In nòmine Patris, et Fìlii, et Spìritus Sancti.
Please be seated.
Members of the congregation, here on this Mustache Wednesday, we mark the official beginning of the liturgical season we call Football Advent.
The Pope told us it's Football Advent now. Yeah, we roll like that.
Football Advent is a time of immense anticipation, of anxiety, and of joy. Coolers and refrigerators will be stocked. Tickets will be nervously thumbed. Gameday Packages will be purchased with monies that were originally earmarked for food, shelter, or anniversary presents. Work productivity will spiral as your attention slowly turns to piles of preseason mags, "classic" games being rebroadcast on ESPN Classic and CSS ("Miss State-Alabama 84? Who needs to eat dinner? WOOO!!!")
So as we stand just 29 days shy of Football Christmas, we will celebrate the arrival of our impending saviors and their attendant demigods. And as we do that, we will open a box on our Advent calendar to reveal another facet of the game we love. Today:
The announcer: Ron Franklin.
Legions of them, and all of them chirping away as their words fly wirelessly through the heavens and into your ears: the announcers, the commentators, the punditry, the men who make up the advance recon of college football season. They'll be fighting on the screen in mock-hostile voices before a helmet gets so much as dinged, so we praise them now for filling the interim with bountiful barrelsful of blather, bloviation, balderdash, bunkum and bull.
--Musberger, and his attendant demigod Jack Arute, who will be doing what he always does for Brent this season: driving his man-sized ass home from the bar in a midget sprint car.
--Rece Davis, and his admirable restraint in not starting a doomed fistfight with the pelt-'stached Mark May on a daily basis.
--The Silver Fox, Ron Franklin, whose voice alone is a crackling fire on a cold night no matter how warm it might actually be where you are.
--Uncle Verne, the dictionary's illustration for "avuncular"
--Bob Davie, who despite never discovering the wonders of sunscreen has turned himself into a fine footbaw commentator.
--Kirk Herbstreit, who your wife/girlfriend is writing an email to right now, complete with attachments most definitely labeled NSFW. The sick part is: if you knew, you'd send him a letter asking him how he liked them.
--Mike Gottfried, who'd just like to be left alone, dammit.
--Chris Spielman, the Visigothannouncer, who'll be in the booth as soon as he's through killing this moose with his bare hands.
--Larry Munson, who's currently taking the word "restraint" and drowning it in a bathtub as he's done for damn near thirty years now. Or stepping on its face with a hobnailed boot. Either way, we're working on stealing him from UGA as we speak, which has a success probability of -0.01 percent.
They arrive--praise them now, since you'll spend the rest of the season alternately mancrushing on them or praying for their on-camera demise.
Happy Football Advent. Day one is concluded. Ite, missa est.