The play begins thusly. We play the part of the quarterback, labeled here as O/S. The idea: to successfully pitch our way through an evening of socializing at a party in DC with the pitchman, our friend the local DC-ite and aspiring political lizard-person, trailing the play. (You ask: how are you friends with a person-lizard? Simple. You just feed them lettuce just like an iguana, and they’ll be your friend forever.)

The design of the play is simple: the blockers here are played by our liver and ability to make small talk. They will block the dangerous elements of the defense in order to free movement throughout the party, and if needs be the pitchman will take the ball of conversation or social interaction when alcohol or the awkwardness of discussing anything with the half-reptiles at this largely politico-style party.

(We apologize to the non-reptiles reading this piece who dwell in DC. All seven of them. Stay frosty on the streets, as the business card assassins are forever on the prowl for fresh meat. Or lettuce. They’re not picky.)

So, with the consumption of four large solo cups of gin and tonic, we’re off the line. Note that alcohol and social awkwardness has been cleanly swept off the line at this stage in the play, and that everyone’s assumption that we work in the same field as they do (and thus can be of some benefit to them) serves as a fullback dive, bringing in the linebackers. We’re free and clear, and schmoozing our way towards the endzone of a comfortable night crashing on the living room couch slightly drunk with ease.

Signs of trouble appear, though:

“C” must be blocked here. “C” here denotes “Potential Love Interest and Good-Looking Political Type Guy,” and will be played by the head of Rahm “Rahmbo” Emanuel. (It wasn’t Rahm Emanuel, for the record.) Our pitchman, a single female friend from way back in high school, is suddenly interested. We’ve lost our blocker, and as qb must deal with an option that has suddenly become an option keeper whether we like it or not. Solo in the defensive backfield with defenders bearing down on us, the situation quickly becomes one of survival.

A savvy qb would step out of bounds at this point and get off the playing field of drunk socializing, living to play another down. This was not what we did, which was to double down on the speed and hope to outrun defenders. On this play, that means accelerating gin consumption and attempting conversation about something humorous and non-political in an party in DC.

As the following diagram shows, we neglected to notice the safety of our gin threshold bearing down on us from the periphery. Working alone in the backfield without a pitchman, we make it just a few steps into a conversation with a Navy demolition diver before disaster strikes:

The safety–imbalanced blood chemistry and ill-advised powerdrinking on an empty stomach, played here by the very embodiment of gin itself, Peter O’Toole–hammers into us like Andy Katzenmoyer powdering Corby Jones’ jaw. The quarterback spends the next 45 minutes retching on his knees in the bathroom, a victim of poor play-execution and tenacious defense by basic physiology and awkward socializing.

The option, when run effectively, is unstoppable: but a moment’s lapse in the scheme can lead to disaster, as it clearly did for our hero here, who woke up the next morning looking for a city bus to crawl under and die, but found that direct sunlight caused unbearable pain preventing this plan from occurring.

If you have a play from your life you’d like us to plot out, please email us at harumphharumph of the gmail variety. Perhaps we’ll use it.

Hi. You know who I am. This thumb’s for you, Colt McCoy, because you’re a champion who takes my breath away and turns in slow motion away from onrushing defenders bent on crushing you. You took the highway to the danger zone but took the exit toward Victory Lane, and for that I’m buzzing your tower and oiling myself up for a one-on-one volleyball game. You’re invited.

No more playing with the boys, Colt: just you and me, a Colt and a Maverick out in the field doing what animals do. I’m bringing this thumb. Let’s role play: this time, you be Sam Bradford, and I’ll be Brian Orakpo and Sergio Kindle.

This is your open thread for the afternoon. We don’t judge you, whatever you’d like to do with or to Colt McCoy and the rest of the magnificent Texas Longhorns, who played the finest game of the year thus far against the Oklahoma Sooners. Boom. Motherfucker.

Dear EDSBS,

I’m a South Carolina fan, so I just can’t resist relaxing with a hearty jug of this all-season favorite at the game!

Sincerely, Bobby in Columbia

*****

Dear EDSBS,

Usually, by noon, I’m feeling pretty efflorescent. I think that means “too drunk”. It must, because that’s when I start drinking this:

Takes my efflorescence right off, along with my esophogeal lining. Plus: Safer than Muriatic Acid!

Yours in tracheotomy, Louis from THA U

*****

Dear Fuckface,

GOVAWLS WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Troy in Tennessee
*****

Dear sir,

Here in Ann Arbor, our shooter of choice goes down as smoothly as…well, as life!

Very truly, Mitch in Ann Arbor

(For rills, though: Three more months of this until honest-to-Phil-Steele’s-parietal-lobe football, and we’re well and truly racked enough with ennui to implement what will surely be a monumentally ill-advised Wednesday mailbag. Hit me. And before you ask, and speaking of racking, the Property Of Mister Tebow picture is still back there in the archives somewhere, so if you want to see tits go fetch it your ownself.)

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.

The Sporting Blog. Not only does it have our interview with Ric Flair, but it will have our posts on what Vegas during the first weekend of March Madness looks, feels, smells, and feels like, including the part where we wind up drinking $2000/bottle cognac from goatskins with the sheikhs of Dubai at a live man versus panther death match in the hills of Nevada.

Step One, this. Step Two, fire up laptop. Step three: MASSIVE PROFITS.

Flickr. I’ll be posting photos live from the fracas, as well, so keep up by following here.

Twitter. For those too ADDled to even get through this blog post, we’ll be posting on the EDSBS Twitter feed muy rapido all day and most of the night.

Your guest host will be Oops Pow Surprise from Black Heart, Gold Pants , a demented gent who promises to not only provide the Curious Index, but an installment of “Things Black and Gold People Like,” the latest in our series of fan profiles. We will usurp the Iowa jokes by saying the only one we know for sure: meth.

Godspeed. And wish the same to us. If we fail to come back from this mission, know that we went to bat country happily.

That Alec Baldwin: the crazy fictional one, that is.

The choice was similarly overweighted this year, as the panel had to pick through nominations to find those properly blending sport and funny, and doing so in an outstanding and consistently wondrous manner. Two blogs clearly sailed above the rest in this department.

Runner-up: Black Heart, Gold Pants. Iowa sucking this year helped fuel the bitter farce fire they stoked all year long, but BHGP went above and beyond the call of duty this year. JoePa meets Fergie is worth its weight in gold, um…pants.

And the winner is…

Hey, Jenny Slater. Chancellor of the Sexchequer Doug Gillett and his fine website span many, many different topics–pinko Doug’s been writing plenty of political posts lately–but he’s a Dawg from the soles to the tips of his mangy hipster ears, and his football writing is savage, quick, and witty to a non-cornpone degree we thought impossible in a heterosexual UGA grad. Despite his wit and rapid-fire pen, he does prefer to sleep with women, and he does prefer to write in ridiculously tight prose loaded with guffaw-worthy snark.

Here’s looking at you, Doug.

There’s much to nominate, but Doug really won for this:

By now I’m sure you’ve all seen the above video in which Tom Cruise flaps his gibs for nine and a half minutes about . . . well, nothing in particular. I mean, ostensibly it’s about Scientology and how ZOMG AWESOME it is to be part of it, but round about a minute and a half in it’s pretty much just Cruise on autopilot, talking to hear himself talk, luxuriating in the aroma of his own metaphorical farts, with the occasional maniacal laughter or Creepy Face thrown in like some kind of bad Bond villain. I was halfway expecting some long pause after the end of Cruise’s speech, after which this timid voice offscreen says, “Dude, all I asked was whether you were still into the Scientology thing, and where the bathroom is.”

At any rate, it’s all the proof you could still need that Cruise is so crazy shithouse rats won’t even hang out with him, and they were playing the audio on one of the sports-talk stations here in town the other day and laughing hysterically. The question was posed as to which American football coach is most likely to be a Scientologist, and one guy said Mike Martz (formerly of the St. Louis Rams) and another said Mike Leach (currently with Texas Tech), but I’d go with Urban Meyer. The creepy stare, the secretive operation, the questionable recruiting tactics . . . if he’s not an OT III yet, he’s at least been audited.

For that and throwing a toaster oven out of his window in the name of football, Doug earns our funniest blog award. Congrats, sir. You have reached clear status in our eyes–use it well.

Next up: Joel with “Funniest Youtube”. Whoever made that Saban video is an idiot.

UCLA: The Gin Rick-ey. Take one waterproof M-80 with custom dry-sealed eight foot fuse and set in bottom of highball glass. Cover with ice, 1 1/2 ozs gin, a splash of lime juice, and club soda. Light fuse. Garnish with lime, enjoy. Wait for it to blow up in your face.

Cal: The Tedford Falls Saving and Loan. Fill highball glass with ice, then add 1 1/2 ozs generic Tussin. Top with 18 year old Sherry Cask-aged Macallan Scotch. The initial taste should be one of great potential; the finish should leave you nauseated and disturbed, as if you were white water rafting with Kevin Bacon.

MP3 File

Wazzu: The Pullman Sleeper. Make a double-tall vodka and tonic with mid to low grade hooch. Don’t bother to mix it. Hide it in a very difficult to find place in the bar, and then make people look for it. (Like Wazzu football, it’s in a hard to find place, and once you get there, the quality’s about average.)

The glass half…full, isn’t it grasshopper?

Washington: The Willingham Paradox. Fill a glass with any dark liquor, and only fill it halfway. If your guest asks for more, explain that you already gave them what you had, and that the other bartender left you with only so much to pour from the bottle. If they complain it is half-empty, ask them “Are you sure it isn’t half-full?” and arch your eyebrow sagely. If they don’t like the drink at all, accuse them of not liking it because of its color.

Arizona: The Tuscon Two-Stepper. Just like a Tequila Sunrise, but include five ounces of Visine to ensure steady, debilitating loss for the consumer.

Oregon: The Screaming Swoosh. Add 8 oz Blue Curacao to neon-lined 64 oz chalice. Fill remainder with magnum of Moet Champagne. Watch and ooh as the color changes to a screaming green, and charge to Phil Knight.

Stanford: the Long Island Iced Tree. Mix eight expensive liquors into a single glass. Drink 12 in a row. Throw against wall, cry, repeat in exactly eight months.

Arizona State: The Fun Devil. Standard Bloody Mary recipe, but float 3 oz of 181 rum on top, ignite, and garnish with hard-boiled egg for added protein and drinking endurance. It’s the drink that burns twice! Goes especially well with golf cart rides into volcanoes.

USC: The Godberry Doggfather. Combine Hennessy and PowerThirst Godberry Flavor in a Gatorade barrel in order to win at drinking and therefore, like Pete Carroll says, win forever.

Oregon State: The Beaver. Combine 4 oz Clam Juice with high-quality organic American whisky. Stir with spruce sprig, and garnish with sardines. We could go nowhere else with this beverage but in this direction, and you knew we were snakes when you picked us up, didn’t you? DIDN’T YOU???