We’ll be at the SEC Championship Game this weekend, covering it for the Sporting News and taking pictures, talking to drunk people, and actually entering the pressbox. Fear for our lives, but check this space for further updates, pictures, and other tomfooleries from the game, as well as our full-blown, ADD-addled blog coverage over on The Sporting News.

We would be remiss and blazing with disrespect if we didn’t mention the death of Evil Knievel in this space before leaving for the weekend, though. Knievel inspired millions with his crochet patterns, his passion for flamenco dancing, and his subtly phrased viola solos in to packed houses in Milan, Tokyo, Sydney, and his landmark concert in Antarctica with G.G. Allin.

Ha! We’re just kidding. He liked to fuck himself on camera in bizarre and spectacular ways, and people liked to watch him almost die in exotic and explosive ways. You can practically watch as his pelvis shatters into a thousand little pebbles in this clip of Knievel’s attempt to jump the fountains at Caesar’s. And you will.

There’s entirely too little of this sort of public redneck daring these days. According to the clip info on Youtube, Linda Evans was the cameraperson on this clip. We’re sure Evil got right up after this happened and made sweet love to her right there in front of the thousands of gorehounds who turned up to watch him die. Or, er…he made love to her after he woke up from the 29 day coma the accident put him into.

Enjoy your weekend, and remember: life’s the Snake River, and you’re already strapped into a rocket car without a plan or a clue. Enjoy the descent.

-O.

The Wannstache likely gets one more year of cruising cool in his Camaro with the re-hiring of Steve Pederson, recently canned Nebraska AD and former Pitt Athletic Director. Pederson’s first tenure at Pitt was eventful: he demolished Pitt Stadium (singlehandedly! not really!), built a new basketball arena, and oversaw one of the worst logo redos in college history:

Pederson commissioned a triangular logo of a panther that, at a distance, resembled a pit bull, or a bust of George Washington. This logo is not found on the front page of Pitt’s athletic Web site and has not been used since 2005.

One horrifying quote from the article: if Wannstedt were fired, one leading candidate for the job would be HRF3242 Beta Model 4, the cyborg known as Bill Callahan.

Russell had us on for the Seventh Day Adventure Podcast at Football Outsiders, and as usual we got chatty and created such a huge podcast it destroyed the FO in-frame mp3 player. Our parties usually destroy something.

So if you want to take this on yon iPod or other gadget, or simply while away the rest of the afternoon at work listening to us stumble through the picks for the week, please do. NOTE: we've changed our pick for the SEC Championship Game because ketchup is a vegetable this year, up is down, and we think Tennessee will beat LSU in the title game. Pete Carroll thinks you show too much fear, grasshopper.

MP3 File

Dennis Dodd’s headline seems a bit erectile in nature to us:

Insider: WVU can’t conceal its naked ambition in title quest

That’s why you tuck it up under your belt. Not only does it hide it, but it feels awesome when you do it.

The reality does seem somewhat less colorful than the idea of the Mountaineer wandering around covering his visible erection with a coonskin cap. An unnamed member of the West Virginia football team celebrated their shot at the national title in the team hotel last week by partying naked with the rest of the team. You may demur all you like, Mountaineers, but we have strong suspicions what free spirit decided to do a victory streak down the hallway.

It’s a shame Erin Andrews wasn’t there to see it.

I’m just not sure who I am anymore. I used to be so sure. I reeked of paper mills and boat fuel, but dammit, I made shit happen in my own little shitkicking kind of shit way. Where else in America could you boat in seven tons of dank Jamaican kine bud and have it on I-95 and up to Atlanta in a matter of hours, huh? And played home court to Lynyrd Skynyrd? I was important, man, in my own little skeezy way, and without the coke money, shaved-pube danger of Miami.

But now…now I don’t even know who I am anymore. The paper’s gone, because WAAAAAAAAAAHHH the smell, the stench was too much for delicate sensibilities. The police actually care what goes on your boat now. The naval station is still there, but the locals get pissed when someone ruffles a few feathers by throwing someone through a bar window.

Pussies, all of you.

Now they want me to be something, with buildings, and landmarks, and Whole Foods and shit. But what the hell am I? They filled in the empty spaces with signs and chain restaurants and roads so that from space I probably look like a NASCAR machine idling at the start, all logos and glossy paint. They want me to host sporting events, which is kind of like asking a chihuahua to sell aluminum siding door-to-door for you. It just doesn’t work on so many levels, and in the end the dog really doesn’t care, anyway.

People want to go to a place, you see, and that’s never been on my resume, this whole place-ness thing. I’m fine just being a loose confederation of utilities and conveniences. Places get messy: they have communities, and annoying neighbors who depend on each other for things, and all of the things that make you want to take a chainsaw to that real place’s community at the end of the day. When you’re no place, there’s wake, drive, work, and pick up the kids before plugging yourself back in like a dead cellphone into the tv, the XBox, the computer.

Whatever. It’s not bad, and I’m not gonna pretend it is. When the romance of living turns into the perfunctory masturbation of daily life, call me. There’s always rooms available.

Here’s what I’ve got, though: I’ve got drawbridges, a coffee plant, and porno. Rent a car. Get a hotel. Fly in, buy something from a chain, and get drunk on a bucket-sized drink at a clean bar at The Landing, a fake place conjured up-again-because some asshole thinks we need “placeness.” Watch the game and leave quickly on our well-paved roads.

Don’t demand “culture,” you art-fucks, or nightlife that doesn’t involve puking a night’s worth of shots into a toilet while bad house music plays in the background. Don’t demand that we be interesting. The whole point of the state is to not pay taxes and avoid losing your house when you declare bankruptcy, and the whole point of this town is to not worry about being a town. It’s a county, a geographical space where people use gas, eat food, and shit into the proper receptacle. Dazzle is not this business we are in.

And don’t blame us for the ACC championship game not selling 20,000 tickets, because it wasn’t our idea to entertain your asses, anyway. We wouldn’t buy the tickets if we were you, both because Boston College versus Virginia Tech is selling the same sandwich twice, and because once you get here, there’s no here to enjoy. And no one could care less about this than me, so go ahead and go to Charlotte next year and see if I care. Nowhere couldn’t care less.

Your morning rumor report includes a financial bombshell that, if true, confirms our suspicions that Michigan’s athletic department is cheap/SEC football programs print their own money colored with the ink of slaughtered gremlins. Again: all of this is fact-like substance, and not to be confused with real fact, and if responded to with “I call shennannigans” in the comments, we will personally fire a Hellfire missile from the EDSBS Predator at your house in response. They’re all shennanigans until we see a man in a dorky hat at a press conference repeating excited name of football program excited excited happy repeat name of football program.

Your soundtrack, courtesy of the Timex Social Club:

The top shelf, Louis XIV cognac rumor of the day is that LSU offered Les Miles 3.45 mil to stay at LSU. Michigan’s standing offer in this variant of the rumor is somewhere between 2 and 2.5 million, meaning that the inestimable bonds of affection between Miles and Michigan, allegedly priceless, may now be given a cash value of somewhere around 1 to 1.45 million dollars.

Another candidate to replace Chan Gailey at Georgia Tech is now Randy Edsall, who tripped he coach-sensors at Atlanta’s Hartsfield Airport on Thursday. Edsall’s a very good coach, but “exciting” doesn’t describe Edsall’s grim, hard-hitting vintage of football. We were thinking someone with a bit more fiesta in them, frankly…like Mike Leach, who would only have to change half of the name of his school on his underwear if he came to Tech.

(The server issues should be resolved now. A software update caused a conflict that brought things to a screeching halt. We apologize for the delays, and offer up a special offer of nothing to compensate you for the inconvenience.)