Fulmer: Well, that does it. I’m off Atkins for the next month.

He takes a donut from green and white box. A solitary tear runs down his cheek.

PF: I just…what am I gonna do with the rest of my life?

[A GREAT RUMBLING OF BASS AND MUCH SHAKING]…

Marky M: YeaaaAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Phil Fulmer: Couldn’t you have taken the door?

Marky M: FAT BOYZ BOUT TO PUREE THIS SHIT LIKE A STEAK SMOOTHIE, LAWYA! STAY STROOOONNG AND DROP…THAT….BEEEEEAAAAAAAT!!!!

What!

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?

Holly: Virile.

Orson: And flammable.

Holly: ….I just died a little. Oh, did I tell you? I got you a walk-on part for Ghost Rider 2. You’re welcome.

Orson: Damn you. That’s the worst thing you could have threatened me with.

Holly: You led with a body blow. It was that, or assigning you to Ben Mauk’s legal defense team, which lord knows has to still be operational.

Orson: I will let your team win a national championship, but not with your heralded white quarterback, but instead with a mobile black qb who took money from boosters.

Holly: So will I! (Chris Leak was getting help from SOMEBODY.)

Orson: Revlon.

Holly: Maybe he’s born with it. I will tell Will Muschamp you’re hurt.

Orson: I will give you a house next to Neyland Stadium, but it will be on “Casey Clausen Court,” not “Peyton Manning Way.”

Holly: vikbhwGHIV;.vikbhnvj:?BF ;

Orson: That one buuuuuuuurns.

Holly: I, in return, will subject you to a variation of waterboarding known as Jimmy Clausen Hair Runoff Torture.

Orson: NOOOOOOOOOOOO

Holly: After which you will be required to pull out Charlie’s post-op stitches. Without gloves or a mask.

Orson: I will cover you in batter and signs reading “Free Ammo!” and throw you at a horde of LSU fans.

Holly: I will inform Randy Shannon that you failed to separate your recyclables. His sad, disappointed eyes will drive you to seppuku.

Orson: (Like anyone in Miami recycles.) I will stab you to death with the planet Mars.

Holly: I’m telling Mike the Tiger you sassed him.

Holly: Also, Rey heard you’re full of candy.

Orson: I will give out your cellphone number as Erin Andrews’. The sharks will never cease their circling.

Holly: I’m giving yours out as Greg Robinson’s. A different sort of shark.

Orson: I will inform several Alabama message boards that you keyed Nick Saban’s solid gold Cocksman 300 Sedan. You KNOW that one’s gonna suck.

Holly: I will show you the true meaning of the verb form of Kragthorpe.

Orson: I’m pretty sure that involves my anus, and not in a good way.

Holly: Know what you need? A guest appearance on Dr. Lou: Acupunture Edition. (builtbythehomedepot)

Orson: I will make you go menswear shopping with Chris Fowler on clearance sale day.

Holly: I have three words. Fire ant ball.

Orson: I will force you to work as a gravy swabber on Charlie Weis’ new 18 foot long land-yacht, the Frying Crutchman.

Holly: You’ll be laughing when I strap you to a mechanical bull, sidesaddle in front of Brent Musberger, who’s 97 sheets to the wind and singing bluegrass.

Orson: You will wake up in a bathroom. Your leg will be chained to a radiator. A saw will be on the floor. A loop of the Randy Sanders 2005 offense will be running on the television. Make the decision you must make.

Holly: Good, because I’m sending you to a Baptist picnic with storebought banana pudding. And while you’re gone I”m hiding Big Red under your bed and Little Red in your closet. It’s no use running.

Orson: I will tie you to a post and allow Mike Patrick to read his journals aloud to you. No man has made it past page 16 without becoming incurably insane.

Holly: Giant Trev Alberts is just outside the door. He heard what you said about his pores. And he’s most displeased.

Orson: I’ll shoot you with a gun that fires other guns.

Holly: I’ll shoot you with a bear-gun (that’s a gun that shoots live bears)

Orson: I’ll do that, but instead of bears, it will fire bullets. Wait…

Orson: I will turn you into a man just to cockpunch you.

Holly: I will do the same OOOOHHHHHH BUUUUURN In summation: BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES. Oh, and I’ll cut you. Again.

Raise ya glasses, shake ya asses, Vol Nation: For unto us is given this day that greatest of football blogosphere treasures—a Catlab masterpiece of our very own. It’s like staring into the sun, but it’ll get you drunk. Behold:

Have you ever seen anything ring so true? I’m about 85% sure the guy holding the pennant is my cousin Maxie. Had this wondrous creation hatched just a scant few days earlier, we would’ve been hard-pressed not to scrap the Tennessee list entirely—because this is, perfectly encapsulated, what Orange And White People Like.

He’s also been reading up on his Douglas Adams and watching his South Park, because he wants you to remember one simple lesson: bring your towel.

Willie the Wildcat, the worst mascot in America, still appears to be a guy just wearing a head. And not even a proper mascot head, made from synthetic fibers, chicken wire, some felt and a bit of professional stitchwitchery. No, Willie’s head is something different and more hideous. Perhaps you had an eccentric great uncle: world traveler, bon vivant, holder of seven dubious diplomas and one obvious fake.

Ah, yes. Da Mao of Lijiang!

Great guy, even once the syphilis took hold? You found an actual tiger head in his basement once. He explained to you that it came off a beast he shot with Joseph Rock in Yunnan in 1933 “that was feasting on Chinamen like they were dumplings, mind you!.” It was dessicated, poorly taxidermed, and smelled like death’s jock strap, and so old the color had leached from the fur completely.

That same head is what this poor man wears on his head to football games. We suspect he’s a work-release inmate from a county in Kansas with a wacky judge with a penchant for creative sentencing. It’s the only possible explanation.

Power Towel. We think Ron Prince has a very low opinion of the opposition if he believes waving towels will do anything besides start brawls in the stands when one whirling towel catches a trashed K-State fan in the eye. (Towel corners can remove eyeballs. We learned this because we have a brother and an extremely immature father.) It will increase the cleanliness of the stadium, most likely, as fans bored with Ron Prince’s stagnant offense will begin polishing the bleachers.

The only other time we can think of this working–at all–as a massive fan-participation widget was in Pittsburgh in the NFL, where sausage-leadened Steeler fans, immobile from binge drinking and orgiastic eat consumption, waved them during games. Prince is missing out on the basic cause/effect, here: the real homefield advantage for the Steelers are the clouds of aerosolized alcohol that roll onto the field in the third quarter off the fans, which killed Tommy Maddox on the field in 2005.

Don’t forget your towel!

Still, the gimmick affords the opportunity to give Ron Prince the nickname we’ve been looking to hang on him like a rotting albatross: Towelie, who is forever asking you if you want to get high and asking you if you brought a towel. DON’T FORGET TO BRING A TOWEL!!!

Chumbawumba: Back in Business, Bitches! If you thought KLF and Chumbawumba had fallen into the same abyss with the Primitive Radio Gods and the Baha Men, you are totally mistaken. They made this song for K-State, which sounds like Adam Ant ate “Dr. Who” with a side of “Tubthumping,” topped it with a cocktail of Florida State Fake Injun War Chant, and then shat it fresh onto a purple platter for your…um..consumption?

It’s also 1.) totally scoreboard driven, and not cued by the band or the crowd. We hate this didactic zombie fan shit no matter where it is, including the AC/DC “Thunderstruck” kick they’ve gotten on at Florida, and 2.) kind of complex for a stadium chant. A pair of ten-beered brains in the stands will likely only get it together by the last bit successfully.

Fan1: Dude, seriously. Freeman’s 280 easy.

Fan2: That’s not Gatorade he’s drinking. That’s au jus.

Fan1: Should someone tell Ron Prince that the goatee is the mustache of the ’00s? And, like, not in that ironic Seth Rogen in Superbad way?

Fan2: Shit, I get lost when they play this thing. There’s a lot of whoas here.

Fan1: No shit. Whoa..whoa…nope. Totally lost, dude.

Fan2: Wait, I think I know this part…STATE! STATE!!!

Fan1: STATE! STATE! STATE! STATE! STATE!!!

Fan2: You should stop now. They’re not even playing the music.

Fan1: STATE! STATE! STATE! STATE! STATE! STATE STATE! STATE!

Fan2: (Attempts to stuff Power Towel in Fan1’s mouth. Eyeball-killing violence ensues.)

There’ll be problems, we guarantee. But there’s no stopping Towelie here. Rock on, K-State. You get knocked down, then you get up again. They ain’t ever gonna keep you down.

Begin.

This bartering included rounds of golf, cars, and other goods adding up to a $700,000 tab exchanged over the course of the past year. Most shocking of all?

And, according to university records, $4,050 of a $5,000 trade with Honey Baked Ham in 2004 was used for gift certificates for athletics staff members. Another $500 was used for a staff Christmas party that year.

Toledo football: will work for ham.

Tom Amstutz: greasing the palms of his employees with that gold-foil wrapped wicked duchess of meats, the Honeybaked Ham. The ancient practice of barter may be a happy hobbyist’s way of purchasing Canadian real estate on the cheap, but it’s not a fave of Toledo’s President, Lloyd Jacobs, who put on his no-funderoos by saying that bartering–widespread at other universities, and not illegal–”is not the best practice.”

Tom Amstutz, driver of a brand new ‘07 Honda Ridgeline, would likely disagree. Embroiled as he is–man, does the offseason involve a lot of embroiling–in the points-shaving scandal surrounding Scooter McDougle and scrutiny over his recruiting trips to that hotbed of American football Germany, ‘Stutz might have to find some new wheels and a new magical ham fountain soon.