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. (more…)

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.

(more…)

The good doctor once did this better than we possibly could, but the piece is lost somewhere in the mists of the internet in the cached archives of Sunday Morning Quarterback.

The header on this video is “One of the worst offensive series ever in college football,” and if you limit the definition of “worst” to “a series where, while not turning the ball over for a change of possession or a score, the offense displays repeated, consistent, and diverse ways of stepping face first in front of the red boxing glove on an expanding arm time and time again,” then yes; we’re talking about what might legitimately be not one, but the worst series of offensive football every played.

Ladies and gentlemen: Nicholls State versus Northwestern State. Northwestern has the ball on the Nicholls State 47, and is down 33-14. Watch from between your fingers if you have to.

1st and 10: incomplete pass. The best drive for Northwestern State all drive, as it is merely an incompletion.

2nd and 10: Illegal procedure, NW State. Also, an oncoming pass rusher flies sideways into the qb’s knee after the play. (more…)

Oh, it’s on, you adorable, bewhiskered motherfucker:

“I’m gonna turn Florida in right here in front of you,” Kiffin told the crowd at the Knoxville Convention Center. “As Nu’Keese was in the meeting, his phone kept ringing. One of the coaches says, ‘who’s that?’ And he said, Urban Meyer.”

“I love the fact that Urban had to cheat and still didn’t get him,” Kiffin said.

(Watch the video here.)

Oh, Kiffykins. To the pain was the baseline, but it’s torture time now. To earn further future blowouts in painful fashion, Kiffin and co. skunked LSU on Janzen Jackson, a Louisiana corner who was booed by the home crowd when he announced he would be going to Tennessee. If Lane Kiffin dies today crushed by a one-ton block of taffy dropped from Barkevious Mingo’s Indestructible Imperial Dirigible, don’t even try to act surprised.

(HT: C’lay.)

No words; just ‘Freek:

…thanks to the bottomless wrath of Colt McCoy.

Reporter: “Any further questions: what do you expect to see from the Sooners in terms of game management and strategy on Saturday?”

Pinkel: “I’m gonna just be frank with you. I expect them to put sixty points worth of ungreased football schlong right into our outflow pipe, frankly. Take that down: I expect them to sodomize us with an excellence unseen since Halston took on three members of the French Men’s Rugby Squad in 1980 in the VIP at Club 54. We’re going to be rammed from the aftside by a battleship that, frankly, will likely split our humble clipper ship in two. We’re Edward Norton in the shower in American History X, and we know what’s coming. It doesn’t mean we like it, but in life, sometimes you’re the plunger, and sometimes you’re the toilet begging for a mercy flush.

So, in return what I expect is a quality reacharound. Not a half-assed flubbing of the old Atari Boystick, no, what I want in return for taking the biggest Barbary Pirate Handshake since Joel Klatt watched his brain fly out of his nose is a quality courtesy butter-churning from the man in return. Let us get some points back in the third and fourth. Make sure Chase has at least one eyeball when the game is over. Take out Demarco Murray when they’re up by thirty. The little things.

If you’re going to flesh-kebab someone, you might as well give the courtesy of rubbing their meat before applying the heat. That’s all I’m saying, and you can quote me on that. We’re not looking for a pastor’s handshake here. I want my team to feel the concerned but firm grip of a closeted plumber on holiday in a Miami bathhouse, dammit. It’s the least they can do after what will probably happen to us on Saturday.

Any other questions? What? Why are you looking at me like that?

[/the sound of flashbulbs, furious scribbling, and phones being dialed.]

To cap off a lackluster hate week, we salvage by threatening each other with the worst tortures we can possibly think of. Enjoy?

Orson: Ready to hate?

Holly: It’s been too long since I was referred to as a “dick mitten.”

Holly: (yes. hateyourface.)

Orson: I will open this with: I will throw you in a closet full of BEES and name Dave Clawson as your offensive coordinator.

Holly: [yourpastorheardyousaythat'd]

Holly: I don’t even need to do anything to you. I will strand you, as is, in the Wisconsin student section. They’ll love your fluffy widdle fauxhawk.

Orson: I’ll die from the fumes first. SO….MUCH..BOOZE….

Holly: Or from the FREE HAM sign I will place about your neck.

Orson: Speaking of Booze: how is Johnny Majors? (more…)

Handler One: Ralphie, that’s a good girl.

Handler Two: Man, she’s flipping me out right now.

Ralphie: Trample. Kill. Ram. Trample. Gore. Crush crush trample. Fear. Two legs everywhere. Trample them all. Desperate hunger for grass. Kill.

Handler Three: We’ve got to go in two.

Handler One: Look at her eyes. It’s just one pit of black surrounded by white fear. God, that’s unnerving.

Ralphie V: Hunger. All that grass. Must crush, then eat. Sun. Buffalo in heaven. Demand blood. Ram. Stomp. Run. Kick. Destroy two legs.

Hander Two: Where’s Trey? He’s supposed to be here. We can’t do this with just three handlers.

Handler Three: We ready to go?

Trey, Handler Four: Hey, guys, when are we—AAAIIIIGGGHHHHH

Handler one, hanging on for dear life: OH GOD HER EYES HAAAAIIIIIILLLLLP!

Ralphie: OPEN SPACE RUN KILL.

Handler Four: My insides feels leaky and warm…I can’t feel…my…hands…

Handler One: I CAN’T HOLD ON JESUS CHRIST WHY THE HELL DO WE HAVE A BUFFALO THEY DON’T LIKE LEASHES!!!!

Dan Hawkins: Well done, boys! That’s a division one football mascot!

Ralphie: Sun. Grass. Trampled. Yes. Suddenly tired. Hungry. Stop.

Handler One: MY SHOULDER! OH GOD MY SHOULDER!

Hawkins: Can we get her to skydive onto the field? And then trample someone? That would be EPIC.

(HT: Rashaan Salaam)

The debate over replacing the retiring Reveille VII (that prounounced “vaiiiii”) at Texas A&M has gotten quite spirited for a place priding itself on military traditions like order and swift decision-making. To wit:

“I think Reveille VIII should be an American collie because it’s tradition, and isn’t that what A&M’s all about?” freshman general studies major Emily Hudson said.

“Reveille should be a mutt. [Collies] are really spastic and hard to train. And mutts, since they have a mixture of all different genes, they tend to be a lot smarter,” junior marketing major Kelley Baxter said.

Yeah, that’s right. Listen to the person who’s actually declared a major, Texas A&M, and back up because we ’bout to drop some policy:

EDSBS Policy: Texas A&M, you should get a mutt. First, it sets an exemplary standard for your community and for the rest of the world as a whole if you adopt a stray dog–just like the first Reveille–and take it back to campus to become the new, freshly dewormed mascot of your school. It would be timely, too, since stray dogs are the third-greatest threat to Americans in their homes, topped only by our natural enemy the sun and, of course, Kimbo Slice.

All they want is love, your garbage, and a soft place to lay down. Oh, and occasionally a child stolen from the neighbors’ yard to play with, but isn’t that what the road trip to Austin every other year is for? Exactly. Our bluetooth devices are communicating smoothly and processing nicely here.

Slow down your heart rate, man. He’s getting angry!

Second, do not just get any mutt that comes along. No, Aggies, you must select a hoodtastic mix of some of nature’s gnarliest dog breeds all force-humped into a single physical vessel through a genetic lineage so convoluted Mormon polygamists would weep at its complexities. Chow, pit bull, Rottweilers, Cane Corsos, Doberman Pinschers, Anatolian Shephereds, German Pit Chows, Dogo de Argentinas, Brazilian Mastiffs, the rare but powerful Scythian Rape Terrier…all of them need to be present in one form or another here. The final product should look something like Cerebrus, the three headed dog guarding the gates of hell, but only after the bad ass middle head decided it was tired of all the other heads’ yapping and ate them in a 35 second display of horrifying, impressive ferocity.

Take care to raise it with humans and socialize it early and often. And never, ever, leave it with fewer than three people at once, and try to keep it away from flashing lights and loud yells. For football games, sedate with 200 mg Seconal, or whatever amount will get it to a manageable level of fury. It all sounds like trouble, but if you want the Hound of the Baskervilles as envisioned by a Russian bioweapons lab, then you pay the price, amigos.

Oh, and if the Brazos Animal Shelter doesn’t have one of those lying around, you might consider contacting a Russian bioweapons lab. Those people do great work. For an example, just look at Terrence Cody. He cost Saban a pretty pony (no typo–Saban has to feed him one each day), but 900 pound defensive tackles don’t grow all by themselves.