Q. What is Ray Lewis wearing in this scene from last night’s Dr. Lou segment?

A. The uniform befitting one with the rank of Sergeant-at-Arms in the Imperial Guard of the Republic of Stabachussetts.

(HT: Doc Saturday.)

THIS IS NINJA COMPLIANCE OFFICER. HE STRIKES AT ANY TIME. HIS SILENCE IS HIS WEAPON. HIS STEALTH IS HIS SHIELD. YOUR DEATH IS HIS FOOD. IF HE CANNOT GET FOOD, HE WILL TAKE YOUR REMAINING ELIGIBILITY AS AN APPETIZER, THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

Balogun stopped Florida running back Chris Rainey for a 3-yard loss on a play early in the first half. As Fox commentators told the story about Balogun playing semi-professional football before his college career, it reminded Florida State officials of a similar case for them.

Ryan Balogun, senior Oklahoma linebacker, may lose his senior year due to his having played for the semi-pro NAFL, a penalty that struck Florida State in the case of Corey Surrency, who lost his eligibility thanks to a similar case.

So, while watching the game and listening to Brennaman and Charles Davis wholesale slaughter the concept of calling a football game with rusty machetes, the FSU compliance officials struck back and phoned in Oklahoma for the same deal. Florida State and Oklahoma play each other in a home and home next year. This is how you spell instant fun, and is further proof that the BCS on Fox (save for Vasgersian’s “beer truck” call) ruins everything.

Somali 1975 Barry Switzer thinks you’ve gone soft, son.

We sometimes think of the Big 12 as the sister conference to the SEC, and for a number of very good reasons. They, too, care a lot about football, sometimes to the point of ripping each others testicles off. Their constituency, like SEC fans, often exhibit social behaviors that cost them teeth, houses, sobriety, and most painfully, their cable television. (Read: both trashy.) And most importantly, they’re the only conference that can actually (in a vestigial fashion, at least) trump the academic skullduggery of SEC schools.

(Also, Big 12 fans lack teeth in numbers almost comparable to SEC fans, and are second in terms of college football fans and their frequency being seen on television running shirtless down dirt roads with a police spotlight on them. They’re first in being interviewed after tornadoes, but lag in being interviewed after tornadoes while shirtless.)

Yet, there are some differences at the root of things between the conferences. Like, say, the issuance of apologies between schools in the short matter of a few years over past conflicts. Oklahoma is holding a ceremony this year to commemorate the “Game of the Century” in 1971, which if you watch on ESPN Classic is actually one of the few vintage games that will grab a modern viewer by the shorthairs and force you to watch it. (It looks like the Ragnarok of football games, a hard-pounding contest under grave, apocalyptic skies between two teams hitting each other very, very hard.)

The Game of this Century in question: the 30-3 dishumiliarrassment of Nebraska by Oklahoma, the same one where Bill “Fucking hillbillies” earned his nickname buy calling Oklahoma fans “fucking hillbillies.” This created “bad blood” between teams, which for some reason is…a problem?

Just look at the intro, for Switzer’s sake:

The last time Nebraska played at Owen Field, atypical bad blood spoiled the night.

Bad blood is…atypical? Do not…grok. As an SEC fan, we consider wanting opposing kickers to be thrown head first into whirling helicopter blades to be a mere start on enmity, not a problem to be corrected. We also think your books on dinosaurs are charming, as they clearly fall for the tricks Satan has played on you and your “scientists.” (Kansas, you’re feeling us here. We know it. You’re like Cobb County with corn and half as many people, baby.)

The following is an excerpt from our upcoming memoir, Song of the Lukewarm Potsticker. It is about the father shared by both Matt Ufford and Spencer Hall: a poet, a madman, a city bus driver, a man fond of grooming himself with a soldering iron, the color orange, and the man who made us who we are today. For the first time, we share excerpts from the intensely personal story of our father, who is currently fighting a mail fraud charge we are sure he is innocent of in every way.

My father would drink. He liked to drink. When he became drunk, he became mean. He would curse at only the brown tiles on the floor, because he was a racist, and would slap my mother until she bled. And by my mother, I mean my father. He would slap himself.

It was indescribably brutal.

To please him, I played sports. At first, I tried diving. I remember my first diving match event. My father screamed at me from the stands. “Where’s your helmet?” I tried to explain to him that in diving, you didn’t need a helmet.

“The little man in the aquarium has a helmet!” he insisted.

“We’re not in an aquarium!” I screamed back.

“Don’t question me in front of your mother!” he said, pointing to a man in his mid-fifties named Harold sitting in the stands.

(more…)

It is bad enough that Florida hasn’t won against Miami since 1985. Now Ms. “Oooh, Look at me I was head of Health and Human Services” is talking shit.

“We don’t admit thugs anymore. We do admit people that like to suntan, but those students are usually in the sun with a book in hand, and I think that’s a difference people overlook,” Shalala said. Right now UM is ranked at 52 and the University of Florida is ranked at 50, according to U.S. News & World Report. One of Shalala’s goals is to not only get into the top 50, but to do so before the football game in fall, so “UM can beat UF twice.”

OHHHH, IT IS ON BUREACRA-BITCH. Sure, you gave children access to health insurance with SChip, but Tim Tebow does not care about your puny bureaucratic accomplishments, nor your fine Ph.D from Syracuse University. We can take trash talk from the braided-up badasses from Miami Northwestern–respek, sirs–but yapping from a hobbit Clinton appointee? Warren Christopher gonna start some shit next, huh? (If so, Warren: Rwanda, asshole. Your bitch status=QEDMF.)

Don’t start no shit, won’t be no shit, Donna. But now you made us call Bob Graham and Bill Nelson, two dudes who bring bike chains and mad krues to the fight. There wasn’t going to be blood, Donna, but now you gone and done it. Bernie Machen’s gonna be waiting at the fifty with a stapler and a sack of nails…and not even your canny welfare reforms will save you, then.

P.S. See Barstoolio’s entry for the RambutanShalala. Eerily similar.

No one excels in the rapid production of taunting memorabilia like the state of Alabama. See the example below for all the evidence you’ll need that even the arrest of T.J. Elder, Alabama defensive tackle, for screwing up his entire life for $26 stolen off two scared-shitless undergrads…well, even that’s an occasion for spiteful merchandising.

(HT: TB)

The post above is not in error: no weekend features a lower pH in the Pac-10 than this rivalry weekend, where tempers simmer and boil over to nearly angry levels between teams. It’s…it’s almost acrimonious, we dare say!

(This isn’t a slap at the Pac-10–it’s mostly a good thing you don’t get so upset you actually shoot your brother and kill him over a football game, which did happen once in Gainesville following a Tennessee/Florida football game. Note that we said “mostly” a good thing.)

First, the Apple Cup opens with the first salvo coming courtesy of married father/ Washington defensive tackle Jordan Reffett, who responded thusly when asked what would happen if one of his kids went to Washington State:

“That wouldn’t be allowed … None of my kids–and I plan on having more–are going to be at WSU, because I want them to be able to get a job someday.”

I like the “I plan on having more.” This is an indicator of a very recently married man; a more experienced one would have said “WE plan on having more,” and only with the explicit permission of his nodding and smiling wife. They’re always counting, Jordan, never sleeping, always keeping score, look at the baby, look at the baby, smile, always keeping score, Jordan. With that diction, you’re out rutting with whatever in-season trollop flashes her bump-hams at you. This will surely cost you at least five minutes of conversation and energy you could have spent on something valuable, like video games, pornography, or your 15th viewing of the film Blow.

The next one is a bit more visual, but immediate. Courtesy of the always fantastic Wizard of Odds: the Bellotti Potti.

The idea of Donald Duck’s eyes barely peeping through a brown-green pool of human refuse as we enter the port-o-potty has now replaced Pennywise peeping through the sewer grate as our nightmare fuel for the ages.

I have tried to be polite. Now you must die.

One incontrovertible rule of social dynamics is this: the more polite a society and the more structured it is, the more violent someone in said society will be once they snap. Take your average Japanese man placed under a varying amount of stress.

Stress level one, punched in nuts once: “I’m sorry. I’m so clumsy to run into your fist like that.”

Stress level two, punched in nuts twice: “There I go again! Can I purchase a soft drink to smooth this rift between you and me?”

Stress level three, punched in nuts three times: “Oh, how funny! This is getting comical now. Let’s duck into this stall and enjoy some delicious teppanyaki and discuss our families and fortunes together.”

Stress level three, punched in nuts four times: “AAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!” (Stabs you to death with a thumbtack before paying to have your body shot into the sun.)

This seems to be the rule in Nebraska, a polite, farm-raised society of heartland folk who when pushed will be perfectly nice…right up to the point when you allow 76 points to Kansas in one of the worst losses in history. Then they threaten to toss you in a thresher and feed you to the cattle where you will never be found.

The caller, according to the warrant, left messages in which he expressed anger about the Jayhawks scoring 76 points against the Cornhuskers.

In one message, he ordered Cosgrove, “Go back to where you (expletive) came from you (expletive), before I (expletive) kill ya,” according to the warrant.

Oh, dear, that’s impolite. Given the admitted tide of nastiness washing into Cosgrove’s voicemail inbox over the past week, this must have sounded horrifying, like the ghost of Michael Ironside calling from deep in a well wearing a red Huskers’ ski-mask. Either that, or Tom Osborne had Solich call in from an untraceable satellite phone outside of Athens, Ohio after a few margaritas.