The BCS has a Facebook page and a Twitter feed, too. They can block you on the Facebook side, but making the tweets private is a dicey proposition for someone who is supposed to be engaging the public in forming positive framings of the BCS and reinforcing the necessity of the system in the public sphere to oh my fucking god let’s just shoot all the PR people before they can breed.
There is no need for a playoff OBEY.
We’ve already had some fun with them, and suggest you do the same without following them, because, you know…it would de-emphasize the already important daily updates and cheat the tradition of the bowl system or something like that.
Courage Wolf suggests you listen to EDSBS Live tonight and join us as we make chicken salad from the chicken shit that is week 12. 9:00 p.m. is when we put on what some people call a basketball hoop, and we call a cockring. Throw away the gum, chew the tin foil, listen here, chat there, and quit being such a pussy. Some call it cancer: we call it week 12, and it’s just something you haven’t ripped through yet.
A brief review of the most persistent adwhoring in the commercial landscape for college football this year to date.
Bergwood and Ham/Vincent/Lyingbastardface we don’t even know anymore. I don’t even know who you are anymore, Bergwood and Ham. Or should we call you…Vincent, your real name, Mr. Dick Whitman-I-Blew-Up-A-Guy-In-Iraq-and-took-his-name? That may be a secret only your Allstate agent knows because he is blackmailing you, First Ham unveiled his real name and his marriage, something Bergwood seemed more than justifiably disturbed by (”I don’t want to be your weekend lover, Ham,”) then the two whistled past the graveyard of their relationship by cooking hamburgers off the smoking torso of Bobby Bowden (who says advertising doesn’t offer effective metaphors for understanding the world?) and then finally…the death knell, and the hopeless attention-whoring by Bergwood as a final step to salvage the once-perfect marriage they shared built on Ham’s lie of an identity.
It’s like my naked body doesn’t even get your attention anymore, Ham.
Coldly poking at the hotter, fresher phallic symbols on the grill while ignoring Bergwood? Someone’s laying on the symbolism a bit thick now, don’t you think? (more…)
Jimbo Slice says this is how a lawya eat, and you best get over to the Alphabetical. This week’s topic include the metaphorical relationship between lobsters and USC, the Simpsons Completion Theorem, the Michigan fanbase doing it to themselves, they do, and that’s what really hurts, and kind words about the city of Athens, as close a place to actual live college heaven for all demographics as is humanly possible. Treason, you say, fellow Florida alums? Perhaps, but with Jimbo Slice on our side we fear nothing.
The Alphabetical is up and humming in its usual ramshackle form at SB Nation. In other distractions: cabin fever has a thousand forms, but filming yourself chugging DayQuil and watching football for a whole Saturday is one particularly bold form of it.
PARK-LIFE. We really didn’t drink that much DayQuil, since Orange Drank ain’t got quite the same spectral liftin’ power of that Purple Drank.
If you’re around in Las Vegas next week, feel free to come down, plonk down some coin, and watch us mix vodka with brain at Blogs with Balls 2.0: Vegas Edition. What happens when you do that on stage? This, of course:
Tickets may be purchased here. Prices may seem steep, but remember that they come with free booze, free booze, the promise of AJ Daulerio being pistol-whipped on stage by a drunken Sean Salisbury (GUARANTEED!), party passes, and yours truly doing his damnedest to derail any serious conversation as coordinator of the “State of the Union” panel.
This week’s edition of Blatant Whoring features Clay Travis, who is whoring his book On Rocky Top: A Front Row Seat to the End of an Era. The following is a clip of him making fun of himself on video on video. He’s fairly postmodern for a guy who wears sandals and golf shirts everywhere.
OS: Let’s start with an important question: why didn’t you write a book about legendary broadcaster Tim Brando?
CT: Ah yes, the immortal Timmy B. I seriously considered it. The working title was, My third follicle in the combover goes crazy when I have two mich ultras and a zima, but publishers were iffy on the idea. They also told me that Zima didn’t exist anymore. I said, you haven’t seen the selection in Tim Brando’s man cave. Which came out much worse than I expected that it would…
OS: And now I’m thinking of what’s in Brando’s rectum. Besides his head of course. Next question: why Lane Kiffin? I mean that in a general sense, not just a coaching way.
Clay Travis: Well, if you listen to the people at UT, the amazing thing is everyone wanted Lane Kiffin. And I believe them. (more…)
OS: What other purposes can your book serve besides tiring and unnecessary reading? Which fatigues the eyes, bothers the placid brain, and excites overly tense nerves?
MT: If you prop it up with a twig and place a small sliver of cheese with a string attached beneath it, there’s a good chance you could catch one of those sprites from Pan’s Labyrinth.
OS: You went to Maryland, therefore it is not your fault you don’t grok college football. What elements of the college game, though, would improve the soulless, corporate air of a pro football game?
MT: Definitely boosters. They really embody the innocent play-for-the-fun-of-it ethos of the college game. Also, a College Gameday-like broadcast would be nice. (more…)
For tone. Go ahead and get emotional. It’s only the greatest song ever recorded.
Ahem.
As of this month, EDSBS will be joining SB Nation, America’s largest and finest collection of blogs devoted to sports, sports, and in its spare time, sports. The mortal known as Spencer Hall will be joining them as well, for whatever he’s worth.
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Orson Swindle and Stranko Montana are two men pushing thirty who should know better than to run a college football blog, but evidently don't. Both graduated from the University of Florida, and both agree that college football is far too important to be left to the professionals.
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