So, yes, a Florida undergraduate posed on the cover of Playboy because, in her own words:

“There weren’t any girls from the Big Ten who were hot enough to be on the cover, so they had to pull someone from the SEC,” she quipped.

ZOWIE! It takes a special kind of person to be on the cover of Playboy: you have to be willing to be naked, airbrushed to within an inch of your life, stripped of all your personal hair through various heinous methods, and must have undergone a procedure to insert plastic bags of saline into your chest. (Gullible. Apes.)


You said titties? Please, go on.

Obviously, we have two points totally unrelated to the obvious “school poontangery supremacy” argument, one we find noxious for many, many tiresome reasons. One: when the EDSBS calendar of “Wealthy Ladies Who Like Wearing Pants and Drinking” comes out in November, you’ll see just what we really appreciate in women: a superb credit rating, a proficiency with firearms, the ability to make a quality cocktail and then enjoy it, loyalty, and the understanding that, for at least an hour a day, we don’t want to talk to anyone and would prefer to be left the hell alone.

(Also, she should tell us how good we are at sex. That’s cool, too. She doesn’t have to mean it; she just has to say it. We have no illusions here.)

Our second point? Playboy was way, way hotter forty years ago. Insanely, ridiculously hott with two t’s and five damns careening down a freeway of lust and headed for the border post of Bonerlandia. The women actually looked like someone who, when planets aligned and standards lowered appreciably in the precise and unrepeatable circumstances of the moment, you could get a hand job and a pat on the head from at a party. And you’d take it and consider yourself awarded handsomely by fate.

Therefore: if contemporary Playboy is the home of the assless Stepford Wife, let EDSBS be the home to all the ladies of all conferences who like wearing pants, drinking, and most importantly, consuming eight to ten hours of football every Saturday in the fall. You’re diamonds of femininity, every last one of you. Also, if you happen to look like someone who posed in Playboy in the 70s, um, well…you just stay over there. We’re married, and you make us do that nervous sweating thing we can’t explain away with “No, honey, I was just looking to see what brand her jeans were. Really.”