I recall one year (much like next year to be honest) when Nama and I made sure our kids didn't get any razor blades in their candy bags on Friday night, hopped a plane early Saturday and were God's own Cocktail Party drunk by 10am in Jacksonville.
It may take a village to raise a youngun. But it takes some serious gotdamn planning some years to keep up more than appearances at the WLOCP.
|Haters gon' lose.|
Anyway, all that to say that things have been crazy this week. I've sucked (more than usual) as a blogger. And now I'm leaving. There's no time left. The car's packed and the scoreboard says I'm behind.
So here goes..
Two minute drill
All week long I've been honoring special Bulldogs who've had their moments in the Cocktail Party; I've been looking for the right person(s) to exemplify exactly what we need to beat these gotdamn lizards.
Look, we've just got to hunker down. We've got to treat special teams like an honest to God actual phase of the game. We've got to go three, four, three and a half yards and a cloud of dust. We've got to remind these gator fans, even the ones that have never witnessed a tackle football game prior to 1990, what a looosing streak feels like.
"Gators, gators, how'd ya like to bite my ass?!?"
Nice move Dawgs. Big gain and a first down. Time to punch these gators in their piehole.
|Hey...we got this y'all.|
Cuz, these reptiles are a different breed. We have to play like we own this bitch. This game is ours and they can only pretend to claim it. We're the 8th grade bully holding the ball sky high at arms length. They're the little pipsqueak that can't reach it if they tried. They're the guy that's been a gator all his life. Ripped up his UGA diploma and donned a pair of jorts.
Sad. Real sad.
Manage yourself. Manage your drunk. Manage your timeouts. Snap. Hold. Kick!
Sucks to be a gator y'all. See ya in Jacksonville. And if you can't manage to support the team...regardless of the score...regardless of your lameass lameassedness...regardless of you being in your time of the month...stay the hell home and go get yourself a pedicure.
The rest of us got this. Jacksonville bows to our supremacy. Come Sunday we say, "We came, we saw, we hunkered. Just like Nat did."