Joe Tiller, you've stolen our heart and we just can't shake you.
Don't get me wrong: we're straight, and haven't slept with a man ever. Or in years. Whatever. College doesn't count, right? Or Boy Scouts? Or Boy Scouts seen while in college? Those really don't count.
We thought that was behind us...but then we saw that mustache again today for the first time.
That 'stache is almost as irresistible as your 5-0 record, Joe: fluffy as a freshly baked biscuit, yet bristly like a copper scrubbing pad. We bet it tickles when it brushes the skin, but in that "oh-tease-me" way, not in that "OH FUCK! A SPIDER! AAAHHHH DIE SPIDER DIE!!!" way. And jaunty it is, much like your "basketball on grass" offense that's had the Big Ten periodically flummoxed for a decade. We bet you look like quite the rapscallion walking in, shirtless and rubbing your ample, sensuous belly with canola oil waiting for some post-game lovin'.
Oh, you're a nasty, nasty hobo of a man with that mustache, Joe Tiller.
We won't even talk about 2005. Or Ohio State this weekend. Or how you'll probably do what Purdue always does to us: sucker us in early with glossy numbers before breaking our hearts and turning out to be just another 8-4 team bound for the Continental Tire Bowl.
That's not now, Joe. We're talking about now, and 5-0, and talking about...love. And we know you're a lover--Orton told us you were, and we know he's not just saying that because he's drunk. (Oh, and he is, make no mistake, horrendously, vomitously drunk somewhere right now.)
We know you'll break our hearts in the end, but then again...isn't that what life does, too?
You're still a mighty captain to us. Surely you'll understand what happens in West Lafayette stays in West Lafayette. Call us. We'll be waiting with the canola oil, Joe.
And whatever you do, don't trim the mustache, baby. It's like a heating coil for the sex machine that is Joe Tiller, and don't ever, ever let anyone tell you otherwise. You can feel its midwestern heat through this computer screen if you try hard enough.