A knock at the door of a bachelorette party somewhere in Iowa City.

Ladies, I’m sorry to interrupt the party. I’m gonna have to ask you to quiet down, ladies. I know, I know. You’re having a bachelorette party, and you want to have some fun.

But we’re working on film next door, and discussing coverages, and it’s all really distracting for a group that could become the best linebacking corps in the Big Ten. The offseason is particularly important to us. It is the time when we gel as a team, study the opposition, and prepare ourselves physically and mentally for the rigors of the upcoming season. I know this is a special time for you, ma’am. Congratulations on your special day coming up.

We have a special day, too. It’s our opener against Northern Iowa on September 5th. What position will I be playing, ma’am? I’m a linebacker, though if you need me to switch positions, I will. Especially if you ladies happen to need…

This music starts playing.

…A QUALITY TIGHT END FOR THE EVENING. WOOOO!!! LET’S GET THIS PARTY STARTED COWBOY STYLE!!!

The camera fades as he begins to gyrate toward the bride.

FIN.

HT: Doc Saturday.

Your Patron Saint of Spicy Living: Oliver Reed.

Don’t even bother searching Youtube for “Oliver Reed drunk.” You don’t have enough time in your day. Oliver Reed completes the Four Horseman of the Mid-20th Century Alcoholcalypse along with Richard Harris (who discovered Hawaiian tropical drinks and wandered into traffic punching cars,) Richard Burton (two bottles of vodka a day,) and Peter O’Toole, who only avoided making the atrocious movies the others made by staying in the bar even longer than the others did.

Reed was fond of rugby, fighting, arm wrestling, and had a tattoo of an eagle’s claw on his genitals. A journalist once asked him if he drank 104 pints during his second bachelor party, to which he responded, “No, that was in Guernsey a few years ago.” He outdrank Lee Marvin. He appeared constantly drunk on not one, but on a series of British talk shows toward the end of his life, including one where he performed “Wild Thing” with Ned’s Atomic Dustbin. He realized he had a drinking problem where all of us realize these things: when he was lying prone on the baggage conveyor at Galway Airport. He vomited on Steve McQueen after a marathon bender in 1973. He was once pulled naked from a giant goldfish tank while ranting “You can’t touch me! I’m one of the Four Musketeers!”

Whether his life was an accomplishment, a warning in the form of one long incredible bender, or something else entirely, we can’t really say. But instead, let’s just say that it certainly happened, and happened with great vigor. At the very least, stand back and gape in awe at it, especially when you consider the final salvo Reed fired over the bow of good sense in his death:

Reed died of a sudden heart attack[1] during a break from filming Gladiator in Valletta, Malta on 2 May 1999. He was 61 years old and was reported to be heavily intoxicated at the time of his death. Racking up an $866 alcohol bill, Reed had reportedly drunk three bottles of Captain Morgan’s rum, eight bottles of beer and numerous doubles of Famous Grouse whisky. He also beat five much younger Royal Navy sailors at arm wrestling at a bar called “The Pub.” (The owners have since added “Ollie’s Last Pub” to the sign.

We salute you, Oliver Reed. If you hear something stumble, punch a wall, and laugh before vomiting, stumbling, and laughing again in a Wimbledon pub one day, it’s him.

Drink.

Holly: Ommegeddon. Like any real patriot, I was hanging out at Green’s on Ponce over the holiday weekend, and Doug threw this bottle in our basket because it had a mushroom cloud on it: (more…)

#5 Texas vs. #1 Oklahoma
HOLLY, BLATANTLY IRRATIONAL: The Red River Shootout is all about spite, so allow me to oblige:  Oklahoma is a barren wasteland whose women look like they were born on the backs of tractors.  Texas for the upset, and damn the torpedoes.
ORSON, RATIONAL: Oklahoma will see some oddball defensive formations unseen on film, because that’s how Muschamp do, but Bradford will still operate relatively unhindered behind the Loadholt Line, Oklahoma’s first greatest asset as a football team and still more evidence that quality beef garnered in recruiting is the first step toward whipping ass in 360 degrees. (The only other team pushing people around on the same level: Alabama, another team with abundant burl on the lines.)

TCU loaded the box on them, and Bradford went ballistic; sit back, and they’ll rack up 200 yards passing and 200 yards rushing on you. Brian Orakpo might get pressure off the edge, but otherwise the lack of a consistent running game from Texas outside of Colt McCoy doing his best Tebow ‘07 imitation keeps Oklahoma firmly in control from the start, leading to the eventual disappointment for Oklahoma of blowing a game (OK State?) late in the schedule to spoil undefeated happiness.

(more…)

Buzz Bissinger just ripped on bloggers, including Will Leitch, who had to sit there and take it because, once angered, no amount of reason would get through to the guy who wrote Friday Night Lights.

Bissinger has no idea what blogs are about, though he may claim to. So in short, for the record, we thought we might state for the record a.) who a blogger might be, and b.) what blogging does. Ready? We’ll keep this short.(For an epic poem or Supreme Court ruling–ed.)

A. Who a Blogger Might Be, or in this case, me.

My desk: taste the glamour.

DURR-HURR! GUY WHO LIVES IN MOM’S BASEMENT DURR!!! Untrue. We know of only one one blogger who lives in Mom’s basement, and that makes him just like Mike Lupica, doesn’t it? (Mom! Meatloaf and the Mets game on in five! MOM!) The bloggers we know best do the following;

1. Will Leitch. Full-time writer. Lots of people read him. Not mom’s basement on the address.

2. Matt Ufford. Ditto, and ditto. Has roommates, I think, but still. Oh, and COMMANDED A FUCKING TANK UNIT IN IRAQ. Buzz Bissinger went to Phillips Academy, a very dangerous place in its own right. They ride English saddles there! There’s not even a horn on it for stability!

3. Big Daddy Drew. Likewise, successful before becoming a sports blogger, and would be even if the medium didn’t come around.

4. The guys from Fire Joe Morgan. No idea what these men do, because they cover American Cricket, and I therefore don’t obsess enough about them to follow up. Fortunately, neither do mainstream journos, none of whom have inquired into blogger’s backgrounds before accusing them of living in Mom’s basement. I assume, judging from the brawny machinations of their writing, that they could presumably do other jobs quite successfully without going on the maternal dole.

5. Lawyers. Most post under pseudonyms, but these people make up the rank and file of the blogging world. Why? Because they are bored to tears by their jobs despite being creative, articulate, argumentative, and passionate people. Give a dam an outlet, and it’ll crack mountains into silt. That’s what lawyers are to the blogosphere. None of them live with their mothers, and many make more than the sportswriters who accuse them of living–yes–with Mom.

6. Me. Yep, I’ll go there. (more…)

EDSBS has recruited a recruit of its own: John Birdwell, a 26 year old Australian Rules Footballer being recruited by USC, Miami, Boston College, Arizona State, and Tennessee. He’ll be posting here regularly throughout this process.

G’day, mates. We really don’t say that a whole lot in Australia, but I thought I’d make your comfortable because you’re almost as terrified of foreigners as Aussies.

First off, let me just say bravo to this top Aussie, who did us all on the flip side of the planet proud by being a man on air and saying what we’re all thinking: that sheila in the white shorts has a beautiful ass.

Good on ya, Roger Rasheed. It shits me that a single whining sheila would have a turd’s shit to say about this. Just look at her! She’s like some magical long-legged ass pony woman in hot pants. You’d be blind not to follow that down a dingo hole, friend.

So I’ve got to tell you that I’m bloody impressed with Pete Carroll. He’s the most inspirational man I’ve ever seen. Period. Just a hell of man. He just blew my fucking mind, he did.

First, when you get recruited at USC, they don’t just pull ya along in a limo or something. No, no–Pete likes to catch people by surprise. (more…)

In case you haven’t noticed, and you may not have, what with all the state representatives showing nudie pics to high schoolers at assemblies and whatnot, there’s been football on every night of the week except Monday. But even with the appearance of virtual trim in your local high school, you are compelled to pay attention to tonight’s matchup between the Kentucky Wildcats and South Carolina Gamecocks.

They receive the Six Factor Factor Six Treatment below. The results of this are scientific and 100 percent accurate.

Factor One: Hair.

Kentucky: Represented here

South Carolina: Represented here by the charismatic bachelor, o-lineman Heath Batchelor, who being allergic to everything helmets are made of copes by growing thick layers of hair wherever it touches him.

Iss mah helmet. You like?

Kentucky: Represented with the Duane Allman ’stache of offensive tackle Zach Hennis. (more…)

Jerry Glanville is in the building! And Jerry Glanville is excited, so to hell with Jim Grobe getting a ten-year conference extension at Wake Forest. They suck so much they only get one A in their division.

Jerry’s grabbing hisself a job coaching the 1-double A football at Portland State, baby. That’s Portland State, people, and twice as many A’s. Learn it, know it, and love it because it’s gonna have you all shook up when we put the college football world in a ring of fire!

What victory looks like: Jerry’s got hisself a job.

Things were looking pretty dim for Jerry there for a hot minute. First, Ol’ Jerry was walking the line not for some hotshot car dealer who bought an NFL team on a lark–no, The Man in Black was walking the sidelines in some shithole called Hawaii and working for my old flunky June Jones. He’s the guy who screwed up the best quarterback this ol’ coach ever saw, Jeff George. God, he was beautiful…like a young James Dean, except not bisexual, with a weaker chin, not blond, and most definitely not with the same eyes. But except that and George’s rocket of an arm, they were essentially the same person, right? Hey!

Jerry’s working for June Jones, right, and June’s changed, like, majorly. With Coach Jerry in Atlanta he was always fun and easy-going and down, you know? I’d say something like, “Hey, June, nice dress,” or “Have dinner ready at six and your pants down at eight, June!” Because he’s got a woman’s name, right? A real lady of a man, that’s what Jerry called him. And it killed every time. When he worked for Jerry he thought it was funny, anyway.

In Hawaii, it was like Jerry had some kind of charisma leprosy. (more…)

Clay Travis would, in the unchecked world of evolutionary competition, be gone long before you, dear reader. Why? Because he voted Ole Miss women the most attractive in a ranking of SEC women, a judgement call to be sure that in and of itself bears no animus towards this blog.

Unfortunately, he ranked Florida’s women next to last, just above the fine farm girls from Mississippi State. In this unfortunate oversight, Clay has overlooked not only the basic tenets of research design, but has made a crucial error in his basic understanding of evolution and mating strategies that could endanger his reader. There are dangers out there, men. This article is a warning about them.

You see, Clay would die in the wild, and his offspring–should they ever be born–would be eaten by wolves and birds of prey. In the ages-old interplay between male and female, Clay would certainly be a pawn–or perhaps just a mere checker–becoming both slave and feast for his masterful mate. Picking Ole Miss makes this all too apparent.

Explanation of the steps used to trap Darwin’s fools in the dating process follow:

1. Excessive use of camouflage. Ole Miss women certainly fit a very common understanding of attractiveness: heavily mascaraed, blushed, and lipsticked into perfection. Beware wearing of dark blazers or other clothing around them; a direct hit with their face, or even a slight brush, will cover your finery with synthetic fat-infused cosmetics. Also comes off on your face when you’re kissing them, which sucks, especially if–in true collegiate fashion–you’re doing it behind someone’s back. Lipstick has killed as many men as the French Pox, men. This is something you must not forget.

Does makeup mean a no-go? Certainly not. Most women wear to shut other women up. But beware the perfect storm of feminine wile: like wasps who waste valuable hours of their lives mating with orchids that look like female wasps, so too do men blow valuable decades married to the cunning and stunning.

Look closer: there’s a tiny sorority sweater on that mantis.

2. Saccharine overtures.

Also beware the saccharine gesture disguising the devil’s contract. Such gestures are really a code, unknown for generations and brought back for us by our network of spies. Remember: many bachelor spies’ best years died for this information.

Unwitting, doomed male: “Hey, you wanna go out sometime?”

Male to English translation: “God, your boobs are big. And you’ve got on makeup and coordinated clothing? It’s gonna be so much fun touching your boobs!!! You smell of wealth and sex and bein’ together and stuff. Boobs.”

Ole Miss Woman of the Old South Variety: “Whaaaayyyy, that sounds nice. Whut taaaime?”

Female to English. “I have chosen you to be my potential mate, young meatling. You will be administered a series of tasks, many of which you will fail. This happens by design, since my father, Bucksley MacAllister the Fourth, is the paragon of all that is masculine and perfect for me, and will always be. The grave will only enhance his stature in my mind, so don’t count on death eliminating the problem, sucker.

And yet a wedding will occur. And you, you will either pick up a professional degree of some sort or go to work in my father’s business. And all you do–we mean all–will come to dust, since it will all pale to the shining Barbie House Daddy has built for me. I will bear offspring, yes; but the sex will end. I’ll still wear the makeup–it wasn’t for you, anyway, but the lifelong siege campaign against other women I’m engaged in–but when I do have sex, don’t ask for head. It messes up the lipstick.

In exchange, I will let you crawl into a bottle of bourbon and commit a thirty-year suicide. We will only come to life on Saturdays, where we may root for the same football team, part of the elaborate trap that will end with you spending every offseason Saturday in a stinking duck blind to get away from me and every Sunday on your knees praying for death.

Oh, maahhh, I DO carry on sometimes..

3. Daddy. If at any point she actually refers to her father as Daddy, flee the scene immediately. Remember, if necessary make a Batman-style exit with smoke grenade if necessary. If there’s a cliff, leap. You’re saving yourself trouble in the long run, trust us.

One way to end the problem, sure.

Part three of today’s liveblogging. In the class picture, we’re the kid burning out the remote with both thumbs.

We…can’t…look away…

1:35: PIG SOOIEEE! Felix Jones takes the end-around for a zillion yards to go up 7-3 on Arkansas. Pity the poor Badger defender who had to take on blocker Marcus Monk, who must be like trying to tackle a charging giraffe.

1:42: Holly Rowe on ESPN is wearing her junior Khmer Rouge outfit: black commandante’s cap, black jacket, and presumably an AK-47 stowed somewhere off-camera. Auburn has decided to play offense this half by going deep ball, deep ball, deep ball.

1:51: Arkansas’ 5-2 defense gets adjustments from Wisconsin’s offense; Stocco suddenly getting protection, allowing him to float a beautiful fade to finish off a 91-yard drive. Tennessee/Penn State a punt fest.

1:58: Cotton Bowl: Auburn goes up by a field goal, beginning the script for a head-cheese tasty victory for Auburn, made up of all spare parts and gristle. The Fox coverage is too ADD even for us: zooming in on individual players, changing angles, and muddying up the continuity of the game in the name of sizzle.

2:02: Some teams die by interception, others by blocked punt or braindead coaching decisions. Tennessee seems to die by fumble: Arian Foster fumbles after a huge Ainge pass play, Penn State runs it back, and exemplary camera work shows Foster suspended inches above the turf with the ball squirting out.

2:07: Holy hell, Gator Bowl’s on, and Holtz might not be retarded: now that Georgia Tech has a quarterback playing quarterback, Calvin Johnson’s playing against the JV squad here.

2:22: Can Calvin Johnson sue Chan Gailey for lost bonus money? Can Tech fire him for the blown potential Tech lost due to his insistance on starting a grumpy, myopic five-foot tall malcontent who couldn’t wrap his hands around the ball properly for four years? Taylor Bennett–that’s football code for no one–has Johnson at 142 yards and two tds already against West Virginia.

Perhaps our rage should be tempered by the fact that WVU’s defense is rank like fermented jockstrap extract. As we type this, Bennett throws another touchdown. The little men bring the great ones down one mismanaged decision at a time.

2:36: Tennessee couldn’t run. Penn State could. Barring anomolous disaster, Tennessee will lose to Penn State, putting the Big Ten in the win column and ensuring a rapid rise in the stock price of fried steak nuggets in the Tampa Bay commodity markets. The SEC is 1-3 in the last four Outback Bowls. As with all things Tampa, we blame Judas Priest, the official soundtrack of the 813, for all those problems.

Owen Schmitt is giving wood to all fullback-lovers out there in the Gator Bowl, bowling over defenders and closing in on a hundred yards.

2:50: If you combined Wisconsin and Arkansas, you might have a complete kickass offense. Arkansas’ all run, Wisconsin’s all pass. Big Ten forcing SEC to eat its cake today.

2:54: “It is not the national championship, but it sure feels like it.” ESPN/ABC/Disney/Cthulu Inc. has one BCS bowl, dammit, and you will pay attention. The nonstop propaganda stream blazing out of the spigots at the WWL might be cresting right now. On the other hand, we saw a flyer for the Orange Bowl featuring Wake Forest and Louisville at a MARTA station. If we watch it, we might win a free hat!

3:00: Auburn, true to form, finishes the tasty sausagemaking of an Auburn victory by nullifying Nebraska for a 17-14 victory. Bill Callahan meets Tuberville at midfield, calls him “a fucking redneck,” and walks away pouting.

3:43: Oh wow. We take a break and Georgia Tech Gaileys out and blows a huge lead to West Virginia, which should leave approximately zero persons passed out on the ground in shock. Did anyone mention that Pat White is from Alabama? And wasn’t sniffed at by Bama?

3:58: Gary Danielson suggests calling Calvin Johnson “the Toilet,” since “nothing hits the ground.” He’s evidently never lived in a bachelor’s apartment, or visited the People’s Republic of China. In many quarters of the world, the borders of a toilet are merely suggested starting points for personal artistic whimsy.

The Toilet.

4:06: Owen Schmitt is bringing manly back in the Gator Bowl, a massive, facemask-destroying fullback forced into a primary role with the injury to Steve Slaton. Between him and the Mountaineer whooping and hoisting his musket while wearing a still-dripping-blood deerskin outfit, West Virginia’s testosterone quotient is unmeasurable with our metrics right now.

4:29: Arkansas does nothing but spin backwards on its possessions. Somehow, after all the fooferaw and hubbub surrounding the new Arkansas offense and the hiring of Gus Malzahn, one of Orson’s rules remains inviolate and true: people never change ever. This Arkansas team looks like every other Arkansas team we’ve watched lose a bowl game.

Wisconsin–huzzah to you. New coach–pas de problem, monsieur. You had a better year than under Alvarez, especially satisfying given all the overrated crap you received from every hack pollster and blogger around (um, yeah, we didn’t say that.) Well-played.

4:35: Paul Maguire just said this: “Ohio State’s not gonna lose.” Does this guarantee a Florida victory? This is a scientific question, not a humorous one. We really believe Paul has the power to antagonistically determine outcomes.

Name: Sadly, not the Poulan Weed Eater Bowl anymore: no, just the bland, old, trustworthy Independence Bowl, sans Poulan Weed Eater. For those of us that remember the glory of the Poulan Weed Eater Independence bowl, the shine of this game will never wax as bright as it did when named after a lawn tool.

Motto: Shreveport or Die! Again, no real motto to this one. Though we’re all about “Shreveport or Die,” since it sounds like a song your local bar band Dad likes would play. (You know, white boy stomp music for the Delbert McClinton-listening, “I-tuck-my-golf-shirt-into-my-jean-shorts” crowd.)

Fake Bowl? Hardly. The Independence Bowl gots history, sir: lest you think the pre-Christmas bowl game began as yet another fecal creation of the Worldwide Leader, the Independence Bowl began its life as a December 13th bowl game in 1976 between McNeese State and Tulsa.

Intrusive Corporate Sponsor: PetroSun. They drill for oil, a likely suspect for a sponsor of a bowl based in the industrial heartland of Louisiana. Weirdly enough, they do not have a corporate website. We must therefore assume they are run by a shadowy global conglomerate, and that their every move is plotted by a one-eyed majordomo bent on world domination. Expect Jason Bourne to interrupt halftime festivities with a spectacular fight scene where he kills an internationally renowned assassin with a clarinet.

Tradition Rating: Older than most, and very nearly approaching venerable. The top hits of 1976 included Lou Rawls’ “You’ll Never Find a Love Like Mine,” so we’ll call the Independence Bowl at a rating of Lou Rawlsish. When else are we going to find an excuse to post a clip of Lou Rawls giving a prostate exam to Damon Wayans?

Setup: SEC/Big 12. After years of shuffling around, the matchups here have been quality eatin’ over the past few years. Last year’s furious Missouri comeback was the latest in a chain of good games. Something about middling SEC and middling Big 12 teams equals viewing gold. This gives you yet another excuse to plead explosive diarrhea, leave the office with your hand placed theatrically over your ass, and then run home to catch the game at 4:30.

Location. Shreveport, though the city’s pushing for wider brand recognition of the name “Shreveport-Bossier.” When you’ve got a brand name like “Shreveport,” though, we don’t know why you’d ever mess with it.

We know two reasons why Shreveport is cool, though. (more…)