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DREAMS COME TRUE. Like having a game inside Bristol Motor Speedway at last, or the dream of not feeling like you were kidnapped from your body, poisoned, and then reloaded into the pre-corpse of an alcoholic 73 year old man seconds from a shambling and embarrassing public death. Don't ever drink, ever, like, not even water, since it is an accomplice of alcohol, children, and can't be trusted. Oh god we are so hungover, and want to temporarily die.

LANE KIFFIN IS GOING TO BE ON GAMEDAY. It's going to be weird, but not as weird as that thing where you wake up and honestly don't know what century it is, or whether your head will roll off like a fumbled football if you attempt to move from your position in the bed.

THAT'S A GREAT POINT AND OH GOD MY HEAD-- Bill C has the eyes with LSU, and the stats with Florida, a team that is unspectacular, brutal, and is just like this hangover in the respect that three hours of either makes us question everything we assumed was good in life. Did we leave a giant thing of creamed spinach at the Clermont last night? This is a sincere question that we do not know the answer to at all.

ART'S NOT GOING ANYWHERE. That's what he's supposed to say, though we think he's sincere because Briles doesn't care about a lot of things including money (past a certain point, at least,) a challenge (he came to Baylor VOLUNTARILY,) and this vast pit of sorrow and tears where a human heart used to beat before we drank too much wine and got too little sleep last night.

THIS WILL MAKE YOU LAUGH. And laughter cures so much of what ails you except this piercing weird pain in your stomach no matter what you eat and the dull feeling of being underwater on dry land that won't go away for another six hours or so. Alcohol. Holy shit how do you do this every night, Wisconsin?