We’re optimists at heart. While all others froze around you, you would take warmth from the abundant heat energy radiating from him. Additionally, you could keep snacks and other temperature-sensitive items warm beneath the overlap. (HT: RLBGator)

Peyton Manning finally met Lane Kiffin. As Clay points out in his dialogue between the two, the meeting appeared to take place in one of Saddam’s palaces, or perhaps in David Bowman’s final room at the end of the universe from 2001.

There has been no picture of Kiffykins and Fulmer together, as the two have “missed each other” and haven’t had time to sit down and stare blankly at each other yet. (Awkward rating: somewhere above “discussing pregnancy with your wife’s real babydaddy in a legal setting, somewhere below “meeting the man who murdered your parents.”)

For some reason, Taylor Mays is coming back to play football at USC. Why Mays would want to leave the idyllic, sun-dappled scene of USC, where he wakes each morning covered by a blanket of five to eight naked young women huddled around him for warmth, is beyond our understanding. Perhaps he believes he can improve on a laser-timed 4.32 40 yard dash. Perhaps he is limited in his actions by the demands of Directive 4, which keeps him from turning on the engineers who built him, or from bolting to the NFL until he absolutely has to. It’s scary either way.

Also, Jorvorskie Lane weighed 295 at his Shrine Bowl workout, but had good hands (for to catch the food! HAHAHAHAHA.)

LSUFreek wishes all of you a happy holidays, especially you, Notre Dame fans, who must console yourselves with the Hawaii Bowl and the sweet relief of junk…food.

It almost gets poignant around the 1:30 mark, doesn’t it? Well, we said almost.

Tennessee Football Offices. 11:30 a.m., November 4th, 2008.

Fulmer: Well, that does it. I’m off Atkins for the next month.

He takes a donut from green and white box. A solitary tear runs down his cheek.

PF: I just…what am I gonna do with the rest of my life?

[A GREAT RUMBLING OF BASS AND MUCH SHAKING]… (more…)

You realize that Phil Fulmer probably waddled strode confidently into his office this morning, grabbed his cup of coffee and slab of batter-fried venision bagel, and thought happy thoughts. Tough days make tough people, Phil. Tough people get through tough times. He probably checked the wall: yup, trophies still there. Looked in the mirror. Yup, Pumpkinhead Champion still looking back at him.

He reviewed the emails for the day. He perused some notes Chavis left for him, and then probably brought in Dave Clawson to slap him until his cheeks bled talk some third down strategy. Then a few recruiting calls: just a check-in, a little how ya’ doin’ with his cheat sheet in hand to remember who he was talking to and what they liked, being careful not to confuse them and insult the tender but unstable ego of the blue-chipper he was trying to woo to Knoxville.

Then, he looked through his mail and found an envelope. It was postmarked “Starkville,” and contained one thing: an 8 X 10 glossy:

And a note that read “YOU’RE NEXT.–CROOM”

Then the world grew cold, his blood coagulated to icy sludge in his veins, and for the first time Phil Fulmer knew fear, for it was holding him tight in his very arms like an arctic boa constrictor.

The constant use of fat jokes is really a pitiful crutch in the humor department. Half of all Americans are overweight, and thus make a facile target for the would-be junior varsity satirists of our nation. Really, how funny is it to point out something that shortens lives, lowers the quality of living for millions, and poses a grave threat to the integrity of our national health care systems, both private and public?

Really: how fair is it to mock a coach simply because their metabolism runs at a rate which, in another date and time, was actually an evolutionary advantage? Is it fair to make cheap comedic hash out of people who have become Darwin’s unwitting laughing stocks due to the caprices of fate and commercial farming practices? Is it fair, nay—is it even humane to do so?

LSUFreek has considered the question deeply, and has his thoughtful response and apology for years of fat jokes on this site. It is moving. It is challenging. It is necessary, and it is about time.

Normally scheduled fat-jokes will now resume with regularity and ferocity. Apologies. If you can get the vision of Phil Fulmer pulling beef tongue out of a cow’s head out of your brain, you have a more disciplined air traffic controller in your cerebral cortex than we’ve ever had.

To cap off a lackluster hate week, we salvage by threatening each other with the worst tortures we can possibly think of. Enjoy?

Orson: Ready to hate?

Holly: It’s been too long since I was referred to as a “dick mitten.”

Holly: (yes. hateyourface.)

Orson: I will open this with: I will throw you in a closet full of BEES and name Dave Clawson as your offensive coordinator.

Holly: [yourpastorheardyousaythat'd]

Holly: I don’t even need to do anything to you. I will strand you, as is, in the Wisconsin student section. They’ll love your fluffy widdle fauxhawk.

Orson: I’ll die from the fumes first. SO….MUCH..BOOZE….

Holly: Or from the FREE HAM sign I will place about your neck.

Orson: Speaking of Booze: how is Johnny Majors? (more…)

As part of our ongoing ripoff of SWPL called “Stuff ____ and _______ People Like,” the EDSBS Staff presents “Stuff Orange and White People Like,” an analysis of things Tennessee Volunteer fans like. Enjoy.

Pitchforks and torches. A nine-win season is cause for satisfaction elsewhere in D-I, but in the SEC and Knoxville in particular, it’s a blight. Any win total under double digits lights up the AM radio dial with orange faithful ready to gut their coach like a catfish of astonishing proportions. Going 5-6 in 2005 brought, concurrently and consecutively, collective apoplexy and vows of silence—they still can’t talk about it. Bring up The Season Of Which We Do Not Speak to a Tennessee fan and his eyes will glaze over in rage or incomprehension. Either way, Does Not Compute.

Orson’s note: Wonder who those people in Frankenstein who, when confronted with a problem, immediately rush to get a.) an impaling instrument, and b.) fire? For any problem? Tennessee fans, that’s who. They’re threatening Frankenstein because, with some time in the weight room, he could be the next John Henderson, but noooooo, he wants to kidnap maidens and accidentally drown little girls in lakes all day like a bad monster.

John Henderson rocks fat titties all day, by the way, despite playing for a team we despise. “BLOOD MAKES THE GRASS GROW!” comes from his sideline rantings in college, and he also did this, which is now how we wake up every morning.

We do it just like that. Except the wife does it with a padded white glove, and she does it softly, so as not to knock my exfoliating facial mask off. Sometimes she gets a little too into it, and some of the dust lands on our white oxford shirt! It’s a funny time, the mornings in the Swindle house!

HFCS That’s high fructose corn syrup, friends, and it is a fact of natural law that the highest concentration of HFCS swollen people on the planet reside in Tennessee. (more…)