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.”)

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

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

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]…

Marky M: YeaaaAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Phil Fulmer: Couldn’t you have taken the door?

Marky M: FAT BOYZ BOUT TO PUREE THIS SHIT LIKE A STEAK SMOOTHIE, LAWYA! STAY STROOOONNG AND DROP…THAT….BEEEEEAAAAAAAT!!!!

What!

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.

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.

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?

Holly: Virile.

Orson: And flammable.

Holly: ….I just died a little. Oh, did I tell you? I got you a walk-on part for Ghost Rider 2. You’re welcome.

Orson: Damn you. That’s the worst thing you could have threatened me with.

Holly: You led with a body blow. It was that, or assigning you to Ben Mauk’s legal defense team, which lord knows has to still be operational.

Orson: I will let your team win a national championship, but not with your heralded white quarterback, but instead with a mobile black qb who took money from boosters.

Holly: So will I! (Chris Leak was getting help from SOMEBODY.)

Orson: Revlon.

Holly: Maybe he’s born with it. I will tell Will Muschamp you’re hurt.

Orson: I will give you a house next to Neyland Stadium, but it will be on “Casey Clausen Court,” not “Peyton Manning Way.”

Holly: vikbhwGHIV;.vikbhnvj:?BF ;

Orson: That one buuuuuuuurns.

Holly: I, in return, will subject you to a variation of waterboarding known as Jimmy Clausen Hair Runoff Torture.

Orson: NOOOOOOOOOOOO

Holly: After which you will be required to pull out Charlie’s post-op stitches. Without gloves or a mask.

Orson: I will cover you in batter and signs reading “Free Ammo!” and throw you at a horde of LSU fans.

Holly: I will inform Randy Shannon that you failed to separate your recyclables. His sad, disappointed eyes will drive you to seppuku.

Orson: (Like anyone in Miami recycles.) I will stab you to death with the planet Mars.

Holly: I’m telling Mike the Tiger you sassed him.

Holly: Also, Rey heard you’re full of candy.

Orson: I will give out your cellphone number as Erin Andrews’. The sharks will never cease their circling.

Holly: I’m giving yours out as Greg Robinson’s. A different sort of shark.

Orson: I will inform several Alabama message boards that you keyed Nick Saban’s solid gold Cocksman 300 Sedan. You KNOW that one’s gonna suck.

Holly: I will show you the true meaning of the verb form of Kragthorpe.

Orson: I’m pretty sure that involves my anus, and not in a good way.

Holly: Know what you need? A guest appearance on Dr. Lou: Acupunture Edition. (builtbythehomedepot)

Orson: I will make you go menswear shopping with Chris Fowler on clearance sale day.

Holly: I have three words. Fire ant ball.

Orson: I will force you to work as a gravy swabber on Charlie Weis’ new 18 foot long land-yacht, the Frying Crutchman.

Holly: You’ll be laughing when I strap you to a mechanical bull, sidesaddle in front of Brent Musberger, who’s 97 sheets to the wind and singing bluegrass.

Orson: You will wake up in a bathroom. Your leg will be chained to a radiator. A saw will be on the floor. A loop of the Randy Sanders 2005 offense will be running on the television. Make the decision you must make.

Holly: Good, because I’m sending you to a Baptist picnic with storebought banana pudding. And while you’re gone I”m hiding Big Red under your bed and Little Red in your closet. It’s no use running.

Orson: I will tie you to a post and allow Mike Patrick to read his journals aloud to you. No man has made it past page 16 without becoming incurably insane.

Holly: Giant Trev Alberts is just outside the door. He heard what you said about his pores. And he’s most displeased.

Orson: I’ll shoot you with a gun that fires other guns.

Holly: I’ll shoot you with a bear-gun (that’s a gun that shoots live bears)

Orson: I’ll do that, but instead of bears, it will fire bullets. Wait…

Orson: I will turn you into a man just to cockpunch you.

Holly: I will do the same OOOOHHHHHH BUUUUURN In summation: BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES. Oh, and I’ll cut you. Again.

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. We once saw a woman in white sweatpants crossing Hillsboro road whose ass, perched atop three asses already, had its own ass with advertising sold on it claiming you could book space on the other four asses for reasonable prices. She was wearing a Tennessee sweatshirt, natch.

The Pudgy Parallelogram groans against the weight of its own geometric borders with the surfeit of HFCS-themed goodies: Smoky Mountain Salt Water Taffy (Orange with white lines=tasty, orange with green lines=ass-flavored anise crapsticks), Goo-goo bars, the odd bag of circus peanuts stashed in the glove (good for recovery after the workout, man,) and whatever other high-fructose vehicles manage to land in the seven bins of temptation greeting you in the line at Cracker Barrel.

And if it wasn’t bad enough, the following restaurants are headquartered in Tennessee proper:

–Krystal
–Cracker Barrel
–Logan’s Roadhouse
–O’Charley’s (full disclosure: Dad used to be in charge there, so we know their evil buttery rolls better than most)
–Perkins

You’re fifteen pounds down in the chips just to start. Add to that a statewide fascination with the pig–a spectrum moving from barbecue on the west end and transitioning to blood-pressure spiking country ham on the east end–and staying under 200 pounds in the state is an accomplishment in and of itself. If you told us they trained local heart surgeons to perform angioplasty with ice cream scoops, we’d believe it. (Advantage: fascination with pork ensures Tennessee SHALL NEVER BE TAKEN BY GAY MUSLIM TERRORISTS.)

(Clay Travis may insist Florida girls have fat arms against all evidence to the contrary, but that’s because there’s a contrast between one fat part of the body and another.)

Hunting camo. Worn with the orange Vols shirt, of course, an outfit signalling that even though you may have gotten a lucrative job with that investment bank in New York/Atlanta/Nashville, you’re still gully enough to put on the bib, smear a little deerpiss on the ankles of your pants, and get down at the tailgate with some Evan Williams and Coke.

(Tricky move, the Evan Williams: it’s the trashy whiskey of your youth, and a deliberate ironic nod to that. However, is everyone with you, semantically speaking? Do they realize you can afford Maker’s, and are just going back to the Brown Bomber for funzies, or are they not far enough along in their walk with Ironic Jesus to understand the triple move you’re making here? If so, why are you hanging out with them?)

For those doubling up a football weekend with a hunting trip–a not uncommon occurrence–it serves as a multipurpose single outfit for the whole weekend, and comes off in a pinch for quick hay-rollin’ or celebratory nudity, which you won’t do because no fun please, we’re Baptist, and also because you’re not LSU fans, who will get naked for three dollars and a can of Miller Lite.

The Church Of Peyton. A Manning sighting in Knoxville is a bigger draw than Elvis, Oprah, and Jesus Christ combined. A street named in his honor on campus. Afghans knitted in his likeness. “My name’s Peyton”. Volunteers remember, remember the thirteenth of December and rock their Keep Your Fucking Trophy t-shirts to this day with no sense of irony whatsoever.

Orange Oakleys. Vol fans would still be wearing the old Terminator visor models if they could, but being sensitive to shame, they realize they must opt for the smaller, newer variant of the marksman’s classic.

Plus, they look like the ones they wear in the army, which is tough, which by extension makes the wearer second-degree-associative tough. And as with all fandom, it’s all about second-degree-associative tough. (Exception! Soccer hooligans. See? Second-degree-associative tough is NOT a bad thing.)

Critters!

Exhibit A:

Exhibit B:

Exhibit C:

Rasslin’. An NYC-based friend shares the following anecdote:

I once had a bunch of Knoxville boys stay with me when I lived in Brooklyn, and after some (read: lots of) drinking they began to toss wooden chairs off our fifth-story roof onto the sidewalk below without even checking for innocent bystanders or without thought to property damage, and when I protested, one large one turned to me and said, so straight-faced and innocent and sincere, “Honey, we’re from East Tennessee. We don’t know how to have fun without breakin’ shit.”

True masters of the “Hey, watch’is!” form, when there’s nothing left to throw, there’s always a Volunteer:

Drang, Hold the Sturm. While not as joyless as Ohio State fans (”Fuckin’ right, dickbag!”, says the Ohio State retorter,) Tennessee fans certainly possess a high degree of drang without the sturm Games begin with an almost socialist-feeling recitation of General Neyland’s maxims, and then the running of the T, and then the same ceremonies beginning every game, and the same glorious Orange and White People’s Song, which all children must learn by heart in school, as their forefathers did and so on and so forth as Tennessee runs the fancified Fulmerbone-I form-snoozefest right at the opposing D….

It’s making us sleepy just typing it. How anyone watches it for a whole season is beyond us (Chavis’ maiming defense is fun to watch, though, especially Eric Berry, who we’re kidnapping, brainwashing, renaming “Wondy Pierre-Louis,” and enrolling at Florida in a few weeks. Tennessee fans enter the game with gritted teeth, which is why the pitchforks come out so quickly, and also why Neyland is funereal when they get down by ten points to anyone regardless of the clock or the situation.

Not to unfairly contrast them with LSU fans, but when Tennessee fans are down, the reaction is this:

Tennessee fan: I hate this. I hate you. I hate everything. LuAnn, get your hand off my shoulder. Ain’t no pain in the world gonna take the ache outta my heart right now. I hate you all and want you to die.

LSU fan, in same situation: WE GONNNNNAAAA KICK YO AAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSSS!!!!

Of course, that’s an LSU fan’s reaction to being up by 14, or down by seventy, or just ordering a Popeye’s lunch special on a Wednesday. So perhaps the contrast is unfair, but the truth remains: Tennessee fans approach games with the emotion of relentlessly committed fans, but combine it with a queasy anticipation usually reserved for rectal exams.

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.

Yes, go ahead and play this during the rest of the piece. We’re Florida fans. We know from pot-smoking athletes of astonishing ability. Plus the protagonist is named Smokey, a name Tennessee fans feel great affection for already.

Sadly, as indicated by the Rick James soundtrack above, Coker allegedly did not live up to his name by being caught with his snoot in a furrow of fine Peruvian pep powder, but rather by reportedly being caught generic weed, which at Florida would earn him a tidy suspension for the Cal game at best. Coker’s not helped by being a multiple offender at this point (it’s his second drug-related offense,) or by his being the test case for Tennessee’s new drug policy. The policy gives athletes extra “strike” counts, increasing from three to four, but makes those reinstatements a more arduous process, including mandatory counseling sessions and the like.

So Coker’s likely not shot the Vols’ entire season in the foot with the finest of Cletus’s turkey-killin’ blunderbusses…yet. He is suspended indefinitely, a punishment which Urban Meyer called “harsh.” That suspension could easily be lifted in time for substantial playing time, we think, given the rules in place. The really humorous part: Fulmer initially announced Coker’s absence as the result of a “medical condition,” which plan to break in as soon as possible in our day job.

Boss: So you’re not coming to work.
OS: No, it’s a medical thing.
Boss: What kind of medical thing?
OS: The kind that makes Widespread Panic sound reaaaaaaaaaaal good right now, actually. (COUGH)

In the meantime, like Smokey, Coker ain’t got shit else to do. We suggest he beat up neighborhood ruffian Deebo with a brick to boost his status and help redeem himself in the eyes of the community. And by “Deebo,” we mean “Phil Fulmer.” Trust us–we have no ulterior motives whatsoever.

In looking for signs that Phil Fulmer is guaranteed job security for life, we lean on Mark Bradley suggesting that he’s going to be fired in the first week of December. A sportswriter going on the record with that kind of certainty is like having the CIA pronounce a country as “stable” and “bound for prosperity,” meaning that it’s seconds away from bursting into flames and becoming thirty different countries all ending in “–stan.”

Yet for those looking for signs of impending doom, you can either monitor the sales of batter fried porterhouse calzones at Calhoun’s (”Eat the Whole Thing, And We’ll Throw Your Dead Body in the Tennessee River Free Of Charge!”) or just rely on the fact that satire has brought you the Talking Fulmer. If fire[nameredacted].com is any indicator of sites devoted to mocking coaches, Fulmer’s days are numbered like the calories in a package of pork rinds, though nowhere near as numerous.

(HT: Angry ‘Eer from LWS.)

PS. Because we’re doing little more than just sitting on ass today (our own, of course,) we’ll be live-blogging the College Football Live show on ESPN today. You have been warned.

(We interrupt this to remind you that mention of Spartans or anything Sparta-related forces us to post a variation on “This Is Sparta”–enjoy.)

We resume: Brian’s eating around 6,000 calories a day, as compared to the normal intake of around 2,000 to 3,000 calories on a particularly hectic day of dining. He’s gained “eight solid pounds” on the diet, which we’ve done in bad weekends in Tampa, but then again, Stoyer isn’t relying on fried grouper nuggets and a case of beer for his bulk.

“I have to try to eat every two hours. When I wake up in the morning, I try to eat a pretty big breakfast. After I lift, I’ll eat a protein bar or some fruit. After we run, I’ll have a pretty big lunch. I get a rotisserie chicken and eat the whole thing and some pasta. For dinner, I’ll have some pasta with fish or two chicken breasts. Before bed, I drink a protein shake.’

The lack of heavy cream, buttery pastry, or other such diabetes-bombs leaves Mark Mangino stunned–stunned, we say! In related news, Tim Tebow in Gainesville is shedding pounds this summer by only eating the lean bear meat he killed with a paper clip, rubber band, and his own mighty bare hands.

Senator Blutarsky thinks Bernie Machen’s push for playoffs at the SEC meetings in Sandestin this week ended ignominiously as presidents hedged on the idea, coaches threw their hands up in resignation, and the bang of Machen’s public posturing ended in a whimper:

The story here is lowered expectations.

He’s got no specific plan. “There are no specifics,” he said. “It’s a concept. Do we want to look at a playoff? There are more plans than there are Carter’s pills. The plan will evolve if the people want to do it.”

We think it was less about a schedule of:

Monday: Mention playoffs
Tuesday: Powerpoint “WHY WE NEED A GODDAMN PLAYOFF”
Wednesday: Book the stadiums for new, perfectly coordinated national college football playoff.
Thursday: Poppin Dom, clockin’ hos at Donut Hole with Tubs and Mike Slive.

…and more about just being annoying enough to lay the foundation for a “Solid South” behind a playoff, showing the interest and will to have a playoff to solicit interested bidders. It’s about signalling the possibility at this point, not getting the ink on the tv deal in three weeks, and reminding everyone of interest that it’s not going away, even on the docket of the most monied conference in the land, because in the end the real money for universities lies in a playoff package sold to networks for a gazillion dollars.

In short: Bernie Machen seems content to kick, push, kick, push, and now coast into coming year before being just as annoying at the meetings next year as he was this year.

As for why he’s suggesting that the money should be spread to all D-1 schools…well, that’s not even lies–it’s pure bullshit by the letter of the definition. Machen doesn’t even care whether that’s true or not. It simply sounds nice, and serves his interests. Again, it’s bullshit, but he’s our bullshitter, and we’ll bullshit right along with him until the next time he says drinking at college football games = evil.

Then, he gets the Sparta treatment.

Steve Spurrier, jabbing like Zab Judah at the SEC meetings, is nothing new. But no coach has ever excelled at the art of indirectly slamming other coaches as Spurrier does, and this year’s “cordial” SEC meetings saw the OBC in seifu-esque form.

Spurrier, known for running up the score while at Florida, remembers some tempers flaring at a few spring meetings over the years.

“There are some that get upset,” he said. “But most coaches understand. I’ve never known a good coach that worried about somebody running up the score on them. It never bothered me, and I’ve been beat bad like everybody else.”

The coach with the biggest problem with it in the SEC during Spurrier’s salad days? Phil Fulmer, who by definition would not be a good coach in this formula.

Your unsportsmanlike blowout of my team has forced anger oil from by pores, sir.

Anthony Morelli caught a fish. A big, unholy, corpse-feeding catfish in the Allegheny River, actually, the kind of catfish Okie Noodlers catch with their hands. (Okie fishermen released this statement on the capture of a fish using bait and tackle: “Pussy.”)

In a reversal of fortune, Anthony Morelli intercepts.

The story comes complete with a detailed account of the rigging, bait, and execution of the catch that only an angler could stay rapt reading. Morelli played the role of mature sportsman by photographing the fish and then returning it to the river, which he summed up in this statement:

“I didn’t want it to die for no reason,” Morelli said. “We just took the pictures and enjoyed the moment. Who knows, maybe 10 years from now he’ll be 10 or 15 pounds heavier and I can hook him again.”

WHEEEEEE what fun that will be for Mr. Corpse-eating Fishbeast! Apropos of nothing, we have heard that one way Lousiana fishermen clean these fish is by nailing the head to a tree, a scary process since the fish allegedly “scream” during the process. If it sounds anything like “WHYYYYY GOD WHAAAYYYYYYY?” we’ll hang up our waders tomorrow.

(HT: Black Shoe Diaries, who thinks Morelli should be hitting the playbook. He was, dammit! He was trying to cast a hook into it from across the room, and just happened to accidentally put it into the Allegheny. You would only believe this if you watched Morelli play last year.)

As other UGA types are busy bringing 12 Monkeys to life, we wish Vince Dooley a speedy recovery from his surgery to remove a malignant tumor from his throat. Doctors give him an excellent prognosis for recovery. At 74, we will consider an excellent prognosis to be a fresh supply of Depends, a Man Versus Wild marathon on all day, and a 12 pack of rotgut beer in the fridge. Dooley considers it an excuse to attend a speaking engagement even though he couldn’t speak. If the spry 74-year old did the whole thing via the magic of interpretive dance, send video immediately.

Larry Coker wants the world to know that he isn’t burnt out, and wants to coach again, and despite his face is not, in fact, an original crewmember of the Argo. He only came on board in Colchis, and was only along for part of the search for the Golden Fleece.

Not 2,500 years old. More like 2,349, to be truthful.

Yes, the Roady’s Humanitarian Bowl may displace the Poulan Weed Eater Bowl as the single most cumbersome, prestige-sucking corporate sponsorship name in all of bowl history. Brian Murphy of the Idaho Statesman laughs, but not alone: Roady’s CEO joins in, being an excellent sport about the whole thing:

Like will bowl organizers include Slim Jims in every player’s gift bag?

“Not Slim Jim. We have an exclusive deal with Jim Beam beef jerky,” said Roady’s co-owner Kelly Rhinehart.

It only took a plane ticket to Peru, a nasty case of malaria, four robberies, a close encounter with a treacherous lackey and a fast-moving wall of spikes, and running headlong in front of a boulder for a hundred yards or so…but we have, through bandit tactics and our knowledge of archaeology, acquired a copy of Phil Steele’s Guide To College Football a full week and half prior to its release.

You wish you were as JAMPACKED WITH INFORMATION as we are right now.

This belongs in a museum: Phil Steele is here.