We would be remiss if this blog, a cornerstone of the internet’s Chan Gailey fan club, didn’t make some mention of the reaming Georgia Tech took this week from the NCAA. Paraphrasing Gunslingers, Tech’s gonna get the 7th Floor Crue treatment twice this week, first at the hands of the Rules committee, and second from the Miami Hurricanes on the field.
In addition to limited scholarships (79), taking the loss of six signees, and two years of double secret probation, Tech is being forced to vacate 71 games where ineligible players took the field, including the entire 1998, 1999, 2000, and 2002 seasons.
The best analogy we can think of for this comes from a scene in Neal Stephenson’s Quicksilver. The hero, Jack Shaftoe, watches dispassionately as a Dutch slave trader gets sodomized by a Barbary Pirate. His response: “That butt-fucking is like something out of the Bible!” (The killer next line from his compatriot: “There’s no butt-fucking in the Bible!”)
Though Tech plans to appeal, for the moment Tech has been caught by the pirates of the NCAA, and that barrel isn’t going anywhere for a while.
Golden Tornado has geek-intense coverage of the unfolding fiasco and the appropriate amount of “D-Fens” like rage at the admin who flubbed Tech into this shitstorm to begin with.
Does anyone think there’s any poetic justice, though, in Chan Gailey’s forgettable tenure at Tech being forced to literally disappear from the books entirely?
Hell hath no fury like a Techie scorned.
Firing professors isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. We remember watching The Absent-Minded Professor on the Disney Channel back in the day-when all they could roll out from the vast Disney vaults were old Goofy cartoons, Dean Jones movies like “The Cat from Outer Space,” and a strange show called DTV that set crappy pop music to the backdrop of Disney animation. If it sounds familiar to you world travelers, it should: it’s pretty much the template on which Kazakh tv is based on, minus Borat.
He will crush you for mocking early Disney channel programming.
The movies always involved Professor Ned Brainard almost losing his job due to bumbling incompetence, usually documented by Brainard’s less talented rival Dr. Shelby Ashton, the Ivy Leaguish pantywaist dying to get in the prof’s girlfriend’s pants. Ashton forever had Brainard on the ropes with some kind of evidence of Brainard’s declining mental state, which would translate into Brainard pulling off a flubber-fueled stunt to prove his worth to the university: soling the basketball team’s shoes with flubber, flying around in a model T, or testing the beta model of the flubber condom by personally banging Aryan Nation-looking hottie Nancy Olson into a drooling tapped-out mess in front of a coliseum of cheering students.
At any rate, anyone who attended college knows that a lack of organization and a declining mental state are in fact prerequisites for becoming a university professor. Add the diplomatic immunity of tenure and getting fired from a university requires near “Randy Moss at FSU”-level misbehavior. (We’re still convinced he shot a man in the face in the middle of campus, screamed “RIVERSIDE, MOTHERFUCKER!” and then urinated on a portrait of Bobby Bowden in public while smoking crack. But that’s just us.)
Which is why the University of Florida can’t just fire this jackoff and be done with it. In a letter to the Gainesville Sun, the prof complained that the noise of the crowd was “unsportsmanlike,” and then ended with an addled anecdote linking fan behavior to the war in Iraq. He went on in his letter to complain about the sight of women’s asses in tight pants, an abundance of cute puppies in this world, and the insidious and sudden spread of drinking into the campus environment.
We wish him the best of luck getting sleep, as Molly Hatchet-loving Gator fans are no doubt pulling Camaros and Datsun Zs into a tight circle around his house blasting the “Swamp Compilation” in shifts until they elicit a public apology. (Respek to Football Huddle 3.0 for putting us on the story.)
Compliments of the Sooner Fark board.
