Minnesota is the latest Big Ten team to catch the wave of flaggotry, this time planting their flag at midfield following last Saturday’s 23-20. Brian goes large on it in a bushelful of good verified voracity, as well as a great post on Halloween costumes for the college football set. He thinks we’re Bill and Ted, though we tend to think of ourselves more as Statler and Waldorf most of the time. If anyone’s giving us younger and sexier, we’ll take it.
Why do we always blog here?/ I guess we’ll never know/It’s like some kind of torture/To have to watch Chris Leak run the spread option…
Both sides still say they are right, but now the matter has been confidentially resolved. For those completely out of the loop, the suit was a defamation action over a Sports Illustrated article about a night of drinking at a topless bar in Florida.
SI may have just made a hefty indirect donation to the Danni “Mystique” Johnson Junior College Scholarship Fund.
Urban Meyer can’t stay off the two-way, this time with Tim Tebow, one of the top three prep qb recruits in the country:
“TT: If we were scoring 50 points a game, we wouldn’t need you. Obviously we need an athlete that’s the right fit. National Championship, Heisman, it’s all waiting for you. Urban Meyer.”
Meyer then followed this up with “OMG CAN U BLV FULMR 3-2 FATTY GO BOOM HAHA ;-)”
(HT: Ben Maller.)
We were going to write a bit about watching Georgia clobber Tennessee at home on Saturday. Really, it bears mentioning, and not just because we were on an SEC rich diet this weekend-at the end of that game Georgia ran the formidable Tennessee line, including Hawaiian state treasure Jesse Mahelona, into the whiskey-soaked turf of Neyland Stadium. They could have stopped the game and played Boggle for the last five minutes of the game and Tennessee wouldn’t have said anything about it, short of peering over their shoulders and offering unsolicited advice to the players. (”Ooh, look, don’t you see horse? RIGHT THERE! IN THE CORNER! COME ON!”
Gunslingers, though, beat us to it with a shootup of Mandel’s review that begins with the immortal line…
Stewart Mandel can eat a dick.
…and really just gets better from there, including the introduction of a punditry regulation we’d like to see passed into law: the Gunslingers’ Maxim, which prevents pundits who pick against a team insisting that they were “unimpressed” with the victory in the subsequent review. Anyone watching that game saw the allegedly finesse-ey Mark Richt end the game with a merciless power running sequence that killed any will the Vols had left. Yes, very unimpressive.
Stewart Mandel: unimpressed with hot girl he failed to sleep with.
Voluminous has a hot job opportunity listed. Requires relocation to Knoxville, purchase of meat offering for boss prior to beginning of each work day, ability to call plays in rational sequence.
Our brains, in addition to being fine tools for remembering where we kept food, how to talk someone into mating with you, and remembering whole Aqua Teen Hunger Force scripts verbatim, is evidently one big happy forgetting machine. The act of forgetting is a physiological process, one performed by the frontal lobes of your brain, a higher brain function that kicks in whenever a painful memory is processed in your brain. Rather than just being one big mushy Chutes and Ladders board, the brain performs an active role in remembering and forgetting, playing fat goalie to the puck of a traumatic memory.
So there’s good news and bad news for all of us. First, our chances of remembering the time we got into a fight in public while wearing a pair of heels and a nice black evening dress while cranked on rum and cokes diminish with each passing day. (Fun party, bad choice of footwear.) That’s good news, we think. The bad news is that large swaths of memory-like, say, three whole years you’d rather forget-don’t budge so easily. The Zook years aren’t going anywhere, Gator fans; ditto for all those wishing to erase the Goffs, Mackovics, and Hacketts of the world from their hard drives.
You will try to forget, but this man was your coach last year.
One downside of this is that individual bumps in the road, felt so acutely at the time of their occurrence, tend to disappear in the process, as well. (more…)
Brad Butler, the words that come to mind when we watch you take the worst cheap shot we’ve seen this season are as follows:
You are a shitbag. A fucktard, asswipe shitbag who drinks his own piss like a lobotomized chimp. A brokedick, ass-licking, meat-weaselly bitch of a cuntrag whose douchebag soul would collect exactly three cents in hell’s pawn shop. A goddamn mincing slapfuck of a chicken rapist whose finest efforts with your needle-nosed pliers of a cock would make even the most petite of Rhode Island Reds cackle with contempt. A ball-sniffing, piss-shitter of a shitpiss who defamed his school and his craven, bastard ass in front of a television audience of millions who, though they would rather have been watching the OU/Texas game, got to see a pustulent ass chancre of a boy deliberately attempt to maim a player after the whistle had blown. Exiting the field to a cascade of explosive diarrhea shot from the asses of the BC faithful would have been too kind an exit for a reprobate shitstink motherfucker like you; more fitting would be crippling mutual injuries exchanged with kindred asshole spirit Darnell Dockett in the pros a few years later…preferably a day or two before you sign that big contract extension and commensurate insurance policy.
In conclusion: fuck you, asshole. May you be suspended for a thousand years.
Brad Butler, consider yourself Fatwa’d! And greetings to the good people of the NSA and Homeland Security from EDSBS!
More reasonable, forgiving takes than the preceding fatwa can be found from the BC angle at ATL Eagle and from the UVA side at Sexy Results. Both are justifiably horrified.
