We’re finishing up a column on why people hate Duke basketball. In the meantime, please accept the fond wishes of Ric Flair, who has been set to music by Atlanta’s own local genius, Poodleface.

Just like that, you’re not doing work. Those women in the video are truly the finest women in the world: the high cinched belts, the crimped hair, the pounds of makeup.

Today is Repeal Day! Hip Hip, Hooray!

On this day in 1933 prohibition was officially repealed when Utah, of all states, signed on to the 21st Amendment, paving the way for nearly a century of great tailgating. I’ll drink to that.

Mississippi State owns their country attitude: cowbells in the stands, a buttoned-down gameday decor, and that entire section of the stands reserved for those who’ve lost limbs in gruesome farm injuries. (Not true! That’s actually a section in Kinnick Stadium in Iowa.)

How much do they really own it, though? So much so that the flyover for the Alabama game was done by what appears to be a crop duster or the Baron Von Richtofen himself flying all the way from Hell for the game.

Gadzooks! Was that the dashing Wiley Post? Or the rakish Jimmy Doolittle? Or perhaps Amelia Earhart, who overcomes the crippling handicap of having a vagina every time she bravely enters an aircraft! O, those wily aviators! Someday, might they fly to sun?

The little hysterical WOOO! at the end may be one of the most nuanced crowd noises we’ve ever heard: part shame, part acceptance, and part ironic barbaric yawp. Whatever–they can tie weather balloons to pigs and let the recreational shooting crowd loose on them as long as Mississippi State keeps winning. Bowl-eligible means you can fly whatever you want over the stadium, even if it does sound like a motorized go-cart with wings.

A clarification: From reader Bulldog, who invites us to eat him.

That was our President, retired Air Force commander Gen. Robert H. “Doc” Foglesong. It is his Mississippi State biplane. He always buzzes over the stadium before the game. So eat me and the rest of the bulldog nation.

Their president buzzes the stadium in his own biplane? Is he a botanist/humanitarian with a penchant for archaeology, arctic exploration, and jujitsu? Does this man have limits, we ask?

We don’t have anything unkind to say about the Tennessee Volunteers; losing 59-20 to Florida in hellacious heat and noise on Saturday was unkind enough. (Why was Florida still throwing deep in the 4th quarter up by 20 plus? Because you were still on the field. This is Sparta.)

Instead, we wish to praise the one person we saw besides Rico McCoy working his asscheeks off for Tennessee: the Tennessee Water Boy.

Look at those perfect circles!

Not enough can really be said to praise the whirlwind diligence of the collective Tennessee hydration squad on Saturday. Prepping a team for the Dantean furnace of a full game in the Swamp is to the sideline support team what K2 is for a team of mountaineers: the ultimate challenge. Despite a full squad of players and coaches sweating a collective Lake Okechobee of perspiration in the spongy bermuda grass of Florida Field (on a day so mercilessly hot they ran out of Gatorade at the concessions stands on the student side of the stadium,) the Tennessee sideline crew not only lost no one due to cramping, but also managed to:

a.) Keep the cups in those perfect little circles the entire time. We’re not exaggerating. In between watching Tim Tebow throw balls through the chests of Tennessee defenders for long gains, we maintained a steady eye on those circles. Not ten seconds passed before the removal of a cup and the replacement of a cup. Obligatory comment by our brother-in-law Boridicus: a circle is the same shape as a donut, natch.

And b.) The Tennessee crew was moving fast enough to not only hydrate the whole team with the precision of a SEAL team knifing their way through a jungle encampment, but also hand out beverages to the Tennessee fans sitting in the first four rows. Of all the comments we heard on Saturday from Gator fans to Vol fans, two stick out: “Stay hydrated!” and of course, the obligatory “Fuck you!”

So 100 COCKTAILS TO YOU, Vol Hydration squad. Know that on a day of great loss for your team, you played like champions and others took note of your tireless efforts to make thirst your and the team’s bitch. Which it totally is.

Week’s two’s open thread reminds you that:

1. Your schedule: hyah.
2. Your therapy session: EDSBS Live. Sunday night, 7 p.m. EST to 9 p.m. EST.
3. Win or lose against Georgia, the OBC’s playing through, slowass. FORE!!! CLICK-CLACK!!!

Leave your thoughts below. We’ll talk to you Sunday night.

Begin.

The winner of this year’s Fulmer Cup for the Most Feloniously Frisky College Football Team is…

…Illinois, who rode the diligent efforts of Jody Ellis and Derrick McPhearson to victory in this year’s competition. (Yes, they were dismissed from the team. Good for them. But they were on the team at the time this happened.) This means the solid gold AK-47 Dennis Erickson Trophy Sponsored by Hosea Williams’ Bail Bonds Fulmer Cup Trophy now makes the long trip from Huntington, West Virginia to Champaign-Urbana, Illinois, where it will reside in a local Arby’s until next year’s competition.

Illinois went up by a huge score early and then fell into a soft zone, nearly allowing the competition to catch them (as Penn State nearly did.) This sounds familiar to anyone with an understanding of [NAME REDACTED]’s NFL-tested coaching philosophies. Yet Illinois got this on the cheap, we think–the points add up, but fine work by other programs deserves mention, as well.

The Ellis T. Jones Award Golden Taser for Individual Achievement goes to… Florida’s own Ronnie Wilson, who ensured that we’d get at least eighty annoying emails with the subject line “CHANGE THE NAME OF THE CUP, ASSHOLE” by firing off an AK-47 in downtown Gainesville, Florida. A nine-point offense pales in comparison to the award’s namesake, but sometimes merely discharging automatic weapons in front of horrified nightclub-goers is enough to get you the award.

The Golden Taser is yours, Ronnie. Use it well.

The Ben Siegert Award for most amusing arrest goes to Stephen Garcia, Gamecock rapscallion who keyed a visiting professor’s car in Columbia just weeks after arriving on campus and thus gave us this beautiful mug shot.

Chill, baby. Just chill.

With that, we feel obligated to mention that it, too, does not live up to stealing a gay sheep. Still, the Golden Ram With Leather Guy Hat goes to Mr. Garcia, who will be riding the bench for the Click Clacktacular one in Sakerlina this year.

Thanks as always to Brian, who maintained the board this year and is hung like Reggie Fuckin’ Nelson, and to the boys at SAS Wiki, who assisted with the scoring. Both were indispensable. Readers are owed thanks for their diligence as well: Tomek and Dave W. in particular deserve our thanks.

College football may have found its first great conceptual artist. Note that we said “conceptual artist,” since “Daniel Moore,” the Norman Rockwell of Alabama football history, rightfully claims the title for good ol’ fashioned, hang it next to the Olan Mills family portrait kind of art.

Chum, the conceptual artist who created the rave-fantasy video of the Kansas State mascot jamming like Macaulay Culkin in Party Monster, has outdone himself with this custom video for BearMeat. Really, if you’ve never done acid, you shouldn’t, because that shit takes for-eeeeevvver to wear off, and even the hallucinated sight of the walls bleeding gets mundane after eight hours.

Just watch this instead. It’s shorter, cheap as free, and frankly, a bit more powerful than LSD.

Massive hat tip to BearMeat.

EDSBS Live. Tuesday. 7:30 p.m.

Phil. Steele.

Note: buy Phil new t-shirt.

You are not ready.

We close the week at EDSBS by thanking you for one of the more amusing weeks we can remember, even stuck as we are in the depths of the offseason.

–Kenny Irons, midgets. See below.

–Henri-Bernard Levy became our new media critic.

–Tennessee cracked the Fulmer Cup standings.

–A simply cracking edition of EDSBS Live! with the greatest piece of advice we’ve ever heard: “You’re pretty drunk right now, you probably shouldn’t eat that.”

–The Seven-Inch Linebacker.

–Joel’s brilliant Blake Mitchell tribute.

This weekend, to celebrate, we will christen our new Weber Grill, the minimalist genius-tool of all charcoal warriors. This should be easy as hell considering the early birthday gift came with an accessory we purchased off Rammstein’s helpful website.

Enjoy your weekend. We’ll be back on Monday with third-degree burns.

Late Friday, With Leather posted these pics of Blake Mitchell, noted eccentric and South Carolina quarterback, sweating like a meth-head running wind sprints in the Kalahari at a wedding of some sort.

Blake Mitchell, dancing, sweaty fool.

This immediately went straight to the Department of Gloriously Stupid Ideas in our head, so we contacted someone who might actually make the video. The conversation went something like this:

Orson: Joel, can you make Blake Mitchell dance?
Joel: Yeah. It’ll look like JibJab, but yeah, I can do that.
Orson: That’s awesome. Why don’t you get started on that great idea I just had? Like, now?
Joel: Um, sure.

And so a classic was born. Frankly, we deserve no credit on this one, since we merely told a Tennessean with a rudimentary working knowledge of Flash the idea, and he ran with the rest. And if you haven’t seen Graceland, the story of Mary the Murderous Elephant and Her Unfortunate Hanging, or seen a Nashville-area Golden Corral at 5:30 p.m. on a Sunday, you’ll have to understand that things get out of hand and get out of hand fast in the Volunteer State once the enthusiasm kicks in for a bit.

We now present Blake Mitchell, who contrary to the soundtrack, feels like dancin’, dancin’. For those of you who have the Youtubes blocked at work, try Joel’s embedded Flash file after the jump.

(more…)

In EDSBS’s Hall of Fame, there sits an Auburn-themed niche carved in a wall of only the finest Carrara marble. In that niche sits a pair of busts: one of David Irons, and one of Kenny Irons, who combined form a duo of such excellence none shall ever supersede them.

Kenny Irons: friend to all, big…and small?

Their immortal resume (lettered into the marble in gold leaf, natch):

–David’s Wonderlic score: quatro, amigo. (Chinese for “a fucking four, big nose!”)

–David’s own quote about his brother in the greatest single interview ever conducted with a division one football player:

I told him the end zone is his zoo and if he runs to the end zone he can be with all of his little animal friends. I just told him to treat the football like a banana. You treat the football like a banana and you won’t let anybody at the zoo take your banana peel. He was like, “Yeah, that’s true.” And I was like, “Kenny, but it’s not yellow, it’s brown.”

–Kenny’s own interview where he discusses water polo:

“I tell people that I play water polo and if they ask me what position I play I tell them right water. I don’t even know if that is a position but I tell them that I play right water.”

Like all our little NCAA babies, they grow up to be men, eventually: midget-loving, unashamed, polymorphously perverse men, according to Kissing Suzy Kolber. From their intrepid reader Joel, who saw Irons at LAX on the way to the NFL’s rookie conference:

A few weeks ago I was working check-in at LAX airport for the rookie conference held in LA. JaMarcus Russell never said a word, Dwayne Jarrett dissed Keyshawn, and Bengals running back Kenny Irons brought more luggage than I’ve ever seen in my life. I asked him what was in the luggage, an innocent question, which prompted Kenny to hoist the luggage and proudly proclaim,

“I got a midget in here to suck my dick.”

Another line of gold leaf just went up on that wall, readers. God bless you, you midgetfucking geniuses of the gridiron. ONE HUNDRED COCKTAILS to Kenny and David Irons, and the typhoon of joy they bring with them everywhere.

In signing out for the weekend, a few things bear mention here. Namely, two things you need to read:

–Fire Mark May’s guest column by Nick Saban, which has just a touch of anise for snap!

–Big Daddy Drew’s column on his ultimate Fathers’ Day. It’s better than anything we’ve ever written.

Also, note that we fell out of the Hot Bloggers’ bracket this week, losing to Digital Headbutt in a respectably close vote using Tim Tebow’s picture as our own. Perhaps we would have been better off using a real picture of us taken in Las Vegas with our future self visiting from the year 2020.At least we could blame ourselves, and not the shiny muscles of Baby Rhinowonder Tebow, who makes no errors and fouls not the Earth with a speck of unholiness.

But the future is looking sexayyyy, if we may say so ourselves.

Orson, meet Future Orson, who IS wearing jorts and has somehow become a K-State fan.

Enjoy your weekend.

ps. 100 Percent Injury Rate thinks Calvin Murphy is an impressive sperm sprinkler with 14 illegitimate children. We think the odds are good that Screamin’ Jay Hawkins actually fathered Calvin Murphy: he owned up to 57 kids during his life, so many that a website (now defunct) called JaysKids.com popped up to handle all the inquiries.

Congratulations! Police are very interested in speaking with you. In case you wondered, this is not a good thing, which means the congratulations was completely ironic. Chances are this whole thing will suck very much badly for you, LSU football player Chris Mitchell, since at the least you’ll spend a tense couple of hours sweating out police questioning in a Louisiana police office. And if that’s not on your list of things to avoid going through in this lifetime, it damn well should be on it.

Acknowledging they have more questions than answers, Jefferson Parish sheriff’s officials said Tuesday they are eager to speak with LSU football player Chris Mitchell about a weekend drive-by shooting and gunfight outside a popular but controversial Metairie nightclub.

The Sunday morning melee outside Kenny’s Key West in Fat City left two men wounded, 50 bullet casings and a few live rounds in the club’s parking lot and surrounding blocks.

Fifty bullet casings? FIFTY? Archenemies don’t have fifty bullets worth of hate attached to them, much less anyone hanging out at “Kenny’s Key West” in Fat City. Some John Woo movies haven’t featured the firing of fifty bullets. (Completely false. That’s usually the first ten minutes, including peaceful exposition scene.) Like a John Woo movie, whoever fired all those bullets likely did it with a 9mm handgun. Gun nuts, remind us–does that mean this person reloaded? Several times?

Even Chow-Yun Fat Thinks you’re being excessive.

Mitchell isn’t charged in the case, but police have hit a dead end in their investigation, and know Mitchell was there at the time of the shooting. This could be because no one at the scene is “snitching,” and thus allowing someone who discharged up to fifty rounds in public indiscriminately to walk around eating sandwiches. That is so completely and totally cool of all of them! YAY SNITCHES GET STITCHES!