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.

Pizza chain Donatos is sponsoring a “No M” week in the leadup to the Ohio State/Michigan game. Customers are being asked to order without using Ms in their ordering, meaning loads of fun when the recently arrived refugee/asylee/immigrant taking your order has to ask you four times what the hell you’re saying because you needlessly drag an innocent letter into your hate-filled interstate rivalry with another football team. M never did anything to you but be M, assholes!

Given college students’ devotion to cheap, high-energy food like factory-made pizza, the promo makes sense, even if you really do get an air-horn in the face for using the letter M. (Perhaps this is just standard practice at Donatos: random air-horning of customers.) If it truly has caught on as much as promoters hoped, then Michigan fans can look forward to being called “otherfuckers” this weekend for a delightful change of pace from the usual.

Dan Hawkins: A true Spartan of coachrant.

In the pantheon of glorious rants, Mike Gundy’s must be given short shrift due to its lack of the following things:

1. Thrown objects
2. Profanities
3. Actual, filmed assaults
4. An uncontrolled, free-form rantflow to it.
5. Instantly quotable lines.

Gundy was prepackaged, plastic, and can’t possibly measure up to the foothills of the coach implosion Himalaya due to the lack of the five elements of a real, ass-ripping lunatic rant. Only the line “I’M A GROWN MAN! I’M FORTY!” comes close, and even then it’s borrowing laugh-memory from Molly Shannon’s Salley O’Malley and her enchanting Desert Rose. (He’s Mike Gundy! He can kick! Stretch! And….KICK! FOUR-OH!)

He even brought props, a bush league crutches of the junior-circuit ranter. Props mean you planned it; ideally, a rant comes not from the heart, or the head, but instead from the lizard brain, unfiltered, uncontrollable, and irresistable. Mike Gundy, were he a cinematic murderer, would be William H. Macy in Fargo; a real ranter like Lou Piniella or Dan Hawkins is Mr. Brooks or Dexter, unwillingly turning the wheel over to the Dark Passenger without knowing it. If props are involved, they’re hijacked on the scene, usually thrown without caring where they go or who they hit. (Hal McCray, phone; Lou Piniella, bases, Rob Dibble, an infant in a barfight with Billy Martin in 1977.)

Sadly, the best verbal coaching fit ever eluded recording devices. Marv Levy swore in an interview on the NFL Network that George Allen once went on a 45 minute tirade about the evils of snow tires. But failing that, for proper, grumpy bastard rant, call a pro like Paul Johnson, who’ll run the triple option of rant-ropology by accusing you of working at McDonald’s, getting angry, and wagering a public ass-kissing on the challenge. (HT: Peter.)

Reporter: Can I ask you something without making you mad?

Johnson: Maybe. I don’t know. (more…)

The Curious Index will be along in a minute. However, rent’s due, and someone’s check most definitely did not bounce. Holly, valiant Vol fan and sports bloggette from Ladies… and Snarkastic made a bet with us: if Florida won their matchup against Tennessee, then she would have to write a certain phrase on her boobs for our perusal and the rest of the universe’s, as well. If Florida lost to Tennessee, we would have had to sing Rocky Top and record it for posterity’s sake.

(This may sound lopsided. However, we hate Rocky Top like nothing else. Seriously. We might rather voluntarily dive into an Olympic pool filled with sulfuric acid than sing the song.)

This happened on Saturday, among other events:

RHINO RHINO RHINO!!!

…meaning Holly had to pay up. And being the honorable, courageous fan she is, she paid up. Given that Tennessee has given up over 40 points to two opponents already this season, she’ll need all the courage she can muster. And a shirt, evidently

Click the jump to see the fine artwork of victory drawn onto her rack. Salut! to Holly.

(more…)

It’s HATE WEEK!!! Joel from Rocky Top Talk answered our five questions, and we answered his over at RTT. We also appeared on the Corn From a Jar podcast, where we discovered why we left our birthplace: we speak far faster than anyone else in the state.

Courtesy of the Gatorsports FulmerFark thread.

1. Are the rafters squeaking in Knoxville from Phil headed out the door? Would we be stretching if we called this late Imperial period the Butterdammerung?

Being from Tennessee, you should know that the sun nevers sets on dairy products. Or if it does, they are fresh and new each milking morning. Or something.

There is a certain segment of Vol fans that is dissatisfied with coach Fulmer and always will be, but Fulmer has friends in high places with fat wallets. Fulmer’s really in a lose-lose situation: if he has another Season of Which We Do Not Speak ("SOWWDNS"), no amount of support from donors will save him, and if he wins another national championship, he’ll merely buy himself another eight years on the Throne of Perpetual Torridity. It’s the price one pays for a $2M+ salary.

2. How does it always happen that Tennessee and Florida meet each other in games with complimentary weaknesses? (We have no dbs, you have no wideouts, etc.)

That is odd, isn’t it? I blame Chris Leak.

(more…)

Holly from Ladies…comes over to begin the 96-Hour Hate right: by engaging in redneck death threats with us. (She had the misfortune of attending the University of Tennessee and rooting for its despicable, shitty football team.) Enjoy. Play the David Cross for appropriate soundtrackage.

MP3 File

OS: Torture, motherfucker. Go

Holly: I will fasten you to the front of a train leaving Chicago at 55 mph at noon heading towards another train leaving Boston at 75 mph at 3 PM.

Try and resist its call, Vol fan.

OS: I will hand you a packet of silica gel that does not say “DO NOT EAT.” You will then eat it because these are irresistable to people.

Holly: I will send you quail hunting with Anthony Morelli. And employ you as Michael Henig’s Lovely Assistant during his twilight career as a traveling magician.

OS: I will give you a tapeworm and transfer your job to a town without buffet-style family eateries.

Holly: AAAAAHHH I WAS JUST TYPING THIS: “All I have so far is “I will chain you to the door of a crowded Golden Corral, stick my head in the door, and yell “SOMEBODY’S KEYIN’ A TRUCK!” (more…)

Mr Stabby feels love, too.

Nyan Boateng was a VHT who flamed out of the Florida program after accomplishing the following things:

1. Causing reporters to guffaw when he claimed he ran a 4.1 40 yard dash.
2. Not outplaying Kenneth Tookes for the fifth spot on the Gators ‘05 roster.
3. Getting stabbed in the leg by his girlfriend during a lovers’ quarrel.

With that esteemed resume, Boateng transferred to Cal, but still made a cameo appearance back in Gainesville for one final hurrah–and what a hurrah it was:

According to Gainesville police Sgt. Chuck Reddick, Boateng attempted to enter the home of his former girlfriend early Thursday. When she refused to let him in, Boateng kicked in the door and entered anyway.

No one will ever love you like I will! NO ONE! A FELONY WILL WIN YOU BACK FOR SURE!!! Boateng has been suspended by Jeff Tedford pending the outcome of the case. If this is the same girlfriend that stabbed him in the leg, then Boateng has been put under the spell of a truly wondrous magic vagina. That’s the only possible explanation for this, since if we got stabbed by a woman, we’d…well, we proposed, actually. Call this glass house shattered if you please.

Three points for the burglary, two points for the battery, and one point for the criminal mischief gets Cal six points that mercifully did not end up on Florida’s tab.

Hat tip to reader Joshua for today’s Daily Affirmation. In 31 days, we will all have to choose sides. Choose wisely, sailor.

This week’s big board appears below. Notes, corrections, and a whole slew of embedded updates follow:

UTEP may not catch Illinois, but do not blame the lack of effort as the reason why they’ll fall short of a Fulmer Cup title. The Miners score 13 points in their debut on the board thanks to a right cracker of an FnDC incident, complete with vivid, rarely cited charges like “assaulting a public servant” and “attempting to take an officer’s weapon.” Teamwork got them here, people: five players earned charges in all, with Tufick Shadrawy and Brian Wilkins earning the lion’s share of the gold strike themselves.

UTEP coach and roving roustabout Mike Price can’t really comment too much on the case at the moment, and with good reason: he’s recovering from surgery he underwent last week to put a stent in his heart to relieve pressure on a blocked artery. Guilt trip ‘em, Mike–show ‘em the flesh zipper like Krusty would.

Minnesota is already getting more exciting under new coach Tim Brewster–exciting like a wacky Euro-sex party with your close friends Mystikal and Andrew Lauder! Minnesota’s had some kind of nasty sexual assault case brewing for a while, yet the arrest of Dominic Jones for probable cause of criminal sexual misconduct has no apparent connection to the past allegations of third degree sexual assault earlier this spring.

Minnesota picks up four for what in essence is a rape charge. Jones is being held in the Hennepin County Jail without bail, which is not a good sign for him.

Finally, we award one point for weed possession to South Carolina, whose recruit Quintin Richardson may earn a point as he’s currently enrolled at SC and therefore eligible for Fulmer Cup points despite never having strapped on a Cock helmet for South Carolina. Richardson was picked up following a report of shots fired at an apartment complex. A police search ensued, and Richardson was found Holden Caulfield. William Holden. You know what we mean, man.

Richardson may also want to avoid the apartment complex altogether–this is the same apartment complex where Richardson was stabbed last month in an fight over a lady. Hell, we avoid towns where we’ve gotten bad roast beef sandwiches–stabbing would certainly do the trick as far as blacklisting a spot on our daily rounds.

We began this entry looking for embarrassing clips of Vols fans. Our search took us somewhere else entirely: to a video of a Tennessee fan scoring a Tank Abbott-worthy roundhouse on a red-panted UGA fan in the middle of the street.

The Tennessee guy appears to be the second coming of Buford Pusser. We were going to be all sportsmanlike and gentlemanly and congratulate the unfortunate recipient of the blow on getting up in a non-wobbly fashion. However, as appeared to start the fight on the night his team gave up fifty and failed to execute the individual revenge in front of gathered hundreds, we revoke the offer.

Next time, we recommend brown pants, brawlin’ Bulldog fan.