The official EDSBS policy on this is that Ms. Andrews has been wronged grievously, and that the person behind this should be bankrupted not just for their invasion of her privacy, but also for their intrusion on the privacy of others. From what we understand, this was a completely random act, and in an alternate universe could have been you or us standing there getting our goods pasted all over the internet for profit. That her celebrity has exacerbated the initial violation is an even sadder occurrence, and far exceeds the reasonable cost of fame in its severity.

With that said, we feel we need to publish what we have in the name of full disclosure. New information has come to light, and we cannot sit on it any longer. We did not film this, nor do we intend to sell it. We do not claim it is in fact anyone in particular, and will not comment on any resemblances other than to say this: we have made this SFW, and that if this is who we think it is, then this could very well be the media scandal of the century.

You have been warned.

A thousand cocktails to Freek, and to the person who invented the concept of the jump on an internet post. You really have made some of our lives so much easier through your foresight and clever coding.

“Clever girl.”

Former Alabama lineman Andre Smith is not currently floating off the Straits of Hormuz as previously reported in Monday’s Curious Index. Smith is in fact feeding several hundred miles south of the Solomon Islands, and is neither blocking commercial shipping lanes nor infringing on any fishing grounds. Sailors are warned to steer clear of the waste release valve on his stern. Capsizing may be a danger for smaller vessels.

We regret the error.

To boost his draft standings following Wednesday’s Pro Day at Alabama, quarterback John Parker Wilson will release his own self-produced aerobics tape, but it will be titled the “Bama Bangs Blaster Workout”, not the “Toss Your Way To Shapelier Hips And Thighs With John Parker Wilson Workout” reported previously. We regret the error.

On Thursday, our interview with Ron Franklin alarmed some when a photo of Franklin on the sidelines of the 2000 Georgia/Auburn game appeared to show him urinating on the sidelines with his penis exposed for all to see. Franklin’s representatives called to clarify that Franklin was not urinating, and as a professional would never show disrespect for his hosts like that. Franklin suffers from the medical condition known as penile claustrophobia, however, and frequently has to ventilate his member in order to provide relief from the condition. Other notable celebrity sufferers have included Charles Haley, Terri Hatcher, the Reverend Charles Hagee, and Andy Richter.

As penance, this post is brought to you by the only drug on the market to help men face the demons of penile claustrophobia, Enclosium. Enclosium: because good fences make good neighbors.

We regret the error.

Contrary to information from Florida’s press office used in our “Better Know An SEC Lineman’s Religion”, the Koran does not promise 72 virgins in heaven to any player making a solo tackle. Urban Meyer makes this promise himself, and is said to select the virgins personally. We regret the error.

In Wednesday’s “Taigatin’ With O,” the koala fricassee recipe has been deleted, as koala is both a protected species per the CITES international compact, and is in fact too lean a meat for in the recipe. (In addition to this, those little bastards aren’t an easy slaughter. It’s like wrestling with a teddy bear made of switchblades.) Substitute braised condor or fatty aged panda in a pinch. We regret the error.

Thursday’s profile of Maryland head coach Ralph Friedgen described him as being “thicker at the bottom than at the top due to slow flow over centuries…an amorphous solid at room temperature”. This passage is actually lifted from the Encyclopedia Britannica’s article on stained glass. We regret the error.

On Tuesday, our profile of ERIN ANDREWS NAKED did not feature ERIN ANDREWS NAKED in any form, and was not an interview with ERIN ANDREWS NAKED. ERIN ANDREWS NAKED was not the topic of the post, which instead focused on Northwestern’s plan to take advantage of a more mobile group of quarterbacks in their offensive gameplanning. We regret tactics like using ERIN ANDREWS NAKED to mislead readers, and promise to continue our efforts in not blatantly catching eyes and search results with things like ERIN ANDREWS NAKED.

ERIN ANDREWS NAKED ERIN ANDREWS NAKED ERIN ANDREWS NAKED

Last Friday’s “ACC Voodo And You” feature claimed that Clemson quarterback Willy Korn is the Bell Witch. Although indescribably beautiful and known to appear in mirrors when his name is spoken, Willy Korn is not the Bell Witch.  We regret the error.

Typographical errors, cont’d. Evan Lawless, prize recruit of Texas’ 2010 class, wrote in to correct the spelling of his high school and their team. Lawless attended Canal High School in Houston, and played for the Warriors as a star running back. We misidentified this alma mater in a post that appeared Wednesday on this site.

We regret the error.

Havana, 1973. The crystalline blue waters of Havana: they heal the soul. I’m there with Fidel, and the good times are flowing between the two of us like so much cheap government-subsidized rum in our glasses. I kid, folks: Fidel only drinks Bacardi Gold, and leaves the Cuban insecticide-laced pisswater to the little people who make it all happen. Natural leaders get natural privileges, Woody Hayes used to say, and I couldn’t agree more. That’s why I let him take my first wife for three years without saying a peep. Sometimes you fight for ‘em, and sometimes, you just let the bigger bear take the salmon.

“Brent, I’m thinking of turning this entire island into a rollerderby theme park.” He pissed off his balcony as he said this. Old Fidel just let it fly wherever. He used to tell me the podium at the UN had a groove worn in the back of it from his stallion’s stream he fired while giving one of his four hour speeches there. I checked one day. He wasn’t lying. The whole thing smells like cigars, rum, and gasoline. The smell of man.

I told him it was a great idea, and then threw the bottle off onto the sidewalk. There was a scream below. We laughed! Oh, how we laughed. Here’s the two of us last year at Fidel’s birthday. His hand does that in every picture of him, no matter what camera you’re using.

Kruger National Park, South Africa, 1990. I’m not saying our love was always right. But it was never wrong.

Nicaragua, 1984 Phyllis George had just left me, the season was over, and I needed someplace to die without having to kill myself. I rolled into Managua with $45 bucks, a rusty Glock, and all the pain a man could carry with him without breaking under its sad, inescapable gravity. I was no one. I wanted oblivion. This was it.

I hooked up with a ragtag bunch of boys. You called them Contras. Hell, I called them by their names: El Salchicha, the Condor, Dr. Sodomy, Peanut, Tim, Captain Bananas, and the Human Porch. I lived and fought with them for eight months. I relearned the song of life one note at a time: the basso profundo of a 120 pound bomb slamming into the side of a mountain, the baritone of a mortar, the high falsetto of a tracer whizzing by your head in the night.

I felt alive for the first time in the dark Nicaraguan night.

I had to leave when preseason cranked up and they started sending lawyers, guns, and money to find me, but if you’re ever in Managua…just tell ‘em El Pollo said hello.

Cape Town, 1990.

The post CBS period was difficult for me. I picked up work where and when I could, even with a crazy little startup out of some place I still can’t pronounce. Cutter? Gutter? It all sounds like sweet American when it’s getting you the rent money, even if you got trailed by the CIA and occasionally abducted for lengthy interrogations. This little gig paid for the beach house in Aruba. I’ll always owe them for that.

As for the banner? I’m not saying I’ve always been on the winning side of history, but pardner lemme tell you this: I’ve never sat on the sidelines, either.

You’re Looking Live! A Life on Air will be finished and in galleys in 3-18 months, depending on how the editing goes. Special Aroma-vision Version to be available for just $138.95 on Amazon.com and at all major booksellers nationwide.

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.

Scene: an unnamed Latin American urban center. Raw sewage flows through the gutters. A hopelessly beautiful child is held at gunpoint by armed thugs who, in addition to being evil for holding up a little girl with an AK-47, are ugly and wearing ugly clothes.

Bandito: And now, amigos, we’ll see if the girl gives up the candy!

Girl: Chinga te, cabron!

The girl kicks the bandito in the balls. He crumples. She runs, and turns down a dark alley. The gang scrambles after her. The alley runs into a dead end. The girl stops, her face lit dramatically from above.

Bandito, limping in: And now, chica, I will teech you sohm reeespect!

A wiry, handsome form comes into the frame behind the bandito. It is BROCK CARDINAL, ex-Navy SEAL, Congressman, and former car thief and chemist. His hair is perfect. His jaw is jutting, and his black skin glistens in the sun. He looks like America. He subdues every gangster in two seconds.

Brock Cardinal: Respect yourself, vato.

Bandito: Who theee fack are youuuu? What did you do to my meeeeen?

Brock Cardinal punches the Bandito in the testicles five times in a row. The bandito reaches for his gun, only to be punched in the balls three more times. He falls.

Girl: Thanks, gringo.

BC: No, I’m sorry. I know you were about to take care of this yourself, right?

Brock Cardinal’s commando team shows up behind him. Sparks, his demolition man, is a trigger-happy Southerner wild for fast cars and fast booze; Dr. Elena Hendrix, a psychiatrist and FBI agent, is the heart of the team. She is also Brock’s ex-wife. Snoopy is the computer hacker and is quick with small arms. Bento is the contemplative Zen sniper and low-level helicopter ace.

Elena: Are you hurt?

Brock: Only by the constant cruelty of men. He’s got two ruptured testicles, though.

Sparks: Woooo—WEEEE!!! When are we gonna get down to it, Brock? Mah killin’ hand is gettin’ all ache-ified!

Brock: Nevermind the sideshow. We’re not here for a fight, Sparks. We’re here to find someone. Someone so lost they may not even know who they are anymore.

Whooshing cut to bunker scene. Improbably expensive computer equipment and unnecessary tracking maps glitter in the background.

Brock: His last known location?

Snoopy: [pushes up glasses, wheels chair into desk.] The Rose Bowl. January of this year. Then, after that…POOF! It’s like he didn’t exist…until last week, when we traced a satellite phone call to this location.

I watched a snail crawl along the edge of a straight razor. That’s my dream, it’s my nightmare. Crawling, slipping along the edge of a straight razor and surviving….BUCKEYE!!!

Brock: We’ve got to find him before something bad happens. His country needs him.

Snoopy: [fingers to headset] Wait…WE’VE GOT A LEAD!

A quick-cut montage of cars screeching takes the team to a quiet alley. A man lies crumpled on a doorstep. Liquor bottles surround him. He takes no notice of the cars, or of the team walking up to him.

Brent Musburger: I knew you’d be coming for me.

Brock: We meet again, Brent. Your country needs you.

Brent: Every fall, the same…

Elena: Sir–

Brent: DON’T SIR ME. I know what’s gonna happen. I asked for this mission. I prayed for it. And now…now I’m dead inside. I’ve lost it all. It’s not my fight.

Brock: [puts his hand on Musburger's filthy shoulder.] No, it’s not your fight. It’s ours. And…it’s his, too.

Brock reaches behind him. Snoopy thrusts a manila folder in his hand. Brock takes it dramatically, opens it, and hands a photo to Brent.

[Brent's expression comes to life. His cheeks tremble. Tears brim at the crusty edges of his bloodshot eyes.]

Brock: Sir, it’s time to go.

Brent: [standing up.] You bastards.

Brock: I knew you couldn’t say no to him.

Sparks: GO GO GO GO GO GO GO GO GO GO GO!!!!

A chopper lands in front of them. They crouch and board the helicopter.

Sparks: It’s time to BLOW THIS PINATA OPEN AND HAVE SOME CANDY!!!

An entire city block explodes beneath them. Balls of orange flame beget larger balls of orange flame. The helicopter is buffeted by the explosion. Civilians scream and wail below.

Brent: Wait…why did you just incinerate a whole neighborhood—

Brock: THERE’S NO TIME FOR THAT NOW!!! GO GO GO GO GO GO GO GO!!!!

[END SCENE]

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.

You can’t have a modern bathroom without a bidet. I know what you’re saying, now: what kind of man uses something French to lick his ass that can’t be charged anonymously to a credit card as “PERSONAL SERVICES, INC” from a Lyon hotel room? Not me, you say!

Wrong. It’s time to show some modern fluffy sensitivity and stop smearing the brown ghost of last night’s pot roast around your ass and get with the squeaky-clean, watery goodness of a behind blasted immaculate with the gentle but firm touch of a bidet.

We’ll even show you how to make your very own, extremely masculine Ohio State bidet just like the one that keeps Tressel’s trundle clean every week on ABC. Ready?

Step one: the bidet. Be careful–you can overpay for your bidet, as some built-in toilet/bidet models can run into the thousands of dollars. We can only say that the decision is yours, but for value’s sake the extra water you’ll use with a separate bidet is negligible. We say keep them separate to save a few bucks, and pick up a model such as the Kohler “San Tropez” for no more than $500 total.

Step Two: Installation. Don’t make the mistake of just drilling a few holes in the floor, hooking up a pipe, and firing away at the old log-mouth with a poorly installed bidet. Precision matters here. First, make sure your tiling is level, and that you’ve got your piping lined up accurately. Trace the outline of the bidet on the floor, and crack out the chalk line and level to make sure the bidet is attractively and evenly placed next to the toilet.

Now take a drill and make two 3/16″ holes in the floor for the anchor. Don’t forget your sealant! This all-important element will save you from nagging leaks and drips in the future, and you’ll thank yourself for the extra effort later.

Connect your pipes, drain, and you’re almost there.

Add some style. In this case, we’re going to jazz up the bidet with a familiar loving face. We’ve taken an image off the internet, printed and laminated it, and blown it up on an 8X12 scale. Then we we did a quick outline of the image on some pressed 1/16 inch aluminum, matched up the image, and cut a quick 1/2 inch hole to allow for the bidet faucet to poke through. Make sure your faucet hole is just big enough–a tight fit is essential here.

Take the mounting and run a quick solder and seal job around the faucet, and we’re ready to scrub. Oh, and don’t forget the waterproof sticker at the bottom of the trough for effect.

Step Four: Get that undercarriage Musburger-clean! Pardner, even in defeat no one washes your Buckeye balls more thoroughly and forcefully than the Brentster. You’re looking live! At my ass being cleaned just like Jim Tressel’s is on a weekly basis! Turn on thE water and feel the force of America’s announcer getting you a squeaky kind of clean only previously possible
with four hours of feverish man-amour.

This has been EDSBS Home and Garden Weekly. Enjoy the freshness, y’all!

Syracuse: Um, the Washington of the Big East? Even pitching here, but played in the Carrier Dome, which Syracuse actually inflates with pure helium during games. Unaccustomed to the pure, toxic form of the gas, Washington dies a squeaky little death in this game. (Don’t believe it? You come up with a better explanation of why good teams go bad in the unassuming Syracuse game environment.)

Ty Willingham and the Huskies: this year, they dine in hell.

Boise St: Beat a better Pac-10 team this past season in Oregon State, which looked like ashen heaps of shame for the Beavers until the Statue of Liberty Game. Now they’re the favorite here, which means they’ll have difficulty dealing with the pressure, stumble, and still win this game running.

Ohio State: Loss. Will not get ugly after the second quarter. Because it will be 20something to three then, and Tressel and the Sweatervest Mafia will call off the dogs. Fortunately, as this will be Tennessee/Florida week, no one will watch this game anyway, so it will be a quiet death.

UCLA: Loss. Fire Karl Dorrell!

USC: Hmm…are we mad to think that after a 26-20 near miss for USC last year, that Ty Willingham and company can pull this one out at home? Are we? And those purple gargoyles eating the curtains–they weren’t there five minutes ago, right? HUGHHHHH!!!

Arizona St Win! Why not. They’ll win one of these midseason games based on sheer spite acquired from the gauntlet of the first five games. Or they’ll be crushed, burned-out husks of themselves already. Hard to tell, really, but we like to think pink here at EDSBS.

Oregon Loss. Distrust this pick, however, as Dennis Dixon has a tendency to look very, very sleepy at times. (Hell, distrust them all…)

Arizona: Win! But only because Willie Tuitama, spinning wheels in the first year of the Mike Leach offense, throws four picks in his 62 attempts on the game.

Stanford: Jim Harbaugh, declaring himself eligible for a fifth season of eligibility, suits up and drives the Cardinals to their only win of the season, repeating their record of 1-11 from 2006. When asked why, Harbaugh simply answers “Because Jim Harbaugh bows to no man.”

Oregon St: Loss. We think, on a serious note, that beating USC transformed this team for good last year, or at least was the on-field manifestation of Mike Riley slowly rebuilding this program after the sugar binge of cheap success Dennis Erickson took the program on at the turn of the millennium. Plus they have a lineman who stole a gay sheep. We can’t, by rule, root against that.

California: Loss. Jeff Tedford fields the same team of Tedfordbots every year, and most years they beat Washington. It’s superior technology. Can’t fight that.

Wash St: Um…win? Who knows-both teams are treading the same miserable path out of the bottom of the Pac-10. These games usually come down to turnovers. That’s announcer-speak for “both teams are about even, but we haven’t done our homework due to an unfortunate drinking incident with Musburger at the Coyote Ugly last night. You do NOT want to see that man with his shirt off pouring shots down his chest. It’s something a man shouldn’t have to see.”

Hawaii: Hello, 22 year old athlete. You’re in Hawaii, and you’ve just undergone a season’s worth of federal, “pound you in the ass” prison football in the brutal Pac-10. In addition to that, you played Boise State, Syracuse, and Ohio State, and lost to at least two of them. You hurt. Your body’s tired. You’re defeated.

And then, you get on a plane in rainy Seattle, and walk out in paradise. Palm trees; sunshine; hot, beautiful flesh moving tantalizingly under very small bathing suits. Someone puts a drink in your hand, and you’re at a bar kissed by the salt breezes of the Pacific, which looks so much friendlier here a few time zones over.

When’s practice tomorrow? Yes, practice…why am I here again?

LOSS.

That’s quite a homefield advantage you have there.

That’s pessimism illustrated, there. But if Washington goes bowl eligible after that schedule, someone get Ty Willingham his pre-Notre Dame Taoist genius buzzcap back, because that is honestly the nastiest schedule this side of the Tournament Map in Mortal Kombat 2. 6-5 at Notre Dame got him fired; 6-6 with this twelve game schedule would be an act of alchemy meriting Nobel consideration with the Coach of the Year nomination coming as a nice bonus.

Even Musburger couldnt’ work up the nerve to say “If he breaks that tackle…”, a sentence only appropriately completed with “he goes another two yards and collapses due to a pulmonary embolism.”

Auburn Tigers.…Shug Plainsmen. Delightful mix of the formal and informal. Seriously, give us a month, and there will be a baby named this.

Arizona State Wildcats Sun Devils.…Ripper McTavish. Just because with the Dennis Erickson takeover, the names have got to class up to the level of scoundrality brought to the program by the original football contract buccaneer. Ripper’s the man here.

Colorado Buffaloes…Rock Brockford. Because Colorado needs a dude named Rock.

South Carolina Gamecocks…Brock Cockford. Because South Carolina needs a dude named Brock Cockford.

USC.…McKay Peter. Just tony enough to have the West Coast aristocratic feel, but with enough football nods to keep people from assuming he was bound for Stanford, god forbid.

LSU.…Cannon Chineezebandito. Historical, yes; but with enough flair to make it onto the roster.

Oklahoma.…Sodbuster Switzer. How much would love to make an announcer say the name “Sodbuster.” It would be, like, close to De’Cody Fagg good, especially if Oklahoma was blessed with the gift/curse of being the Musbergame of the week.

(Brent Musburger, btw, is aware of your internets googles and youtubes, and is being careful about what he does in bars:)

Florida. Obeecee Jackson. Combines phonetics of Ol’ Ball Coach’s acronym with the name Jackson. If you want your child to play for Florida, it helps to have the last name Jackson, since something like 40 percent of all Florida Players have.

Click here for our reaction. (Thanks, Brian.)

Take a moment. Good. If you vomited, please clean yourself up. If you require medical attention still after this moment of collection, dial 911 and lay prone on the floor with your head tilted to the side. Consider what a good life it’s been, and how you’ll die in the prime of youth without experiencing the cruel indignities of old age.

This actually presents a golden opportunity for you as a fan to experience one of life’s sweetest pleasures: toluene, one of the key ingredients in paint thinner.

Between Thiesmannnn and paint thinner…we choose paint thinner.

If the story pans out, we’re breaking the seal on our unrealized potential as an inhalant addict. Why? Via Wikipedia, the specs on inhalant abuse:

Inhalation of toluene fumes can be intoxicating, but in larger doses nausea-inducing. Chronic or frequent inhalation of toluene over long time periods leads to irreversible brain damage.

Which sounds a lot like the long term side effects of exposure to this:

“And if you’ll look here, you’ll see that the quarterback is clearly a total pussy. I’m just saying, just my opinion. You know, I talked with Coach before the game…” = brain damage, too.

Huff up, America. It’s the only rational choice in this losing proposition. Breathe in the sweet scent of benzene–relish the pops of your brain cells dying hazy deaths beneath the roof of your skull. The only solace we can milk from this cruel stone is this: we have it on good authority that Joe T. wore a speedo when he went to his local country club’s pool until the early 1990s. Again: side effects may include nausea.

Their erotic Q rating is enjoying a tumescence lately thanks to University of Cincinnati and their football recruits, who engaged in a totally-not-gay group sex encounter involving current Bearcat football players, recruits, and one brave former female soccer player who played the sexual corollary to Poland in multiple, videotaped acts of sexual European geopolitics. This means she was taken by one power, screwed by another, then thrown back and forth between multiples until she was spent and useless. Being Poland sucks historically, unless we’re talking in sexual metaphors. Then it just might be your kind of thing.

Don’t forget Poland here.

The quote from Cincinnati head coach Brian Kelly:

If anything of the nature described in the allegations did occur, Kelly said, “It’s absolutely inappropriate behavior, period. End of discussion. … That is pretty standard relative to student conduct or even appropriate human-being conduct.”

If the videotape gets out–um, harumphharumph of the yahoo variety if you have a copy–Cincinnati could end up making Colorado’s hookers ‘n cash recruiting strategy of the Gary Barnett era look pretty-kitty tame. It could be worse, though. If Bob Huggins were still coaching there, he would have been the one in the tape visibly hammered and making fierce, drunken, and confused love to a Honeybaked Ham over in the corner.