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A COMMENT FROM THE SWC: DEAR BIG 12. ER, TEN. BIG TWEVETEN.

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Dear Big 12-now-ten-whatever-youngster, 

I'm at a loss to what to call you, son. I don't want to overstate the numerical confusion. Believe me, that's a problem when you go into a conference. You need a good name, and numerics just aren't the most flexible thing, like taking a name in marriage.

You know, when you're a conference you gotta think of yourself like an outgoing, intelligent, naturally orgasmic woman who loses her pants after three drinks: you're gettin' married a few times at least, and changin' the name each time is just gonna confuse people. It ain't your fault, you're just made that way, and God bless you for it--especially on Mardi Gras, major holidays, business conventions, and the occasional barbecue. 

I'm not saying you're perfect, of course, but I understand: certain parts of you are, and that's where you get in trouble. I had a nice Texas-sized Lone Star ass myself once, before gravity took hold and one cheek--SMU--had to be removed once it went malignant. Left me lopsided and frankly a little freakish, and well it was all downhill from there, but it shows you that I understand what it's like to be so damn sexy in part that others just wanna destroy the whole. 

So I'd just pick a name and stay with it no matter what. I'd go trendy if I were you. Something clean. Say, run 'em together, for example. Your name could be "The Big 1210." Thought about going way trendy? Like, avant-garde shit? You could just call yourself that:

"CLUB 1210: The Future Of Football."

Picking up new partners wouldn't matter, and every Tuesday could be ladies night until 11 p.m.. I'd offer two for one shooters and keep the Pelinis out since a.) they'll hog the shooters, b.) they're a menace in crowd of quality tail, and c.) they're traitors. Let 'em go tussle in the freezing husk of a dead factory after a night of plying girls in sweatshirts with tallboys of flat Bud Light. You've got a life to lead, even without those other teams. 

You'll be fine, just like I was in 1990. 

Sincerely yours, 

150px-southwestconferencelogo_medium

---The Southwest Conference, now living in an assisted living facility in Daytona Beach, Florida 

ps. The only thing that happened in the year 1210 were a few excommunications, and..well, we won't think about the historical parallels there. 

pps. Please mail me some bourbon whiskey and label it as "Gila Monster Urine." It's the only way the nurses let it in. 

ppps. You're still doomed, but I'd just see how much ass and cash you could get in the next few years before you're torn to shreds. Happens to us all.