You know it's bad when there's that pregnant moment of hesitation after the asking of a question. As in when you ask your girlfriend, "So what did you do this weekend?" and the answer begins with "Uhh...just went out. With the girls. And I slept with your best friend. In front of section 114 at Turner Field. Twice." It just gets worse by degrees with each second.
Oh, yeah. We need to talk. Sorry about that. Happy Mustache Wednesday!
Yesterday we said that the Reggie Bush story stood as more of a mehhh and less of a WHOA than we thought on first reading. This kind of analysis is why we are complete and total idiots, since the story only gains stank points as each reeking layer of the story . It's remiscent of the old Far Side cartoon depicting a crime scene featuring an alligator with a man's feet sticking out of his mouth. The alligator has a stunned look on its face thanks to a boa constrictor wrapped around its ribs. Two gumshoes stare at the scene, pad and pen in hands, and one of them says: "I don't know what it was, but I know this: it wasn't pretty."
Just the major spices in the recipe for major NCAA violation bouillabaise stagger the imagination:
--Shifty parents taking freebies on their son's bill
--An agent dreaming a few pay grades above his level who founds a company that barely exists.
--A partner in said company whose testimony in a parole hearing is shedding light on the case
--The sister of said partner, who's also the modern day Veronica Corningstone and a grad of Bush's alma mater, Helix High.
--A shady and wealthy local Indian tribe distancing themselves from the case.
You know its bad when Chief Runswithpremise wants nothing to do with the episode. At the risk of putting too many basic cable-friendly references in a single post, we are now officially waiting for Roger Murtaugh, Martin Riggs, and a cast of wacky sidekicks to link Bush's family to a South African kruegerrand smuggling ring via an endless series of exploding buildings and a smoking hot girl Mel Gibson gets to bang in his seaside trailer, capped off with Pete Carroll shooting Danny Glover while cackling on about "DIPLOMATIC IMMUNITY!"
It'll end with a witty one-liner and an explosion. Mark our words.
Forfeiting the 2005 season yesterday sounded preposterous. Today it seems inevitable given the unfolding funk surrounding the case and Bush's refusal to say who--if anyone--was paying rent on the building. USC apologists here will claim that nothing has been proven here, which is true--but the court of public opinion and the jurists of the blogosphere will run on the strengths of the circumstantial evidence, which leans toward:
1. Dreamer moron wannabe agent somehow gets the cash for a house to bribe Bush's family with, going as far as having their name built into the driveway.
2. Griffins move in, live in house for one year, and then duck out when people ask uncomfortable questions.
3. Agent gets jack as Bush signs elsewhere and leaves big, steaming pile of mess behind.
Now, cue the clowns...sure, it's from an apostate blog in the USC sphere, but Bruins Nation sees this as one big block in the edifice of USC's inability to control their football program. As Bill wrote us, "only a rival could care this much," which is true enough; but this story and the accompanying bad pub could combine with the shame of a 9-3 (or--egads!--8-4) season to announce the Götterdämmerung of the Trojan dynasty.
Check The Wiz for the latest, though we'll be peeping into our cell phone for updates on this thing all day.