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.

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.)

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.

I jumped that day with a forty-five pound diving bell around my head. When I hit the water, I broke my jaw and fell unconscious to the bottom of the pool. My old man had a way of teaching me lessons about determination like this. He also carried a cattle prod with him, and would use it on anyone who disagreed with him while insisting they call him “Neptune Jones.”

Neptune Jones, you dreamer you. I can’t hear a bug zapper without feeling the warmth of remembered love spreading through my pants. Love is what I call it, at least, and it gets me thrown out of public pools who don’t understand my story.

Then I played baseball. I remember my first game like it was my last game, like it was the last time I would be with my father, like some golden flake of divine forehead dandruff floating from the head of God, if God had God-eczema and really had to scratch, and it all fell from his forehead, but you know without burning like big asteroids made of dead God-skin when they re-entered the atmosphere.

Also, when the flaming chunks of God-skin came down, they didn’t crush anyone or fall into anything critical to national security. If my father taught me nothing besides determination, it was faith.

In addition to this, he taught me how to clean a fish with a set of standard house keys.

I tried to make him happy playing baseball. I stood there, dazed in right field. The ball headed right to me. Thinking of Proust, I smelled madeleines, and not the urine of fear running down my leg, nor of the wolves standing mere feet away.

Where I played baseball, wolves were an unending threat. There was also a French bakery in right field. This phantasmagoria was my childhood.

I struck out, a perfectly common embarrassment made humiliating by the fact that I hadn’t noticed my teammates had switched my bat with a three-foot salami

My father was so drunk and angry that day. He left the stands and walked home all the way to his native Finland.

He killed many bottles along the way. And men. And whales. And men inside of whales. My father was his own Jonah, and alcohol was the whale, except that he drank the whale, presumably from a huge metaphorical chalice or paper bag.

Trying to understand him, I joined the crew of an illegal Japanese whaling boat. They taught me love, the art of tattoo, and how to fire 120 pounds of rocket-propelled metal through the heart of a slow-moving sea mammal. It’s why I’ve been divorced three times.

I left the boat with a strong back and a weakness for Asian schoolgirls. I miss it sometimes. I’ll go down to the Florida Keys, rent a tuna can with an outboard motor, and cruise inlets looking for manatees. You can stroke them, and they’ll let your scratch their bellies. They’re like big, amiable sea cattle, really! Just like a cow, especially in the way they bleed for hours when you shoot them with a gun.

Oh, I guess I should mention that my dad divorced my mom forty years ago, rejected me as his son, re-married, raised a healthy happy family, and died peacefully in his sleep having never spoken to me again. Not exactly the closure I was looking for, but whatever.

He was also not the man I referenced earlier. That was Steve. Steve’s pretty cool, actually. My god, can that man smack the scabs off a leper!

Guess I should have made that clearer. I apologize.

Song of the Lukewarm Potsticker by Spencer Hall and Matt Ufford will be released by Harper Collins later this summer.

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.

(HT: TB)

(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.

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.

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.

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: If you could ever find one time that I said we won the game because of brilliant strategy I will kiss your butt at city dock and give you two days to draw a crowd. Find it and bring it to me. Tell that guy that if he wants to talk to me I live at [address given but deleted for the transcript] I will be right there. Come ring my doorbell and I will be glad to talk to him.

This, by the way, is Paul Johnson. We bet his buttcheeks smell of tanned leather and taste of Steak-Umms.

(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.

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. Our QBs have been mostly out of synch with our receivers ever since he left us in a lurch (great, experienced receivers paired with a rookie QB some years, experienced QB paired with inexperienced receivers other years, like this one). It’s affected our secondary, too, because we’ve been known to rob John Chavis’s defense to fortify our offense (and vice versa) when in dire need.

Why Florida might be in the same predicament at the same time, I have no idea. With the Gators’ recent streak of VHT recruiting classes crammed full of VHT players, having any holes whatsoever is practically unforgiveable, isn’t it?

Man, you can’t give dong away in Tennessee.

3. Bad Erik hasn’t made an appearance yet this season. Any chances of that? Could you make that happen, if we paid you several million in a Southeast Asian currency of our choosing?

No. Won’t happen. Bad Erik was buried in the LSU end zone along with the corpse of the SOWWDNS in a secret ceremonial cleansing in the summer of 2006. And really, Ainge was just a bit player in that whole tragedy anyway. David Cutcliffe fully reanimated Ainge in Orange soon thereafter, and I can’t really recall any cover-my-eyes-in-horror mistakes from last season. If he didn’t make like a mushroom cloud after a three interception half against Alabama and instead actually ran the interceptor out of bounds to save a touchdown and the game, then he’s going to be fine. Hey, he has as much command of the offense as any Tennessee quarterback since Peyton Manning. Wait. Never mind.

Injured Erik, now that’s another story. He’s much more likely to make an appearance than Bad Erik, whose spirit is beyond the summoning dimensions regardless of what you offer. And besides, have you ever tried to pass a Ho Chih Minh Dong note in East Tennessee? If it can’t get me a Krispy Kreme, it ain’t no good to me.

4. You crave Tebow. Attempt to deny it.

I don’t want Tim Tebow. I don’t want Tim Tebow. I don’t want Tim Tebow. I don’t want Tim Tebow. I don’t want Tim Tebow. Kittens. I don’t want Tim Tebow. I don’t want Tim Tebow. Kittens. I don’t want Tim kittens. Kittens.

Where was I? Oh, if Tennessee could have Tim Tebow for four years, that would be just dandy with me. He’s a Baby Rhino, but with arms, too. Like you said on the Corn from a Jar podcast, Tebow’s a one-man play-action passing threat. Which means you essentially have 12 guys on offense. Which is terribly unfair for the defense.

But here’s the thing. If I had to choose between senior Erik Ainge and sophomore Tim Tebow playing only his third full game and only his first full game against a team more protein than carbs, I’ll go with Ainge every day of the week and . . . well, ask me again on Sunday.

5. Predictions, naturally, which we will mock after the game.

41-31, Florida. It certainly appears that the offenses are going to dominate the defenses on Saturday, with the only question being which will dominate more. Ainge is hot and our running game is clicking, but, against Cal at least, it seemed like we were playing with three possession receivers on the field at once. I feel much better about them after the Southern Miss game, as we were able to stretch the field a bit more than we seemed to against Cal, but I can’t recall anyone yet getting behind the defensive backs, and that’s alarming. At the end of the day, Meyer on the sideline, a rhino in the pocket, and a few more playmakers at the skill positions equates to at least a 7-10 point advantage.

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!”

OS: I will spray you with Aramis, give you a Widespread Panic haircut, and throw you in a pit filled with emo boys with straight razors.

OS: I will leave you in a bar where they only serve European cordials.

OS: I will set you up on a blind date with Andy Dick.

OS: I will make you the cue card holder on James Brooks live. (auburn joke! he can’t read!)

Holly: I will make you a Louisville cheerleader (do they do pushups for points?)

OS: Yes they do. But the joke’s on you! My pecs could use the work.

OS:: I will buy you season tickets to Syracuse football.

Holly: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO you MANIAC

OS: I will die and leave you a large sum of money and an island in the Carribbean…and make it contingent on you attending Syracuse football games for the next decade. All of them.

Holly: [sputter]

OS: You will not get that money

OS: Although an argument could be made that that’s not football.

Holly: True.

Oh, we hate, hate, hate you.

OS: I will force you to watch all of Peyton Manning’s victories against Florida. Oh, wait….

Holly: ;dfslgjkas;dlfghadsf;jhgadsoiuygasropuygawernbv;odauzfhb;dzoiohbfh

OS: Then I’ll have to force you to watch his national championship appearances. Wait, um…

Holly: I will force you to clean Danny Wuereufeffel’s Super Bowl Rings.

OS: SNAP!

Holly: All of them.

OS: noudiuhnt

Holly: ohidiuhd

OS: I will make you wash the frosting off Phil Fulmer’s steering wheel. This will take years.

OS: I will force you to play spin the bottle with Jay Mohr.

OS: I will force you to read Jay Mohr.

Holly: UNCALLED FOR.

OS: I will make you BE Jay Mohr.

Holly: Read implies that he writes.

OS: I have no mercy.

Holly: I will chain you to Clay Travis’ next flying apparatus.

OS: I will chain you to clay travis

Holly: …I will chain you to his Titans cheerleader lady?

OS: I could eat her

Holly: Mind the fankicks.

OS: I will have Big Daddy Drew send you pictures of his fire belly dressed up like a whistling man wearing a top hat.

Holly: I will dress you as a fruit stand and cast you in a big-budget action flick. Fruit stands never last, man.

OS: 100 cocktails. We mean, WE HATE YOU AND ALL YOU STAND FOR.

OS: I will name you as Wake Forest’s starting qb in game one of a season.

Holly: That’s just a separated shoulder. Take more to kill me.

Holly: Alternately: I will cast you in a one-episode arc as a love interest of Captain Kirk.

OS: OH, in that instance…I will name you the head coach at Syracuse.

Holly: Awww, don’t bring up Syracuse again. That’s just mean.

Holly: I WILL STUFF YOU INSIDE A MORGANTOWN SOFA.

Holly: ON A SATURDAY NIGHT.

Orson: I will make you a non-stationary flammable object in Columbus, Ohio on Saturday

Holly: It’s unfathomable that we didn’t think of either of those first.

OS: I will turn you into the Tulane football program

Holly: I need a field-rushing happy school to turn you into a goalpost at.

OS: I will turn you into a 24 pack and leave you in Dennis Erickson’s front seat

Holly: I will sell your furniture to one Ellis T. Jones, and send you to collect.

OS: I will tell Mark Mangino you’re made of marzipan

OS: I will tell Mike Tirico that you’re really into him.

Holly: I will dye your skin and hire you to coach football at Notre Dame (too much?)

OS: No, no. I will knock you out, tie you up, cover you in nickels, and throw you into the stands at a South Carolina game.

Holly: I will knock you out, tie you up, strap a baby in a onesie reading THEY’RE RAISING ME GAY to your chest, and leave you in Neyland.

OS: I will cover you in foodstamps and throw you into a Florida State Alumni meeting.

Holly: I can’t get to one about a Bear Bryant hat. But I’ll keep pondering.

Holly: Ah! I will put you in a houndstooth hat and assless chaps with a t-shirt that says “Bears for Bear.”

OS: I will pay Ed Orgeron to beat you to death with a seventy pound catfish.

Holly: I will tell Jared Lorenzen you’re filled with strawberry parfait. And hand him a very small spoon.

PARFAIT GIMMEH!

Holly: I will send Ed Orgeron the EDSBS url and your home address.

OS: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Holly: WOOOOOOO

OS: Doesn’t matter. All he needs is my scent. The rest is endgame.

OS: I will tell Kenny Irons you have a midget in your suitcase.

Holly: I will tell Marques Slocum you’re a spider?

OS: I will change your name legally to Notre Dame, ensuring you die a horrific death in a BCS bowl.

Holly: No–I’ll tell Marques Slocum you’ll feed his pets over the weekend.

OS: NOOOOOO

Holly: Being fucked to death by a lion would be a pretty badass death.

OS: For a few seconds, at least.

OS: I will tell Glenn Dorsey that you said he sucks. It won’t like it when it hears that.

Holly: I’ll tell Luther Campbell you’ve been fixing Miami games.

OS: I will throw you off a freighter in the North Sea and only let one man throw a life preserver to you: Michael Henig.

Holly: we’ve moved from transmogrification to tattling. Christ, will he even hit water?

OS: No. Point.

Holly: Or will he just throw it straight to a shark?

OS: He will throw it and knock over the chum bucket.

Holly: Correct,

OS: Which goes in the water.

OS: Summoning the sharks

Holly: I will change Pete Carroll’s radio presets from smooth jazz to nu-metal and blame you.He will kill you with kindness.

OS: He’s pretty jacked about that nu-metal station

Holly: But he’ll feel bad about it.

OS: I will lock you in a room with Bob Davie and ask him to explain the zone blitz to you.

Holly: I will coerce you into taking the under in the Florida/Troy game, steal your wallet and dump you at the bookie’s.

OS: I will tattoo Lee Corso naked on the inside of your eyelids

Holly: UNCALLED FOR. I will introduce Rex Grossman to your lovely mother.

OS: Well, she is single

Holly: ….who will somehow do such a job on her that you’ll never have been born.[snaps] Retro-time-space-continuum-uterine-obliteration, lawya. Look it up.

OS: He fucked you out of existence, don’t you understand? (Pan to shot of Orson and siblings. He fades in the photo, slowly. He looks at his hands, and can see through it.)

OS: I will put your fading life in the hands of the best cardiac surgeon/Ph.D in Central Florida, Dr. George O’Leary.

Holly: I’ll put your cat’s in the hands of Bill Frist.

OS: I’ll make your life dependent on having an orgasm with a Vanderbilt man.

Holly: I’ll make yours dependent on fucking Sterger. In daylight.

OS: Death. Sweet death.

Holly: I will cut you.

OS: I will kick you in the dick mitten.

Holly: Seriously, I’ll fucking cut you.

Orson Swindle is proprietor and editor of EDSBS.com. Holly may be read at Ladies…and at Snarkastic.com. They really do fucking hate each other this week, and are busy reloading and polishing knives as we speak.