Play me off for 6-8 weeks, Keyboard Cat.

No permanent or lasting damage, as the piece of angry, disunited bones in my back aren’t load bearing. They do hurt like I swallowed a plugged-in soldering gun, which is why I’m waking up in a few hours to dust off some more delicious, nutritious Percocet.

Thanks to all the well-wishers on Twitter and Facebook. (Our phone doesn’t work, as the iPhone battery died last night, too.) It’s pill and sleep time, and we’ll see what “we” feel like tomorrow.

Well, he’s on trial. Fun details follow!

When a pair of bar patrons tried to separate the two men, Thomas said he heard a popping sound, looked down and saw a lot of blood.

Beckett’s attorney said that Thomas was the aggressor and that his client defended himself only after the younger, bigger man went up to the bar to confront him.

And now, for no reason whatsoever, a picture of a heart-healthy pomegranate!

Oh, no reason. Why do you ask?

If we’re playing the Social D, then it’s wrong time…or at least speculative wrong time. A long IM conversation with Russell from Football Outsiders prompted this question: what, if anything, does instituting a forty second play clock do besides put the onus on the officials to spot the ball faster? Even if the take 15 seconds to spot the ball–and watching this laggardly work by an SEC crew in this year’s LSU/Rebels game, that’s fairly brisk–it’s likely a push with the current system. And the more plays bit could come from the variable time that bleeds off the clock while the officials are pushing their walkers around spotting the ball. (Get them some offroad tires on those motherfuckers!)

So the 40 second clock may not be the real problem here, as Russell was quick and correct to point out. We were wrong, potentially, here, if the more logical types we know are correct.

The real-play shaver is still there, though:

“After a player runs out of bounds and the ball is made ready to play, the official will start the game clock. Under the old rules the game clock would not start until the ball was snapped. This new rule will not apply in the final two minutes of the first half and the final two minutes of the game.”

Hrm. it won’t be 3-2-5-e level trimmin’, but there’s some absolute time loss here without the promise of more plays. But that’s not the point here: we jumped the gun here and didn’t do our math correctly. See after the jump for the requisite self-flagellation.

Extreme language ahead. You are warned.

Knowshon Moreno? Fuck. Damn. God fucking dammit. God motherfucking dammit. Holy motherfucking piss-shitting assfucking bullshit assshit. Just fucking godass pisswad fuckbagging Cleveland steamer cocksucking pussy-ass fucking motherfucking dickhead hellassed shitstorm goddamn brokedick shitwallah fuckheaded rectumweeping buttfucking cockmaster!

And pussyflap shitbubble queef-eating shiteared catfucker? Oh, fuck. Fuck him with a claw hammer. Fuck all of the fucking fucks. Come dumpster fatassed molebrained bitch ass assbitch shitface pissbrained assqueen. Forty fucking Christs sailing on a shitlog through shitstained shitwater. Wilford Brimley bukakke party.

Fuck.

Oh, this. Horrified jumping Jesus shooting propane tears through a dick-shaped flamethrower. Fuck fuck fuck, fuck fuckity fuck. Ram a tree sideways up my ass and call me a national park. Skullfucking poodleburning motherdamn fuckalongs. Shitsmelling catballs. Donkeysucking titslaps on turd-flavored flapjacks. Cleveland Steamer discount vacation whorecunted ballwashing Santorum sandwich-eating needledick sodomy turdcutter.

Fuck.

In summary:

–Rimjobbing snowballing cockbait? Shit.

–Fishfisting condor-rapist fucktrolley dildo-cowboy cocksmoking? Check.

–Shit, ass, fuck and more fucking bastardnuts shitfighting? Double check.

ps. Fuck.

In the Big Ten, the shit will hit the fan on Saturday night as a classic nexus of Big Ten football, Brent Musburger, and wholesome, sausage-downing fandom meet in Happy Valley as Penn State hosts the undefeated Ohio State Buckeyes.

And if you do plan on attending the game, please note that big games at Penn State tend to have a laxative effect on fans, and that you may be hard up for a place to deposit the angry, glowing bolus of processed sausage and potato salad you’re carrying around in your bowels like five pounds of spare change.

“The number of comfort stations being provided currently is woefully inadequate from a health and safety standpoint,” Brumbaugh’s letter says. “The handful of comfort stations in the parking lots are, quite literally, full and overflowing with human waste creating untold potential health and safety problems for PSU football patrons and, ultimately, the general public.”

(We blame heavy, hearty Midwestern fare for the problem–it’s painful enough when your intestines grab the wheel, but the mandate becomes even more urgent when you’ve got a solid two pounds of brats, potatoes, and casserole blowing through the tollbooth without paying. Barbecue and chips at least stops you up until a bitter, teary fight-crap the following morning.)

The myth of overflowing styrofoam coolers at Ohio State tailgates remains that: a myth. (Albeit, one we heartily support, since it is funny, and should therefore be true. It’s rollin’!) This, however, is a documented public health and sanitation crisis, with 100,000 tailgaters relying on a paltry 339 portable toilets for relief. The recommended number for a crowd of this size is 957, meaning that refugee camps in Chad could, theoretically, have better shit logistics than Penn State on gameday.

And big games really do seem to intensify the problem: while the average gameday sees 7,000 gallons of blue-brownish cloacal goo pumped from the premises, this year’s Notre Dame game saw 18,000 gallons of shit punch taken off site. (We’ll beat you to it. Charlie Weis was not the sole reason for the jump, and don’t even try to suggest it.) We can only imagine that the combination of college football’s two fecal superpowers–one mythic, one documented–could result in a turdocaust of rogue wave proportions.

HT: Senator Blutarsky.

Your boss will totally understand. Or will fire you. Either way you win: it’s still college football season. (HT: Those brave, brave men at Mississippi State Sports Blog.)

Yup. Thankin’ ’bout makin’ a top 25.

The upside is that when it comes to prognostication, we’re all Hills Have Eyes mutants looking for a fresh meal for daddy, since we all uniformly suck at predicting the future. It’s a great trick of the human brain: we’re terrible psychics, but we’re superb editors, giving ourselves credit for things largely acheived by outrageous fortune, a little hard work, and the endless combinatorials of fate. This explains why you can tell yourself you did not, in fact, want that promotion, you are, in fact, quite happy with the way your body looks, and that you think that despite having no offensive line, a quarterback you’ve personally seen vomiting up a 12 pack in a Quik Trip parking lot, and a coach with the IQ of a salamander, that you think [INSERT TEAM HERE] has a great chance to [ACHIEVE SOMETHING THEY MOST DEFINITELY CANNOT, PUNY HUMAN.]

And yet despite the innate futility of predicting the future value of college football teams in the upcoming season, it’s a great time-killer, and not an entirely inaccurate one thanks to inequities within college football. The advantages even the most gin-poisoned college football prognosticator (raising hand, looking around tentatively) has are numerous:

1. The nature of the sample. How anyone picks the winner in the NFL defies our comprehension, since the league has installed so many economic doohickeys (profit-sharing, most notably) into the system that parity’s the expected rule in the league, not elite dominance. In fact, it’s almost more remarkable to not make the playoffs eventually in the NFL than to make them, since so many advantages are given to struggling teams. (Note: seek creation of Bidwell Award for Most Persistent Failure in the Face of Imminent, Impending Success immediately, Roger Goodell! It can be named after no other.)

College football, on the other hand, is a classic “giants and dwarves” sample. There are reaaaaalllly big programs whose food budget could fund an entire small program for a year. Only thirty or so teams may realistically compete for the national title, and of those you may whittle down more based on coaching turnover, lost starters, and other relatively locktight factors.

College football has plentiful dwarves. One lives in Buffalo.

2. Consistent good management is a safe bet, too. When picking, it never hurts to roll over last year’s top ten in slightly distressed fashion. The good tend to remain good in college football, since so much of what affects performance on the field occurs off-stage: coaching contracts, recruiting budgets, the established paths to getting less-than-qualified students into school.

In fact, changing management should be a seabird thrown right into your windscreen of prognostication about a team. Players cycle through college in very little time (unless you’re Asad Abdul Khaliq, who played at Minnesota for 16 years, and had a very thorough understanding of Glen Mason’s system by the time he left.)

Asad Abdul Khaliq, seen here in his 12 year at Minnesota, understood the importance of consistent management.

Systems, procedures, and the ability to mold players quickly and effectively matter. Only qualified people do that, and there aren’t many with the gift–see Nick Saban’s 5 million dollar salary as evidence of just how rare and expensive a commodity that truly can be.

When things change at the top, they will change on the field, with how slowly or quickly they change being the only question. Take Les Miles, the most misread of all major coaches: LSU’s played significantly differently under Miles than they did under Saban, with the primary difference being that under Miles, LSU’s lost fewer games, proof that “new” does not necessarly constitute “6-6 and a spot in the Federated Trucking Bowl.”

This year, Miami and Louisville both try on new heads. The challenge for the murderous redneck prognosticator is not to issue a blanket “HOLD” judgment on them, but rather to feel out whether the move takes them up, down, or sideways. And then, of course, remain unsurprised when you’re totally wrong.

However, overall you can follow the patterns of brain drain from the mid-majors into college football’s Premier League and make reasoned, solid guesses at who’ll be or remain successful. Pete Carroll’s probably not going to suck this year. Neither will Urban Meyer, and neither will Charlie Weis, even given the fact that Notre Dame’s depth chart will be riding out the bottom curve of Willinghamization this year.

Good management equals good results. (Unless we’re talking about Tennessee ‘05. But that would complicate our already clause-ridden guidelines! Goddamn what hanging out with lawyers has done to our once-purely irrational psyche!)

Checking your calendar helps. A hedgy bet here, since your 11-1 Hawaii team could enter their bowl game and dent your eventual luster by facing an extremely pissed-off 10-2 Texas team in a 66-3 razing. However, schedule-peeking can help ensure some modicum of reality to the top ten. Hawaii remains a perfect example: gusting on a good dose of preseason hype, their sweet, condensed-milk covered confection of a schedule is way high on the glycemic index, and should have them riding into the last few weeks of 2007 with a “BCS-buster”-worthy ranking.

Conversely, Miami faces Oklahoma and Texas A&M out of conference, two games that could deal early losses to a potentially talented team. Note that this, the “good, consistent management” trend and other logics (Patrick Nix, offensive coordinator? O RLY?) have kept Miami out of many preseason polls; if they are listed, they’re usually in the Georgia Techish range of 20-15, desultory territory for Da U.

Then again, Florida had cancer of the schedule last year, too. They did all right, we guess.

Trends are the wobby bannister of predictions. When all else fails, just size up the most immediate trends of a program and go with instinct. No one could have predicted Tennessee’s 5-6 2005, USC’s bizarre loss to Oregon State last year, or the improbably continued relevance of Penn State in the face of Joe Paterno’s continual struggle with the Solanum virus and its devastating effects.

Any of the other “anomalies” that happen every year in college football can happen for a reason: when 30 or so teams are competing with roughly comparable resources, shit happens and will continue to happen. In fact, if you want a forecast for the college football season, just imagine a weather map. Everywhere it says rain, just replace with “SHIT.” That’s your map, and stick with it, because that’s just how it’ll turn out.

Your 2007 college football forecast done honestly: you won’t believe this shit. Illustration by House Rock Built, as most of the good ones seen here lately are.

This was equally true in 2006, and will be true again in 2008 when we do this again. Ohio State was supposed to blow Florida off the board. USC was supposed to beat Oregon State. Oklahoma was supposed to embarrass Boise State, and for the fourth year running we hopped aboard the Ferentz-wagon at Iowa and called for them to do something championship-esque in the Big Ten. (Though we still picked Ohio State as our preseason number one–again, bet good management, scheduling, and your sample size. You’ll likely be in the neighborhood.)

But you saw all that coming, of course. Or at least you did in retrospect, now that you’ve had a few months to process, rewrite, and edit your memory a bit. And that wedding you called off? Totally the right decision, like the time you quit law school to become a guitarist in that Christian nu-metal band “rapturrD.” (Too bad everyone missed the Biblical reference and just pronounced it “rap-turd,” an appropriate name given how the band sounded.)

It all worked out for the best, really. And if it didn’t, just give it some “perspective.” Or as your brain might more honestly label it, a nice coating of ameliorative untruth. It certainly works for us when we think about the 2001 Florida team, now doesn’t it? (Looking around, searching for the bottle of “perspective” with the words “ZYBROWKA” in big letters on the label.)

Even Musburger couldnt’ work up the nerve to say “If he breaks that tackle…”, a sentence only appropriately completed with “he goes another two yards and collapses due to a pulmonary embolism.”

University of Florida offensive lineman Ronnie Matthew Wilson was arrested early Thursday on charges of aggravated assault, simple battery and use or display of a concealed weapon during the commission of a felony, a Gainesville Police arrest report stated.

Wilson later told police he took the rifle out of his trunk and fired one shot into the air because he wanted the other man “to know how it felt to be scared,” the report stated.

Mission accomplished, sir! Wilson probably eats pancakes with jam, honey, and syrup just to get the job done, since being a screaming, Stonehenge-sized football player in a traffic altercation evidently wasn’t enough for him in the fear evocation department.

Smile, dumbass.

For his display of proper Baghdad crowd control technique, Wilson earns (shakes head, sighs) NINE GODDAMN POINTS for our own Florida Gators. The breakdown:

Aggravated assault: 3 points.

Simple battery: 1 points. Akin to FnDC.

Use or display of a concealed weapon during the commission of a felony. Another 3 pointer here.

Gator bonus: 1 point. Not because we want to win, but because the last team we want in this thing is our own. Points for shame.

Mongoloid Bonus: 1 point. Honestly, the stupidest Gator crime we can remember. Ever. Period. Dumber than Taurean Charles trying to mash a guy’s head in with a beer keg. That was homicidal rage, which we can understand. This? Overkill in the hands of bonified paste-eating moron.

Perhaps Miami’s not the only team that needs a firearms policy?

They have the audio here, but the dialogue reads as well as it sounds:

“My friends are okay with it. The rest of those guys? One of my, one of my guy on the board — you guys won’t be able to put this on the thing — was walking down the street, one of the Board of Trustees guys like these people around here and sitting up on the stage today at LSU, is walking down the street yesterday before the Sugar Bowl. He calls me. There’s a guy working in a ditch. One of those coon-ass guys that talk funny. I can’t talk like him but he can. Most people in Louisiana can. And he says, ‘Hey, you see where Coach Saban signed up with Alabama?’ You know however they talk. And the Board of Trustees guy says, ‘Yeah, I saw that.’ And he says, ‘That son of a bitch. I feel like he’s f–king my wife.’”

Coonass seems to be acceptable usage here as long as you’ve actually logged some time in Louisiana, but expect no serious flak from this. Expect some masterful signs from Auburn fans referencing this one. In fact, please accept our humble submission done with the magic of Microsoft Paint. Should Auburn win the Iron Bowl again in 2007, we beg Tiger fans to use it.

Kind of makes ‘fear the thumb’ take on lascivious meanings you hadn’t considered before.

HT: KD Godfrey.

Although not as stupid as Ginn’s teammates for crippling him.

(Chris…we’re so sorry. We’re so, so sorry.)

And it’s not that Ohio State was bad–they were pathetic. Odious. Null. Reeking. Inert. They had no answer, no adjustments, no nothing. Alex Boone and Kirk Barton spent all night reaching backwards into the void where Derrick Harvey and Jarvis Moss should have been, and instead turning over to look at Troy Smith, eyes wide as dinner plates, turning away from one 270 lb. man attempting to kill him to find another 270 lb. beast running at him with 4.7 speed. His line becomes a paragraph unto itself:

Troy Smith: 4-14, 35 yards. 0 TDs, 1 INT. Sacks: 5

Heisman! UF outplayed them in every single facet of the game. No Ted Ginn excuses, no blown calls, nothing. Florida kicked ass until their toes fell off. It was like watching a small animal get crushed between two glaciers. It was like watching Roy Jones in his prime boxing an Olsen twin. It was like watching Clarence Darrow squaring off against Starr Jones in the courtroom. It was defeat, served rare, with a side of raw loss.

And for us: scoreboard, bitches. Scoreboard. We. Win.

Our weekend schedule will include the following tasks:

1. Purchase live chicken. Sacrifice to Danny Wuerffel shrine while deboning and dropping immediately into Fry Daddy for lunch.

2. Sell all stocks in Columbus real estate in anticipation of Buckeye festivities.

Nothing, officer. Just on a stroll, that’s all. Yes, I would like some pepper spray. It tickles.

3. Get defibrillator charged and ready for the inevitable Chris Leak Gaffe of Astonishing Terror, which we predict will happen in the third quarter. Prep TCOAN and bar staff on proper voltage, placement of paddles, and conductive gel use.

4. Meet business contact Lucifer Beelzebub to complete signover of alleged “soul” in exchange for a Florida victory. Play a quick 18 at East Lake Country Club afterwards to celebrate deal.

5. Buy new in-game crash helmet.

6. Scout local curbsides for toss-away couches for West Virginia-style potential celebration.

7. Reflect that leading up to this game, it’s oh so quiet. Maybe too quiet.

Enjoy the weekend. We begin bleeding from the eyes with anticipation on Sunday. See you then.

Mmm. Confit.

That fifteen minute meeting must have gone something like this:

1. Hey, guys. Ugly-ass helmets. Play like you don’t ever wanna wear ‘em again.

2. We’re gonna jerk around quarterbacks, too, because Crowton totally left his playbook at the hotel. Plays will be relayed in via text message, so keep your phone on you at all times.

3. We just found out you can’t carry a cellphone on the field. Um…check with me, aight?

4. Ryan Leaf’s in the building, and he’s watching. Make him proud, Brady.

5. Again: ugly-ass helmets, over there. Play the way they make you feel, boys.

Bellotti needs to rekindle his late 90s magic by regrowing the mustache. Like Sampson and his locks, Bellotti’s coaching strength has waned with each year since parting ways with his donut duster. (And Jeff Tedford, former Oregon OC. But enough with that–it’s obviously the mustache that caused his and the Ducks’ minidecline.) Oregon never defended a single crossing pattern, never strung together a single meaningful drive on offense, and looked all night like a team praying for death. Their only touchdown came on a heave and hope late in the game, which BYU–living to win–answered with a touchdown.

Credit ESPN, though: they provisioned for a blowout well. In fact, if Musberger serves any purpose in life besides hyperbole factory, it’s as blowout facilitator. The second half, rendered meaningless by Oregon’s vacation of will to live and the hitting of the ugly button, featured Musberger reeling through a bizarre grab bag of Vegas celebrities, outmoded highlights, and freewheeling bullshit sessions with Craig James. The Tarkanian interview was great enough, as was a surreal interview with Ryan Leaf.

The crowning killtime moment came when the second-tier blowout filler arrived: Craig James SMU highlights. Banter about tearoff jerseys rapidly devolved into this:

James: You know, those guys in the SEC would run through fifteen jerseys a game.

Davie: Well, back then, with the budgets teams had, you could do that.

Musberger: Of course, the budget down at SMU was bigger than most, right Craig?

James: (giggles) Uh, well, um…

Musberger: I mean, you guys had everything you wanted down there. Cash wasn’t a problem.

James: (full-on laughing) Um…yeah, but but but….

Musberger: I mean, you were snuffling like a hungry sow at the trough of one of the most corrupt football programs ever, right? SNUF SNUF PIGGY PIGGY OINK! Right, Craig?

Sherriff Brent will get you through this blowout, sweetcakes.

Actually, Musberger did not say that last line. The rest is fairly approximate, though. Bob Davie could only sit in his camel hair jacket and watch as Musberger dared someone to put the Brent express back on the rails. Fortunately no one did; had someone actually intervened, we’d have had to pay more attention to Oregon getting Rochambeaued by a BYU team playing like blood-doped convicts on parole. And after a half and a quarter of that, we’d seen enough.