Lately we've been pondering moving. Not seriously moving, since we've got a house and it's easier to unload a potentially bed-bug infested couch than it is to sell a house in 2010. We know this because we just had a bed bug scare, threw our couch out to the curb in a frenzy, and had someone roll up and take it despite being told it could be infested with the very bloodsucking harbingers of filth, poverty, and social ostracism themselves. Their response: "That's cool, we've got bleach."
This is now going to be the EDSBS response to everything. "Hey, we just hired Lane Kiffin as our coach? THAT'S OKAY WE'VE GOT BLEACH."
(BTW, the exterminator asked "So you really did just throw your couch into the street before you saw an exterminator?" Us: "Yes." Exterminator, verbatim: "That's a bit drastic." Pestilence never sleeps, exterminator guy, and we like throwing furniture around. You and reason can't stifle simple joys. )
The reason for thinking about moving is the same every summer: the punishing ass-sweat of Satan himself, humidity. The goddamn motherfucking piss-swilling humidity in this goddamn forsaken crimepit of a cesspool of inefficiency and walking ignorance is currently at fucking EIGHTY-EIGHT PERCENT at eighty eight motherfucking degrees Fahrenheit. Shitballs and shinola, that is just goddamn unreasonable even when all one is expected to do in a day is:
a.) type
b.) check mail
c.) get 70s Big
d.) bounce baby on knee
e.) take walk with baby.
That's all we have to do in a day, and it's still oppressive even at a near sedentary level of activity. If the Big Ten really, really wants to emphasize one advantage they have over the SEC in recruiting, it would be the words "You will never have to practice on an open field in Gainesville in 85 degrees with 85 percent humidity." Since SEC schools don't recruit 250 pound running backs with 5.3 speed that won't happen, but we're just saying that it would be a persuasive argument in the hypothetical.
Football players are actually out moving in this suffocating diarrheal elephant fart of an environment. Big ones like Carl Johnson, for example, whose thoughts slid toward the satanic in summing up what it's like to practice in this ridiculous shit:
I seen the devil out there today. He was wearing a white hat."
OMG THE DALAI LAMA IS AT FLORIDA PRACTICE. Or Ellis Johnson and his freaking huge hat. Or Urban Meyer. So hard to tell the difference when you're hallucinating crazily from the heat, which may happen in humidity since the body's thermoregulation is thrown completely off by the inability of sweat to evaporate. No sweat evaporates, your temperature rises, and that's how you end up throwing up in the bushes, stricken with heat exhaustion, or stripping off all of your clothes and taking a bus back to Pittsburgh.
In short, fuck this fucking humidity, and stay hydrated and safe, football warrior-poets. There are many things to envy about being strong, fast, agile, and potentially bound for NFL millions. Running wind sprints when Mother Nature has shoved a potato in the exhaust pipe of your personal HVAC system is not one of them.*
*We are officially negative on bed bugs. AWAY, POOR PEOPLE GERMS!
**This is a metaphor. We are not saying they are literally running around with potatoes in their asses. Unless we are talking about Florida State, since this has been an integral part of their conditioning program for years, as evidenced by the famous Chuck Amato quote "If you can run a mile with a potato in your ass, then you can win eight games in the ACC."
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