His most moving and complicated work, though, was initially panned for what audiences saw as a mumbling, incoherent performance in “Carpets of Dalton 2: The Restapling.”

Sometimes, the audience leads the artist; but in their best work, artists force the audience on a journey they might not want to take, a dark and intensely personal Dantean descent into a hell of their own making. Clearly, thespian Richt has a mind to serve as your Virgil here, broaching the ninth circle of hell as we know it–carpet shopping–and tapping into the misery of a trapped soul with an emotional honesty too fiery and tinged with real sadness for most viewers to appreciate.

Richt spends most of the plot nodding and assenting to his wife, dragging her gently through the endless piles of samples, patronizingly examining the flooring she points out to him, nodding as she enthusiastically nails her lines about Carpets of Dalton’s outstanding selection and convenience. She stands as an incandescent counterpoint to Richt’s mumbling misery; Richt is a pre-breakdown Lester Burnham, pondering the void of his life behind the facade of the provider.

How do you know this is a quiet, plush American hell? The director tells you all you need to know in one chilling image juxtaposed with Kathryn Richt’s chirpy dialogue:

Rattan furniture; or, as we think of it, the tacky home of the flabby, misshapen ass of your deep, undying sorrow. The image then morphs into the “happy” couple walking through the store, frittering away the days of their lives in one endless spasm of forced happiness and subtle consumer gluttony.

“To get me here in one spot…and get everything done in one place…that was a good idea.” When Richt utters this line, the halting delivery and mumbling volume reach into the viewer’s chest and arrest the heart. In an instant, you have become Richt, and Richt has become you. In thirty seconds of postmodern theatre, Mark Richt the actor has become Mark Richt the artist–and he’s taking you to hell whether you want to go or not. We, like the readers of Dante’s great Inferno, are that much richer for the flames.

Live to win, ’till you die, ’till the light dies in your eyes
Live to win, take it all, just keep fighting ’till you fall
Day by day, kickin’ all the way, I’m not cavin’ in
Let another round begin, live to win
Live to win
Live to win
Yeah, live, yeah, win!!

9/13/08: Never. Forget.

“Death is nothing, but to live defeated and inglorious is to die daily.”

After bouncing around our brain for a few caffeine-addled hours, the meaning became all too clear: Twitchy is an imaginary mascot, the meaning and spirit of something embodied in a cartoonish, anthropomorphic form. Thus, we present to you our first imaginary mascot, Twitchy the Martyr, the mascot for Jihad A&M University. Lovingly by LSUFreek with some degree of homage to Hoodwinked.

Tasteful: Twitchy the Martyr, and his adoring fans. They take the field with a BOOM!

Stuff Black and Gold People Like

Fried anything. Holy shit do we like frying things. It’s not that only Iowans fry everything, but Iowans only fry everything. Go to the Iowa State Fair, but do so only at your own risk and with polarized lenses on your sunglasses; direct eye contact with too many fried confections will clog your arteries with Oreo paste.

Not meth. Sorry, Orson, but that’s something that Red and Yellow people enjoy far more than Hawkeye fans, along with other mind-numbing substances like Oxycontin and Rep. Steve King (R-IA). On the other hand…

Hawkeye Vodka. This brand exists, it’s about $11 for a handle, and it’s every bit as gut-wrenching as you can imagine. Only the saddest, most pickled citizens can stomach shots of the Hawkeye, and consuming large portions in mixed drinks leads to complete loss of pants, motor control, and stomach contents, in that order, and in the span of about 15 minutes. It’s a great way to spend a weekend, even if you only remember the world-altering hangover. Actually, it’s unfair to Iowans to restrict us to Hawkeye. Let’s broaden this out a bit:

All alcohol. Go to a Hawkeye tailgate sometime. It’s similar to SEC tailgates in terms of volume (both sound and attendance), but there’s a marked difference: SEC tailgaters cook. They socialize. They have fun. We stand around in 40 degree weather silently forcing Natty Ice down our throats and thinking to ourselves, “there’s more dew than usual.” This is a necessary result of having all our football games start at 11 a.m. Eventually, after 7 hangover-delaying Keystones, some asshole turns on his car and puts in his tailgate CD, which by default has…

THIS. FUCKING. SONG.

Things take a while to get to our fair state, so yes, it’s hot and fresh to us. This is Iowa, after all.

Making you watch us while we do politics. We’re not actually interested in politics. At all. Our governor is just as stupid as your governor. But every four years, CNN shows up and we get to travel to downtown Des Moines and say things like “is that Shepard Smith crossing the street?” and listen to desperate politicians tell us things that not even they themselves believe. We are attention whores, pure and simple, and when you follow the cycle of one month prom queen, 47 months drag queen, you’ll understand too.

The one-finger raised from the steering wheel salute when you’re on a gravel road. We don’t wave. We point up. Of course, Jimmy Bluecollar’s not about to acknowledge you in return if you’re driving an import, because his (male relative) didn’t die in (war that may or may not have had any bearing on American security) just so you could ride around in a god-damn Toyota, son. Why can’t you just drive a Chevy like normal people? You on marijuana or somethin?

Corn. Oh god, the corn. It’s everywhere. Also, sadly, Children of the Corn was not a documentary, because this state would be a lot more interesting if unsuspecting teenagers were beheaded by rogue corn vines (which may or may not, you know, exist) every time they set foot in a cornfield at night. That’d make for some unforgettable yearbook pages every spring, wouldn’t it? “IN MEMORIAL: Jared Carver, 1990-2007, car accident; D.J. Thompson, 1989-2007, evil corn demons ripped off skull. You will be missed.”

No, Charlize, the corn vines! Noooooooo!

The Drake Bulldogs. They do things the right way, which is a nice way of saying their point guard is white. We’re not racist, we just don’t care much for the showboating and hollering and the rap music and gangs. That Adam Emmenecker, he just plays ball the way it was meant to be played, you know?

Nile Kinnick. Plain and simple, he’s the Iowa football Jesus. He saved us from mediocrity. He defeated the unholy Catholics. He won the Heisman. And sure enough, he was cut down in his prime, dying in a plane crash as he trained for WWII off the coast of Venezuela two years after graduation. Sure, it’s debatable whether he ascended from the Atlantic–his body, like Jesus’, was never recovered–but we at least got his plane back. Fortunately, the plans to put his wrecked plane on display at the stadium were shelved, because when Nile comes back in the Rapture, that’s the last thing He’ll want to see, but we revere him nonetheless. Talk crap about Nile in the Hawkeye state and you will be ripped asunder, even by people who barely even know who he is.

Hayden Fry. If Nile Kinnick is Hawkeye Jesus (he is), Hayden is our patron saint. Sure, he was openly Texan (not that there’s anything wrong with that, either), but we like to think that his down-home sensibilities applied to Iowa as well too. We like to pretend that anybody of decent character has that in common with us, though that’s hardly the domain of Iowans. Still, the man in the aviators and the moustache built the football from nearly nothing, as well as training others to do the same at Wisconsin, Kansas State, Iowa State and South Florida. Again, any ill word of Hayden within the Iowa borders is cause for completely legal assault and dismemberment. It’s what we do.

The missionary position. In the dark, without the distraction of music, and under at least two blankets. It’s more intimate that way, you see, and we don’t want to deal with all these freak show details that you see on the pornos and the internet. It’s sex, not a goddamn circus.

Moderate obesity. This is not entirely unrelated to the previous item, since there’s nothing appetizing about acrobatic sexplay coming from two people who resemble clean-shaven Saint Bernards engaging in Greco-Roman wrestling. The slobber gets everywhere, it’s awkward and uncoordinated, and… yeah. Anyhoo, whenever the Hawkeyes go to bowl games, it’s painfully obvious who the Iowa fans are in the city beforehand; not only are we wearing only bright yellow (”It’s gold!” No, it’s yellow. Gold is this and don’t let us catch you wearing that) , but we’re universally 40-80 pounds overweight and loving it. A steady diet of Bennigans and 4-month bitter cold winters does that to you. You wouldn’t understand, Gator fans. We hibernate with mozzarella sticks.

Superiority. Despite everything that you may interpret as inferior qualities, readers, we wake up every day happy. We know it could be worse. We could be Cyclone fans.

Oh, denim. Is there anything you can’t ruin?

HT: Greg, but view the rest of the photos over at SportsCrack.

We’re taking our plastic orange pumpkin and going out with them for the night, and not coming back until we fill it with beer and candy corn. (Man, that’s gonna be some kind of fun to crap out.) In the meantime, please remember to moderate your candy and alcohol intake. You might make the scene all day…but tomorrow there’ll be hell to pay.

A concussion occurs when the head hits or is hit by an object. A concussion can also occur when the brain is pushed against the skull with a strong force. In such cases, parts of the brain that control mental function may be damaged. The injured person may become disoriented (confused) and may briefly lose consciousness.

The U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) estimates that about three hundred thousand people experience mild to moderate concussions each year as a result of sports injuries. Most of these people are men between the ages of sixteen and twenty-five.

See illustration 1.A below:

For more information, the Library of Congress recommends that you find your local Rey Maualuga. Anger him; this may be done by staring directly at him or at a picture of him, breathing oxygen in his vicinity, or even standing too closely to him in days that end in “y.” Then wait behind as many blockers as you like for desired results. He’ll find you.

(BTW: What in the hell is wrong with UCLA’s protections? Olson was sacked five times in the game against Utah. West coast offense short pass three step drop quick protect whaAAAA?)

A respectable 20 rank in the Coaches’ Poll! A buzz-generating sighting of the Wildcat formation in fall practice, a formation that new offensive coordinator David Lee says he’s even expanded in his playbook! People forgetting the turmoil of the offseason until…until you get the sudden departure of offensive Colin Tucker from the team, a minor hiccup in the depth chart that should slide away from the reader somewhere around the bottom of the page.

Unless Tucker Sr. goes on a Rivals site and either drops a neutron bomb on anything and everything associated with the coaching staff–now that’s got itself some walkin’ legs, now.

We’ve been told by non-green-fairy/pink elephant sources that the sourcing on the post is solid. It’s Pa Tucker, most likely. Whether a single word of anything said by “Mr. Tucker” in the post is veracity is doubtful–we wouldn’t believe weather reports from Fayetteville if the name Houston Nutt is associated with it from either the pro- or the con- side of the debate.

But here’s the post, removed from Rivals and copied from another Arkansas message board. In case you were jonesing for that midday enema of unadulterated crazy…well, bend over. Here it comes.

My son Colin Tucker turned in his equipment after 18 months of abuse from the Razorback coaching staff. I would rather tell a very loyal fan base first before a small DMG paragraph states he left the team for unknown reasons. I was a fan and very proud that he signed with the Hogs out of Pierce High School in 2005. I and 33 members of my family have graduated from the University of Arkansas at Fayetteville. We love the school more than many Arkansans. I have read many of the Razors Edge comments and find some truth in the knowledge regarding the program and a majority of insights completely missing the mark. I know many fans will say I am a disgruntled parent. That is their right. Each person has an opinion.

He wishes the best to his former teammates.

SEC football! It’s stabyouinthefacetastic!

Al Groh: forever rockin’ to 98.5, but not the worst.

At least Groh produces NFL draft picks, one of the bits of evidence Stewart Mandel cites in his list of the five worst coaches this year to prove how bad Groh is. (Braves and Birds, file and save for the next installment of “Duel of the Jews“. You’re welcome.) He also plays a wicked synthtar on Guitar Hero, and has produced a whole line of instructional booklets.

There’s two examples far worse than Groh or even local mayonnaise sensation Chan Gailey, he of the 7-5 regular season mathematical equilibrium.

1. Sylvester Croom. No one wants to put him on this list because of the huge, huge challenges Croom faces as the head coach of a program located in a town lovingly referred to as “Starkganistan.” They do exist, but Croom’s made a slew of mistakes as head coach, most notably attempting to run his version of the modified West Coast offense (a complex, often too complex system for college) with personnel who can’t possibly execute it. In three years, he’s failed to find talent to match, either.

Croom: sadly, not very good.

Logically the only other person who could be worse than Croom. Of three victories last year, two preceded the losing coach’s firing or “departure”: Mike Shula at Alabama, and Watson Brown’s departure at UAB. Croom’s only other conference win not over Ole Miss or Kentucky…

2. …would be the one that got America’s other worst coach fired.

Syracuse: Um, the Washington of the Big East? Even pitching here, but played in the Carrier Dome, which Syracuse actually inflates with pure helium during games. Unaccustomed to the pure, toxic form of the gas, Washington dies a squeaky little death in this game. (Don’t believe it? You come up with a better explanation of why good teams go bad in the unassuming Syracuse game environment.)

Ty Willingham and the Huskies: this year, they dine in hell.

Boise St: Beat a better Pac-10 team this past season in Oregon State, which looked like ashen heaps of shame for the Beavers until the Statue of Liberty Game. Now they’re the favorite here, which means they’ll have difficulty dealing with the pressure, stumble, and still win this game running.

Ohio State: Loss. Will not get ugly after the second quarter. Because it will be 20something to three then, and Tressel and the Sweatervest Mafia will call off the dogs. Fortunately, as this will be Tennessee/Florida week, no one will watch this game anyway, so it will be a quiet death.

UCLA: Loss. Fire Karl Dorrell!

USC: Hmm…are we mad to think that after a 26-20 near miss for USC last year, that Ty Willingham and company can pull this one out at home? Are we? And those purple gargoyles eating the curtains–they weren’t there five minutes ago, right? HUGHHHHH!!!

Arizona St Win! Why not. They’ll win one of these midseason games based on sheer spite acquired from the gauntlet of the first five games. Or they’ll be crushed, burned-out husks of themselves already. Hard to tell, really, but we like to think pink here at EDSBS.

Oregon Loss. Distrust this pick, however, as Dennis Dixon has a tendency to look very, very sleepy at times. (Hell, distrust them all…)

Arizona: Win! But only because Willie Tuitama, spinning wheels in the first year of the Mike Leach offense, throws four picks in his 62 attempts on the game.

Stanford: Jim Harbaugh, declaring himself eligible for a fifth season of eligibility, suits up and drives the Cardinals to their only win of the season, repeating their record of 1-11 from 2006. When asked why, Harbaugh simply answers “Because Jim Harbaugh bows to no man.”

Oregon St: Loss. We think, on a serious note, that beating USC transformed this team for good last year, or at least was the on-field manifestation of Mike Riley slowly rebuilding this program after the sugar binge of cheap success Dennis Erickson took the program on at the turn of the millennium. Plus they have a lineman who stole a gay sheep. We can’t, by rule, root against that.

California: Loss. Jeff Tedford fields the same team of Tedfordbots every year, and most years they beat Washington. It’s superior technology. Can’t fight that.

Wash St: Um…win? Who knows-both teams are treading the same miserable path out of the bottom of the Pac-10. These games usually come down to turnovers. That’s announcer-speak for “both teams are about even, but we haven’t done our homework due to an unfortunate drinking incident with Musburger at the Coyote Ugly last night. You do NOT want to see that man with his shirt off pouring shots down his chest. It’s something a man shouldn’t have to see.”

Hawaii: Hello, 22 year old athlete. You’re in Hawaii, and you’ve just undergone a season’s worth of federal, “pound you in the ass” prison football in the brutal Pac-10. In addition to that, you played Boise State, Syracuse, and Ohio State, and lost to at least two of them. You hurt. Your body’s tired. You’re defeated.

And then, you get on a plane in rainy Seattle, and walk out in paradise. Palm trees; sunshine; hot, beautiful flesh moving tantalizingly under very small bathing suits. Someone puts a drink in your hand, and you’re at a bar kissed by the salt breezes of the Pacific, which looks so much friendlier here a few time zones over.

When’s practice tomorrow? Yes, practice…why am I here again?

LOSS.

That’s quite a homefield advantage you have there.

That’s pessimism illustrated, there. But if Washington goes bowl eligible after that schedule, someone get Ty Willingham his pre-Notre Dame Taoist genius buzzcap back, because that is honestly the nastiest schedule this side of the Tournament Map in Mortal Kombat 2. 6-5 at Notre Dame got him fired; 6-6 with this twelve game schedule would be an act of alchemy meriting Nobel consideration with the Coach of the Year nomination coming as a nice bonus.

The trend continues. Bill’s got a piece over at the Fanhouse about USC’s ongoing peeps into the ACC. Ever on the mack for more recruiting lebensraum and national profile, Carroll’s got USC already playing UVA in 2008, and plans to double up his Atlantic Coast Conferenceness with a proposed date with Boston College in 2011, a year in which Carroll plans to all but rubber-stamp his express ticket to hell by potentially beating both prominent Catholic college football schools in a single season.

Go ahead and start selling the “Highway to Hell: Trojans 2011″ t-shirts. They’ll pay for your retirement home in Oriental Mindoro in no time flat.

In fact, according to a Scientific American article we skimmed on the toilet one day, there has to be a parallel universe where you’re being killed on a Youtube clip. In fact, there’s one where you’re this Texas Tech wide receiver getting his sternum shattered by a TCU d-back. And that parallel universe utterly sucks for you.

Badgers head coach Bret Bielema said one of the following quotes regarding Chryst’s anticipated and much-welcomed return. Pick the right quote, and win an EDSBS prize!*

“We love him. Unconditionally. We think the guy walks on water.”

“He does the work of…well, not two people. It’s more like he’s three guys wrapped up in one for us.”

“If he left, we were going to blame the usual suspects. By that, I mean the Jews, of course.”

“”I’m very pleased Paul will be staying with our program,” Badgers coach Bret Bielema said in a statement. “It’s a testament to all he has done here that an organization like the Cowboys would be interested in him.”

“Chryst working for the Cowboys? Did you see what God did to Tony Romo? No way he’s working for them.”

Wisconsin: Chryst returning. Repent, heathens.

*The official EDSBS Esteem and Respect Prize. Cash value? Zero or less.

Don Frank, a.k.a. Frank Broyles, Arkansas’ retired semi-legendary coach and longtime AD, will be retiring after the calendar year 2007. Events on the rancho happened very quickly: the retirement came after a meeting of the board of trustees in executive session, which is Robert’s Rules-speak for “the time when we close doors, say whatever the hell we feel like, and actually start getting things done.”

Broyles has been the biggest patron–lo siento, El Patron Mas Grande!–for Boss Hawg, a.k.a. Houston Nutt. Nutt made it back to the SEC Championship Game this year after winning ten games during the regular season and pounding the daylights out of Auburn at home, one of those games you’ve likely forgotten about that really, really changed the way people saw a Tigersplainsmenwareagle team pegged by many to be a national title contender. (You no stop off-tackle, you no win national title.)

The debacle began with the defeat in the SEC title game and Mustaingate, the lass pictured above who was the blue chip in Nutt’s bonnet in 2006 recruiting. After hiring Mustain’s high school coach to revolutionize the Arkansas offense, Nutt slowly reeled in Gus Malzahn, benching Mustain and marginalizing the spread attack until the Arkansas offense looked a lot like the run run punt attack Nutt has trademarked at Fayetteville. Nutt then loses Malzahn, may have lost Mustain, aggravated a parent revolt with his retrograde offensive moves, and went on a local talk radio show to slam a columnist who he believed wrote inaccurate things about him…which were, of course, mostly true.

What happens next? If this follows the telenovela, we will have:

–Boss Hawg, impassioned with desperate love, impregnating the buxom maid.

–Don Frank, clinging to the rancho, making a desperate bid to get back the ranch by searching for Trotsky’s lost gold in the hills with the treacherous vagabond Jackie Sherrill.

–Gus Malzahn, trapped in Tulsa, woos Mustain with roses and mementoes of their formerly glorious love.

–Arkansas boosters mass at the gates of the rancho, torches in hand.

All this story needs is Bee Man.

The next offensive coordinator at Arkansas? The whole thing makes him queasy.

Our proposals:

1. The CSI First Down Line for SEC broadcasts: rather than simply show the line and the crew stretching the first down marker toward the spot, let’s have a full, CSI-style zoom in on the grass, the flecks of dirt, the ball looming huge like a zeppelin from the ant’s eye perspective. Complete the scene with jumpy edits and the disgusting sound of tiny bug jaws chewing up their prey. Finish each microzoom with the Roger Daltrey YEAAAAAAYYYYYY from CSI: Miami

We’d even work in David Caruso, if allusions to anything alcoholic were allowed on college broadcasts.

2. For Fox Broadcasts: combine the success of When Animals Attack with sideline reporting, forcing microphone-toting newbies to prove their mettle by broadcasting live while being attacked by an animal chosen by viewer votes. “To see Leslie fight a surly warthog, text *34 on your Cingular Wireless phone.” Remember: Fox hates you.

3. The FedEx Express Twofer: Making a two point conversion takes five minutes off the clock in the second half. Extra time will be filled in with bonus coverage of ABC’s new sitcom Unattractive Man With Inexplicably Hot Wife Makes Mistake And Has To Cover It Up in 22 Minutes.

4. Allstate can sponsor the Dennis Haysbert “Are You In Good Hands Varsity For A Day” contest, where a lucky fan (only after signing a mountain of waivers) is allowed to play for a series for a team at the position of their choice during the second quarter. They cannot opt out, and by purchasing a ticket have in fact already consented to the possibility that they will find themselves playing fullback in front of 80,000 people for five minutes. They must wear a blue all-contact Allstate jersey the whole time.

We really want this to happen in all sports just to illustrate just how hard they really are, especially during the Olympics. Ski-jumping. Pommel horse. Boxing. The possibilities are endless, especially in the vault. See evidence below.

5. The Trojan Magnum Deep Penetration Replay. Speaks for itself, really. Big pass play or huge sack (heh) gets the Trojan Magnum Deep Penetration Replay, accompanied with hotkey “oooooh” from a ladies’ voice.

6. The Brent Musburger Cold One Alert. Each time a player makes a particularly vicious and cold-hearted hit or tackle, the sound of a popping top plays, accompanied with Brent Musburger saluting the screen and saying “HE JUST POPPED A COLD ONE, DIDN’T HE JACKAARRROOOOO? REMEMBER, THAT’S ANOTHER BRENT MUSBURGER COLD ONE, BROUGHT TO YOU BY ANDY LAURINITIS!!!” Note: does not specifically mention beer, or even correctly identify Musburger’s current broadcast partner, which is exactly what will happen on the screen anyway. Paid for by the combined breweries of America, and they might as well, since we’re pretty certain Brent does his own in-house version of this anyway.

Brent: having a cold one alert whether you like it or not.