Hi. You know who I am. This thumb’s for you, Colt McCoy, because you’re a champion who takes my breath away and turns in slow motion away from onrushing defenders bent on crushing you. You took the highway to the danger zone but took the exit toward Victory Lane, and for that I’m buzzing your tower and oiling myself up for a one-on-one volleyball game. You’re invited.

No more playing with the boys, Colt: just you and me, a Colt and a Maverick out in the field doing what animals do. I’m bringing this thumb. Let’s role play: this time, you be Sam Bradford, and I’ll be Brian Orakpo and Sergio Kindle.

This is your open thread for the afternoon. We don’t judge you, whatever you’d like to do with or to Colt McCoy and the rest of the magnificent Texas Longhorns, who played the finest game of the year thus far against the Oklahoma Sooners. Boom. Motherfucker.

Vitamin F–as in Facenda, John.

Vitamin P–as in play-action bootlegs galore from the 1982 Texas Tech Red Raiders.

Vitamin J–as in the wanky guitar ridden Jazz fusion which was the soundtrack for every sports film made between 1975 and 1985.

Vitamin H–as in Home Run Throwback, the most improbable of special teams plays, executed in the finest of pulled-from-the-ass fashions by SMU in the waning moments of the game.

There! Nutrition of the highest order. You’re more than welcome, unless you’re an SMU fan who, like the flabby ex-jock twenty years out of washboard abs wondering where his feet went, watches this with the bitterest of sorrows. For you, there is no consolation. Umm…sorry?