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Who: Whoever gets invited, tovaresch. You think this man takes no for an answer?


Dolphins crave his essence.


Tigers sit meekly mewing for his approval, lest he exercise his massive killing power on their weak souls. If Vladimir Putin sends you an invitation for a bowl game held in Moscow in early January, you accept. If you don't, you'll end up eating a gyro loaded with polonium, or sipping a latte laced with strontium 90. And if you get crafty and avoid all solids and liquids, the ex-KGB man will be happy to finish the job himself if necessary.

In Russia, Bowl Invites You. Wait, that's pretty much how it happens anywhere...

What: The GAZPROM Bowl. Live from Moscow, the GAZPROM Bowl, named after the corporation most easily confused for a shadowy Bond villain's proxy organization. You know, the one that ostensibly mines the arctic for unexplored mineral wealth, all the while searching for a convenient weak spot in the earth's electromagnetic field to [SCIENTIFICALLY IMPROBABLE PLOT WIDGET] and extort money from the world's leaders. You can also just insert "Gazprom's Actual Business Plan, 2011" here, too, because they're totally doing this right now.

Parades? Guaranteed, preferably with a review before a dais filled with evil-ish Soviet luminaries, their supermodel wives, their supermodel mistresses, and some craggy old Soviets-turned-oligarchs staring at an endless parade of green missile launchers and other hardware streaming below them.

Pregame festivities? Certainly, most likely in hilarious Moscow nightclubs, where your team's players will hobnob with a cast of characters seemingly stolen from the auditions for Jersey Shore, Lubyanka Prison Edition. Your players will enjoy themselves immensely, but be advised that any and all contractual obligations with Ukranian women in tiny dresses must be obligated under Russian law, but are not necessarily transferable under American law. (Additionally, all contracts may be enforced by beefy former Spetznaz members. Be advised.)

Additionally, players may sample some of the unique fruits of post-Soviet Russia's arts scene, including their quirky and vibrant techno/dance community.

In between this and racing at 200 mph in tiny cars around Moscow's numerous ring roads evading police, your players and fans should enjoy the colorful, often chaotic sights and sounds of modern Moscow. Be advised: don't lean on anything, as it may fall over or contain lead, or go ahead and lick everything because it's all coated in a sixty year old coat of heavy metal scum, and you're going to get a good solid exposure to it anyway, so go big or go home, buddy.

When: Anytime in January, really. What's good enough for Napoleon and Hitler is good enough for you.

Why? Because the Big Ten could use a bowl that really tested those cold weather skills they're always bragging about. Because the Russian Mafia could get involved, and then things would really get spicy. Because everyone would come home with badass Russian prison tattoos whether they liked it or not, and thus gain a +1 on punching power.

(Special note: entry visas to Russia are in fact printed on the skin of incoming visitors. These are often confused for Mafia tats, because they are in fact identical. There is no solution to this, and you will receive a free dose of Hepatitis B with the tattoo at no charge. There is a twenty-five ruble "convenience fee," however.)

Because you want Russian fans involved:

Most importantly, because Vladimir Putin suggested it would be a very, very good idea if you show up.

Where: Luzhniki Stadium. Some say the Scorpions' 1989 performance here brought down Communism. Those people can, with all due respect, suck David Hasselhoff's cock.

How: That's your problem, friend. All you need to know is that you should be there, or a certain astonishingly virile world leader will be very unhappy with your affront to Russian hospitality. He'll be waiting for you at the ping-pong table in a Speedo.

The ball is in your court, college football. Vlad's waiting.