

Nepotism (LIKE A COACH)

Feed the dog (LIKE A COACH)

Get my hand bit (LIKE A COACH)

Apply Bactine (LIKE A COACH)

Call Pahokee (LIKE A COACH)

Get rejected (LIKE A COACH)

Cry deeply (LIKE A COACH)

Hand’s infected (LIKE A COACH)

Recruit players (LIKE A COACH)

Take our shirts off (LIKE A COACH)

Dance suggestively (LIKE A COACH)

Harrassment lawsuit (LIKE A COACH)

Ask Coach O (LIKE A COACH)

For some dough (LIKE A COACH)

Get rejected (LIKE A COACH)

Shit on Coach O’s desk (LIKE A COACH)

Find my dad (LIKE A COACH)

BREAK

(Oh god did he wander off again and fall in the river… shiiiiiiiiit…)

Watch some Magnum! (LIKE A COACH)

With my dad (LIKE A COACH)

Wake him up (LIKE A COACH)

Puke on Coach O’s desk (LIKE A COACH)

Jump out the window (LIKE A COACH)

First-floor office (LIKE A COACH)

Lack of foresight (LIKE A COACH)

Awkward meetings (LIKE A COACH)

With the boosters (LIKE A COACH)

I don’t hunt or fish (LIKE A COACH)

Perk up the CV (LIKE A BOSS)

Cash some Raiderbucks (LIKE A COACH)

Name my son Knox (LIKE A COACH)

Make him hate me (LIKE A COACH)

Turn into a jet (LIKE A COACH)

Bomb the Gators (LIKE A CORCH)

Last three years at best (LIKE A COACH)

Go back to USC (LIKE A COACH)

Tad: Uh huh. So that’s an average day for you then?

Kiffin: No doubt

Tad: You turn into a jet and bomb Gainesville?

Kiffin: Hell yeah.

Tad: And I think at one point there you said something about naming your son Knox?

Kiffin: Nope.

Tad: Actually I’m pretty sure you did.

Kiffin: Nah, that ain’t me.

Tad: Okay, well this has been eye opening for me

Kiffin: Oh, just wait until the season starts. I’m the coach.

Tad: Yeah, no I got that. You said it about four hundred times.

Kiffin: Dad said that would help. I’m the coach.

Tad: Yeah, yeah I got it.

Kiffin: I’m the coach.

Tad: No I heard you. That’s the funniest part about this whole bit, actually.

LIKE A COACH.

There has been no picture of Kiffykins and Fulmer together, as the two have “missed each other” and haven’t had time to sit down and stare blankly at each other yet. (Awkward rating: somewhere above “discussing pregnancy with your wife’s real babydaddy in a legal setting, somewhere below “meeting the man who murdered your parents.”)