The players are stalwart enough after a game that was embarrassing even to watch, but Leach’s rapid whiplashing from “We didn’t coach well enough to beat A&M, and we didn’t play well enough to beat A&M” to “We’re not gonna listen to our fat little girlfriends” doesn’t speak to a steady hand on the tiller. Mike, Mike — don’t you know the plump ones make the best pirate lasses? And with still-ranked Kansas coming to town on Halloween, can you really afford to alienate the wench contingent of your student section?

quiet part of the song, ticking drum machines, one lonely keyboard, pointless scritching of a DJ in the back

so much lies beneath the surface
in my abyss
consuming me
dragging me down to the bottom

because nothing i do is
good enough for u
i’m falling short and stumbling
falling short because i couldn’t please youuuuuuu

Rappin’ verse guy:

Every day
Coach took away
His right to play
Couldn’t stand to face the day

Carter: But now I’m baaaaaaccckk…

tick tick tick tick tick buliding guitar LOUD PART OF THE SONG

Carter (screaming): BUT NOW I’M BACK WITH THE TEAAAAAAM!!!

Rappin’ guy: He’s back with the team/Couldn’t block without him/couldn’t rock without him

Carter: (still screaming: BACK WITH THE TEAM! HOW COULD YOU EVER DOUBT ME? SUCKAS GAVE UP FIVE SACKS WITHOUT ME!!!

BACK!

WITH!

THE TEAM!

quiet part of the song part 2, break involving screaming, repeat chorus fade.

Or he could have done something like this if he was going to tweet about his coach:

Now that Leach and his pirate navy of grad assistants have blockaded his players from Tweeting, we won’t find out the fate of Brandon Carter from his Twitter feed, which also disappeared after Carter posted about his dissatisfaction with the beginning of the season. Carter posted he was suspended, a suspension confirmed by Mike Leach in terms so icy a hitman might cringe at them:

Asked how much the offensive line will miss Carter, Leach said, “Not at all.”

Don’t fall off the side of the boat, Red Raider. Ships don’t have brakes, and it’s a long way to swim to Aruba if you’re tossed off the side “accidentally.”

…it’s good to be the captain. One more day until we sail. Red skies at night tonight no matter the weather, mateys. College football begins tomorrow, and the sailing is clear and smooth all the way to the horizon. Full steam ahead.

Mr. Bummercund: What brings you down this sooty avenue, Mr. Abysinnia?

Mr. Abyssinia: Only the need for a bit of the hair of the dog that bit me, Mr. Bummercund. His teeth, they sank deep last night!

Mr. Bummercund: One hopes your manservant’s teeth aren’t covered in any of those preposterous “viruses” the famous Dr. Pasteur of Paris claims to have conquered. You’d be in quite a bit of trouble.

Mr. Abyssinia: Ah, touche, Mr. Bummercund. No, ‘twould be improbable since Buckley was run down by a Hansom cab last week. Dreadful.

Mr. Bummercund: Egads! Was he killed in the incident, Mr. Abyssinia?

Mr Abyssinia: Instantly. I was going quite fast when it happened. Barkeep! Gin and cream, barkeep, and be a Chinaman about it if you would.

Barkeep: Yes sir.

Mr. Bummercund: So, Mr. Abyssinia, let us discuss the year’s wagering, if we could, yes?

Mr. Abyssinia: Yes, quite. Lord Gordon versus Sudan?

Mr. Bummercund: Sudan in three months. You?

Mr. Abyssinia: Traitor! Gordon and the white man’s burden in two, malaria be damned. Gin and gumption over all.

Mr. Bummercund: Your charitable donation to my opium habit is appreciated. O’Leary versus bear?

Mr. Abyssinia: The bear in 32 rounds.

Mr. Bummercund: Nonsense: nothing trumps an Irishman bolstered by strychnine and this fascinating product of the New World, this CO-CAI-I-NA I have heard so much of and dearly wish to try with the money I shall take unopposed from your pocket here. O’Leary and his fearsome apothecary in 22, and I double the wager should you dare to bet on his surviving the 24 hours after the fight.

Mr. Abyssinia: Your arrogance is my pension, Mr. Bummercund. I shall keep a dusty pallet beneath the servants’ quarters for you. Now, to Oklahoma State and Georgia–

Mr. Bummercund: Why, the Cowboys and their triplets will–

A newspaper snaps down. It is in Chinese. THE DETESTABLE MR. LEACH stares at them coolly from his chair in the corner.

The Detestable Mr. Leach: I would have remained silent, but I’m a sworn enemy to fatuosity in all its forms. This is a quest, not an imposition, and you shall treat it as such.

Mr. Abyssinia: Why, if it is not the very Detestable Mr. Leach, he of the outrageous theories and fabulous quotes! Come now, why trouble a gentleman over his choice of wagers? Is that not like guiding the trajectory of his Cupid’s Arrow in flight on a carefree Saturday night in Whitechapel?

The Detestable Mr. Leach: I shudder to think of the syphilitic targets your arrow has struck, Mr. Abyssinia. Would you trust a fat man without a raincoat to ferry you Cathay’s finest dream-powder in a London downpour, Mr. Bummercund?

Mr. Bummercund: Most certainly not, lest I get the tremors!

The Detestable Mr. Leach: Most certainly not indeed. Then why trust engage in the blind buffoonery of leaning on a team with three new starters in the secondary in a conference noted for its fusillade of points pouring from the skies like the torrents of a Siamese monsoon? Is that not like entering Ms. Barclay’s House of Masculine Indulgence without the protection of a well-fitted sausage casing, Mr. Abyssinia?

Mr. Abyssinia: Why, what’s the danger in that?

The Detestable Mr. Leach: Syphilis has taste for healthy brains, and when it–pardon me. In your case, no danger at all. Proceed apace. In fact, for once, I shall partake of this donnybrook and enroll in your wagering. I shall take both of your bets for the Cowboys, and see them double against these…what are they referred to in the charming colloquialism of the American colonies…yes, these “Red Raiders.”

Mr. Abyssinia: And here we were thinking you the ascetic, Mr. Leach. What interest have you in this game?

Mr. Leach: [smiles]

Mr. Bummercund: Well, you shall rue the day you bet against a pair of formidable punters such as ourselves!

Mr. Leach: And this shall be the only time you see me punt. Only as a cat with a full gorge regrets playing too much with fat mice, gentlemen. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to Whitehall to warn the Minister of the dangers of interlocking secret treaty agreements. I fear it shall lead to a war, even one might call “a World War,” if unchecked.

Mr. Abyssinia: Ah, Mr. Leach. We have no greater friend than the secret treaty agreement!

Mr. Leach: Ron Prince felt exactly the same way.

Mr. Bummercund: What?

Mr. Leach: Adieu, troglodytes. [/he saunters out]

Mr. Abyssinia: Oh, how I hate the detestable Mr. Leach!

But the third? That would be East Carolina, a team we sometimes refer to as “Eastern Carolina” here on the blog because we are dumb, and fond of screwing up proper nouns whenever and wherever possible thanks to our creeping Alzheinstein’s disease. Hey, these are probably the real lyrics to the fight song!

ECU is 6-10 against BCS teams since 2005, but with five of those wins coming against ACC teams. This lends further credence to what we’ll call “Groh’s Law”:

Groh’s Law: The theory stating that against all laws of math and reality, all teams playing in the ACC shall go 7-5 or 5-7 every year without variation, even if playing weak out-of-conference slates.

East Carolina has also played the most games against BCS opponents since 2005, with a mansome total of 16 games equalled only by the Ass-rippin’ Schnellenbergers of Florida Atlantic University (the ass-rippin’ being passive and offered, as they are 1-15 in games against BCS opponents.) Take ECU out of the sum total for Conference USA, though, and we’re plating up Fugly Salad: C-USA is 11-91 overall against BCS teams, a record bested–er, worsted only by the Sun Belt Conference, who has a 6-84 record against the BCS overall. Did you know that one anagram for the Sun Belt is “Feeblest Unconcern?” It’s not as good as “Enfeebles Corn Cunt,” but it certainly makes more sense.

Oh, and East Carolina is helping smooth out the fight against the insurgency in Iraq. Suck on that, Schnellenberger.

Frilly lady one: Surely you do not suggest Herr Schliemann’s theories on the location of the ancient city of Troy are in fact correct? And that the city exists in the form he proposes, and that Agamemnon himself may be found in its dusty footings?

Frilly lady two: If we are to believe such specious thoughts, we may as well crawl on our knuckles and dine on the fruit of the ba-na-na tree, as Mr. Darwin’s savage apes would have us doing a mere thousand years ago or so!

Coach Mike Leach, erupting from his chair: Cease, chickens. Darwin is correct, but not in your case. Your ancestors’ more evolved descendants are currently pecking corn from the floor of a barnyard. You, on the other hand, are pecking crumpets rudely from a tray and twisting the fine theories of Darwin into knots of misbegotten idiocy.

Frilly Ladies one and two: OH, THE DETESTABLE MR. LEACH. Must he always be so rude?

Mr. Leach: The truth is metal to add to the hot forge of an active mind, but it lands with a thud on the cold stove of a frigid brain devoid of all heat or fire.

Mr. Bummercund: Why, Leach, do you have any other preposterous ideas you’d like to vent today?

Mr. Leach: Certainly. For one, NFL coaches are terrible.

Frilly ladies in unison: Oh, heavens!

Mr. Leach: Yes, they’re as unimaginative as the lobotomized camels of the Sahel and just as long-lived. One may coach safely as a position coach in the NFL for thirty years provided one possesses the ability to make coffee well and trouble rarely.

Mr. Bummercund: Shocking, sir. You defame the good name of the NFL!

Mr. Leach: The NFL defames itself with the crude graffiti of boredom each Sunday. It needs no help from me.

Mr. Bummercund: Harumph! How dare you! What further outrages have you?

Mr. Leach: Only these, and a thousand more: We shall be out of India by 1950, tea is a pisspot beverage that shall be the death of our productivity as a nation, the prison colony of Australia produces a finer meat pie than any you shall find on the island, Darwin was right, and that the Aggie coaching staff mismanaged the career of Steven McGee as badly as they could by turning a fine passer into a running quarterback first, and a brutalized passer in an overly complex West Coast system second.

Frilly lady one: Why, the way you state things factually! It’s deplorable!

Frilly lady two: Yes! I’m particularly offended by your honesty, candor, and wit. They’re all damn unBritish, sir.

Mr. Leach: Fortunately for you, I’m a savage colonist on holiday among his primitive forebears. One last thing: avoid Whitechapel tonight. I shall be traveling with a particularly energetic friend of mine you may know by the name of Jack.

Frilly ladies in unison: YOU KNOW THE RIPPER?

Mr. Leach: Yes, yes, a chronological migrant known in the 21st century as successful college football announcer Mike Patrick. I’ve been chasing him for years now. Tonight, he will be mine.

Mr. Bummercund: As loathsome as you are, Mr. Leach, your bravery is unquestionable. Hip-hip to you!

Mr. Leach: There’s nothing brave about it. If you’d seen him kill Ron Franklin in front of your own eyes, you’d do the same, sir. Yes, you would.

[FIN]

Clearly this shows the Red Rangers displaying great hands and understanding how to control the flow of a game. Shortly after this picture was taken the Oklahoma defensive line came and kicked them in the back of the thighs Switzer-style, causing the linemen to piss uncontrollably all over themselves in the process. (Consolation: it didn’t happen on national television this time.)

Mike Leach, famed pirate fan, may be called as an expert analyst sooner or later for a major news network. Very few people actually specialized in this kind of shit during their international affairs programs, so the only real experts are self-appointed. (And pirates, of course, but it’s kind of hard to get them to hang up the AK-47 and take up a guest faculty position, even when you mention the newly refurbished faculty gym and primo parking spot.)

Leach was already talking like a policy expert in his interview about the recent rash of Somali pirate raids.

Leach was then asked, jokingly, if he would be willing to act as an intermediary during negotiations.

“I don’t think they need an intermediary,” he said. “They need somebody to go clean that deal out. Whoever that leader of the SEALs is, I think he’s got it right. I think you ought to get the Navy SEALs out, have a long weekend…

Salient and sensible points all around: he way outperforms Lou Holtz as a pundit, though that’s a bit like saying you beat Pam Ward in a yardstick-measuring contest. Wait, that would actually be quite impressive, now that you mention it.

Yet some internet genius–mindful of the times and the sudden resurgence of piracy on the Somali coast–decided P.D. needed a makeover, Mogadishu-style. Regardez:

From: HERE.

He’s missing a few things, but it’s hard to work in the qat-stained teeth, knockoff Italian loafers, and RPG in there. And please, not to be all The Big Lead on you, but someone did send this to us, and we don’t know the author. If the anonymous internet genius who made this will stand up, we’d be more than happy to hat tip you and send metaphorical cocktails your way all night.

(HT: LWS.)

Who knows what Edward Britton did: improperly handled a yardarm, cut a doubloon too skinny for the cap’n’s liking, or perhaps dipped his wick into another swabby’s wench’s personal pitch-bucket…the list of potential violations of the pirate code is a lengthy one.

Fortunately, we don’t have to guess wildly: Britton, the number one receiver on Texas Tech’s depth chart with the departure of Michael Crabtree, was not holding up his end of the student/athlete bargain with his scholarship providers at Texas Tech. The student part, mostly. Therefore, Leach forbade him to practice on Friday and took the already demoted Britton and made him study on the fifty yard line for an hour and a half after practice in thirty degree weather.

Leach even had a desk brought out onto the double T at the fifty for Britton thus confirming that Leach is kind of an asshole when he wants to be, albeit in a cheeky, ninja professor kind of way. (Anyone who’ll ring up fifty frequently on opponents has to be, but add this to the pile of complimentary evidence.) All this for sacrificing his sure academic footing for an easy thrill [/henriducard'd].

“Ed didn’t like showing up and studying at places I felt like he needed to and like the academic people asked him to, so he can go study out there on the 50-yard line,” Leach said. “We’ll take baby steps, and if he does good studying out there, we’ll decide if we’re going to actually let him practice.”

Britton did make it through the entire 90 minutes, thus doubling the amount of time we actually spent studying in college. We congratulate him on this accomplishment, and on Mike Leach for confirming that he is secretly Ras-Al-Goul, and trains his quarterbacks to throw to not five men, but to five hundred, and to become more than a man in the eyes of their opponent. (HT: Dan.)

Absolutely not an artist’s rendition. Nope. REAL LIFE PHOTOGRAPHY by LSUFreek.

Us? We imply nothing. Butch Davis is one-third the man June Jones is, dismissing three players from Carolina for that standby classic Violation Of Team Policy.

The Dread Pirate Leach returns to the fold. A most welcome development, summarized most succintly by one of our own commenters: “That�s good, because Leach is still cool and he wouldn�t be the same outside of Texas (recruiting advantages). Also good because if Tech fired him, that would be FUCKTARDED.”

Oh, my! Uncles Verne-and-Gary meet Hugo Chavez.

Follow the leader. Tennessee demigod and current Duke patriarch David Cutcliffe gets his Twit on.

The more you know. For any of you brave souls preparing to join us in Vegas: We have a hunch this will come in handy.

The only logical followup to the EDSBS Grits & Grillades Bowl Presented By YellaWood. College Football Talk is crowning their own national champion. Hinton ponders adding his own. Suggestions and schematics for our own trophy welcome below. ]]> http://www.everydayshouldbesaturday.com/2009/02/20/curious-index-2202009/feed/ 22 http://www.everydayshouldbesaturday.com/2009/02/18/curious-index-2182009/ http://www.everydayshouldbesaturday.com/2009/02/18/curious-index-2182009/#comments Wed, 18 Feb 2009 14:30:40 +0000 Holly http://www.everydayshouldbesaturday.com/?p=9074 Noble Doss, R.I.P. The Longhorn legend died this weekend at the age of 88.

Is the SEC the default national league? Brother Clay says yes, and get used to it. (So what does that make Raycom, exactly?)

We lost all interest in this Mike Leach contract negotiations storyline right around the time the Dread Pirate Cap’n hired a freaking publicist to organize a student support rally on his behalf, but for the Red Raider partisans and the very, very bored, he can be seen here dropping some science on an adoring public. (Point of order, though: That clause in his contract the department wants to add, about all speaking fees, book revenues, etc. belonging to the University? Group 5, is that kind of thing normal? ‘Splain below, if you would.)

Randy Shannon has had just about enough of your guff. Bryce Brown may lose his spot at Miami if he doesn’t quit slutting around.

Excuses to post this picture? You’re soaking in ‘em!

It gets better, now:

Brown’s own personal mishandler, Brian Butler, told the AP that he was “unaware” scholarship offers expired.

Try and contain your shock; it’s unseemly.

The rest of us, meanwhile, aren’t too wild about grown-ass men changing the pronunciation of their last name to shill for awards they don’t even win. Joe Theeeeesman does not care for your new-fangled snap notions. Blah blah Tim Tebow lacks fundamentals gimmick offense rinse spit repeat.

Items We Require, Vol. 249C: From the makers of Bacon Salt, a spread even Joey Sunshine would love. Quoth they: “Everything should taste like bacon.” You’re welcome. ]]> http://www.everydayshouldbesaturday.com/2009/02/18/curious-index-2182009/feed/ 35 http://www.everydayshouldbesaturday.com/2009/02/09/how-fares-the-ss-leachs-stock/ http://www.everydayshouldbesaturday.com/2009/02/09/how-fares-the-ss-leachs-stock/#comments Mon, 09 Feb 2009 16:38:05 +0000 Orson Swindle http://www.everydayshouldbesaturday.com/?p=8898 In which we hereby evaluate the stock price of the S.S. Leach, a maritime property currently owned by landlubbing investors in Lubbock, Texas, but likely on sale within the next year in an IPO or sudden hostile takeover. All investing advice is exactly that: advice. As with any investment, returns may vary, unless we’re talking about Chan Gailey, who is scientifically proven to yield an exact 7-5 record every year over a 20 year period.

Year in profile: Stock price peaked dramatically on 11/8 with a 56-20 stripping of Oklahoma State, taking the team to 10-0 in the hottest heat of the Great Big 12 South Bubble of 2008. Leach was saluted as a genius come full blossom, and found his minions pollinating press posies with prodigious praise prodigiously:

But if he had gone to say, U.S.C., 10 years ago and installed his system there, it would be comical. He would score every time – and he would have a defense by default because he would get great athletes.

Bubbl’d. The proclamations of a Leachian Annus Mirabilis proved premature: while Texas Tech ran out to their best record ever and beat number one Texas in the process, the remainder of the year fell under the shadow of as dramatic a pantsing as could be envisioned. We speak, of course, of the Nutcrush at Norman.

Losing 65-21 on national television qualified as a dramatic market correction, but especially so for the Red Raiders’ vaunted line, comprised of Mankind, The Burrito Tower, and many men with many nicknames that all evaporated into a uniform moniker of “Speed Bump.” Texas Tech looked both out-hustled and out-coached, a combination sending Texas Tech’s stock price plummeting as the bubble began to burst.

Double-bubbl’d. The full correction came in the Cotton Bowl when Tech was run roughshod by Ole Miss, the by-proxy national champion, in a 47-31 brawl following pattern for all Texas Tech losses: abundant points topped by being outmuscled by the other team at the line of scrimmage and bleeding out on defense despite new ownership, new attitude, pardon our mess, try our new flavor, blah blah blah.

Outlook: A case of things changing and remaining the same. We remain convinced that a coach puts together one kind of team and is incapable of doing much else. Though he may have the excuse of working with “scraps” of recruiting, Leach’s teams remain indifferent on defense and prone to losing games to anyone with an edge along the lines. (Football nostrums 101, yes, but what of the “it-doesn’t-matter-because-the-scheme-cures-all” argument?)

It gets worse for Leach when you consider the timing of his current contract tiff. With all the major coaching jobs full, Leach is now locked into Texas Tech for the foreseeable future. He’s a lousy interview–okay, not lousy, but he’s weird, and that scares the Muggles a bit too much for their own good–and tends to commit the cardinal sin of saying whatever he thinks. (Again, a great and unique trait disparaged by the tiny dwarf-minds of the universe.)

Current stock outlook: Bear-ish. Right, now, Leach is a financial services stock. Capable of great heights, but stuck in a deep rut created of circumstances not entirely under his control. Like any good pirate, capable of striking with flair on a hot streak, and then scuttling his own good fortune when lined up head to head with a ship of the line. Caveat emptor.

Front:

Back:

Dearest–

Thank you for understanding my yearly walkabout, and for your patience and devotion. Mogadishu is lovely this time of year, as it always is. It’s good to see good friends again, even if many of them have lost limbs and eyes since the last time I saw them.

I will be home after an expedition with my old friends on the Horn of Africa. I have enclosed a picture of the unique collateral I brought with me this time to fund our yearly adventures.

The picture:

We-Are! Being-Held-For-Ransom!

LOL,

Jimmy

ps. “Lost” my passport in Afghanistan please file for a new one love again ly jim

pps. I am going to spank you like a Somali shepard whips a camel when I get home, but only in the loving, consenting way we always do. XOXOXOXO –J.