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Today, our guest columnist is Slappy Traylor, ace recruitnik. You may recognize him from Slappy Traylor's Recruiting Straight Shooting, his popular guide to college football recruiting, or from his work at a major network he no longer works for and would not like to talk about. Enjoy.

I'd like to introduce myself, ma'am, sir. I'm Slappy Traylor, and I'm here to eyeball your son. He's thick. He's long. He's tough to catch from behind. And he penetrates with a spurt and power that, frankly, frightens even a hoary old asshole like myself. I want to write about him in my recruiting guide and make sure he makes the right decision on signing day, since I have something completely shocking to tell you. Please sit down.

Your son could be the next Curtis Enis...but faster. And yes, thicker.

Sit down if you have to--he could be the second coming of Curtis Enis.

I know, it's a lot to take in, but bear with me. Let me say first, that I love your house. The drapes are to die for, ma'am. They wave in the wind like the rustle of money in the autumn breeze, something you seem to have more than a passing familiarity with, by the way. Just saying.

And you, sir? Your suit is of a cut so immaculate and fitted an army of tea-chugging Chinamen slaving over it for weeks couldn't possibly craft such a fine piece of perfect career armor. In fact, people should pay you just for wearing it in public. Again, you must fart twenties and sneeze platinum snot rockets. Kudos to you for that.

I've been writing about college recruiting for...well, let's just spare you the big math and say that it's somewhere between one and a billion years.

That's a long time, you say; many a night, pulled off at a rest stop sharing the cold frontseat of my Vega with only a cup of coffee, the sad strains of Jon Secada on the radio, and a randy hobo who later robbed me of everything save for my astonishing ability to spot 300 pound high school football players with my eyeballs, I wondered if it was all truly worth it.

But recruits like your son make it clear to me how worthwhile this all truly is. Sure, you've already gotten calls. Sure, you actually know what a college is, and probably could even make a pretty good decision without old Slappy telling you how little you actually know about the process. But let me ask you this question:

Do you want your son to succeed? Don't you love him? Don't you want me to announce to the world that he's the next Curtis Enis, and send loyal subscribers daily emails announcing this glorious comparison? Don't you want me to call him "hard," "pounding," and most importantly, fawn over him in terms that would embarrass the copywriters for gay porn DVD covers?

Don't you want him to feature in my thrilling exhibition game whose finances absolutely positively do not need to be looked into, most notably by the IRS? And rather than riding the pine, wouldn't you rather have him starting in my thrilling exhibition game, where your thick, pounding son will undoubtedly raise his status in the national eye, and receive a "scholarship" worth more than the one he currently has? Don't you want a fourth--nay!--fifth star attached to his name?

Don't you want the best for your son? Of course you do, unless you do not love him, and see him as a meal ticket towards an early retirement and a luxury automobile of a respectable size and make.

(If that's been your plan all along, old Slappy's fine with that. I've even got a parenting guide and life planner set up just for such a scheme, which is only $14.99 at It's called "Making Cash, One Baby At a Time: the Art and Science of Raising Your Little All-Star." It'll teach you how to fake everything from the hug to the concern about grades. The key: furrow your eyebrows. It always looks like concern.)

Slappy Traylor's had tons of success with his program. Just one example ya see there.

And all of this can be yours, parents, for just pennies a day. Nothing's free in this world, y'all. Not even the love of a randy hobo at a rest stop, something I learned through hard, hard experience. I can't ask for money, since that would be unethical. But what I can ask for is your support, which on the open market typically involves a donation of $5,000 dollars for each star on your son's ranking, plus another $5,000 on top of that for a spot in the game.

Adjectives are extra. Right now, I'm calling him more of a "Craig 'Ironhead' Heyward-type." If you're fine with me calling him a fatassed buffet-rapist, you go on with your bad selves. However, for just a few dollars more, I'll have him listed as "deceptively fast," with "quick, nimble feet for such a big kid."

From eating your way off the team to blue-chipper! It's amazing some "concern" on your part will do. And by concern, I mean money in unmarked bills folded in a copy of today's paper. Concern only comes in the variety that folds, people.

I'll be in car trying to decide just how thick your son really is. Slappy'll be waiting with a McChicken sandwich in one hand and your son's fate in the other. Lemme know which one I'm eating tonight.