That said…this particular section is news to me.  Here are FOX and NBC’s big 2008 bowls, in their entirety, plus a bonus play-by-play cutdown of the ‘07 Fiesta Bowl…no fees, no registration.  The commercial interruptions are infrequent, the A/V quality astonishingly high for a free site.

Anybody having a long day?  Need a little ESS EE CEE SPEED in your cubicle?  How about the entire 2008 BCS Championship game?  You’re welcome:

Long road to August, boyos.  Kick back a spell and enjoy the next best thing.

It’s an alcohol-iday, motherfuckers! WOOOOOOO! Shots on me. Literally. I’ve poured them all over myself. My speedo’s wet! Someone get me a new one or I’m sunning my buckeyes. And you ladies saw that yesterday.

Alcohol-iday! HT: Tressel’s World.

The last time I heard people scream like that, I was running through some back alley in Rio with a flamethrower. You know how long a cat can run after you set it totally the fuck on fire? Thirty-eight feet. I know that because I just whipped out the old twatstand and marked it off myself. Took three lengths, but that’s an exact measurement.

(Surriously: Jim Delany always travels with a flamethrower. You should have seen him at the Hotel Ipanema that afternoon. He was like Peter the Great on PCP. He scares me sometimes. He thinks Turistas is both a comedy and a documentary. His eyes are the dead eyes of a killer! Great dude.)

Jesus. Two years in a row I gotta come down here and rage just to put the beast to bed. Fucking Robiskie drops a TD. I thought about that all night last night when I was in the pit. Fighting off three dogs and a guy named Jorge all at once ain’t for the amateur, but I didn’t get to where I was in life by not being able to lose three pints of blood and still snap a man’s neck in one move. Everytime I felt the darkness coming on, I just thought about Robiskie dropping that fucking pass, and suddenly I’m all hopped up on anger-crack again and sinking my teeth into the neck of a Presa Canario while a thousand Mexicans are screaming and throwing money at you.

The sweet moments in life are never enough, man. Never…but that poor, poor man. It’s what he gets for stepping in the ring with a poet-warrior like Jimmy T. I mean, I wrote this after I woke up this morning in the can. It just flows from me like money, man.

Their once was a coach named Jimmy
Who into the title game did shimmy
His kids shat the bed
And gave the Tigers cheap head
And now he’s in Mexico drinking his liver into a smoking pile of useless ashes and fighting anyone who gets within fifty feet of him because that’s just what he wants to do, motherfucker.

I didn’t even write that down. But a man shouldn’t leave anything behind him when he goes, which is why Jimmy T’s dying with zero in the bank account and sliding into a grave surrounded by the sheet of glass he turned his surroundings into. I’ve got a bargain basement Kazakh warhead in the Tresselbunker just for this purpose. Hook it up to the EKG, and when the cock-engine goes flatline, BOOM! Me and life, tied 1-1, baby.

Julio! Yeah, you! I promise you won’t die if you bring me 72 ounces of whatever’s in that machine over there? I could watch that shit all day: the little steel wheel going around in the machine. What has two thumbs and can drink you into renal failure? Jimmy T, that’s who.

And fuck the fucking AFCA. Like I’ve got to go there and choke on rubber chicken and hide when I want to slip down to Tiujuana for some real nightlife. You can buy your own penicillin over the counter there–now that’s a town that understands the kind of freedom a lone wolf like Jimmy T. needs. aaaaa-ROOOOOOOOO!!! Wolf callin’ here, ladies!

Julio! I won’t bite. Seriously. You see this cash? Get your ass over here and get me a drink. I know I bit Manuel, but he deserved it and the infection he has will heal. I’m not a fucking Komodo Dragon, man. Okay, only on my mother’s side. That’s a joke, because you can’t really fuck a Komodo Dragon. Believe me, I’ve tried.

SERIOUSLY JULIO! NOW! THIS GUN ISN’T LAUGHING, NOW IS IT? THAT’S BECAUSE GUNS DON’T LAUGH, AND NEITHER DOES JIMMY T WHEN HE’S CRAVING 72 OUNCES OF SLUSHY MARGARITA HAPPINESS!

Now let’s get this Alcohol-iday started, Julio! Greasy watermelon race comin’ atcha, Cozumel. And by watermelons, I mean my testicles.

This is the internet, meaning that this is the place for rumor, hearsay, and spurious stories of dubious sourcing, all sponsored by possibly fraudulent products. So to combine the twin pillars of this glorious virtual universe, we promise that if you read the following explanation of Ohio State 3rd string qb Antonio Henton’s arrest for soliciting a prostitute, your penis/boobs/both, if applicable will grow to twice their normal size when you finish.

One sexual attribute-enhancing rumor, coming right up:

He was driving through that area (a few blocks south of campus) on his way to buy some shoes. While driving along, he was flagged down by a woman who approached his car and asked if he wanted to have sex. Then the uniforms came and arrested him. It should be dismissed as entrapment, and they apparently arrested 10 other people that night in that location. Henton really is a good guy…God damn man trying to keep a dude just gettin’ some shoes down. Fight the power!

What is omitted is Henton’s response to the solicitation, which seems important. We turn this over to the EDSBS legal department, since half of our readership seems to squeeze in visits in between billable hours, while the other half reads this from white-collar prison while trying to get in some consult time with the half reading this from their law offices: is this entrapment? And if so, can we say it with a Sean Connery accent while making eyes at Catherine Zeta-Jones in a catsuit?

An eagle-eyed reader saved one such example of neverwas memorabilia for us, however, and sent it post-haste to the Swindle Reptile Farm on Highway 78. The taste is a bit fresher on this one, however, and endlessly sweet for us.

Busted Memorabilia presents: the “Make Florida an Urban Myth” t-shirt.

The front:

Available in brilliant scarlet.

The back:

Well, it did end.

And, in your “economics illustrated” lesson of the day, the price tag:

Da hao to ‘Fesser for the shirt, and for spending more money to ship it than it cost to purchase the actual tee.

“Tressel Hayes Huffines — sounds as sweet as an OSU victory over Michigan,” Brent Huffines, 27, said Sunday while cradling the 3-day-old boy in the neonatal intensive care unit at Ohio State University Medical Center.

The parents actually named their child after not one, but two Ohio State coaches, something so completely deranged we’ll go ahead and accuse the attending medical staff at the hospital of negligence for not immediately testing the father for tertiary syphilis. We’ll also predict that the child will take their first steps at age two, whereupon he will be tackled savagely by a helmetless Earl Everett.

Honey, get down! Get down Tressel Hayes!

Aside from serving as an argument as to why couples with an aggregate age under 50 should NOT have children, the birth also served as the occasion for a whole array of strange incidents:

1. Afterbirth contained lint roller and gambling chit signed by Art Schlicter.

2. Child’s first diaper stain? In the shape of Lloyd Carr’s profile, oddly enough. Now for sale on EBay and currently holding steady at $16.95. Will increase in value over time, however, as child will only defecate in styrofoam coolers.

3. Baby grabbed doctor by surgical mask and punched him shortly after exiting the birth canal.

4. Child’s natural birth and problem-free vaginal delivery lauded by Big Ten Commissioner Jim Delany in the following statement:

We at the Big Ten congratulate the Huffines baby. We realize that at just under six pounds, the child may be smaller than 10 pound, 7 ounce Urban Spurrier Hernandez, born in Miami yesterday via caesarean section to the Hernandez family of Hialeah, Florida.

Jim Delany

Delany: clearly overjoyed.

Nailing whole seabass to car hoods? Making love to trees? Oh, if Noah’s involved, all that and more.