[right click, paste]
Ahem, as I was saying...want to punch them in their filthy face. Wanna line up and ram the ball down their Pat Dye throats cuz that bastard's been dead to me for years! I want Murray to throw for 600 and Gurley to score touchdowns til Wednesday. No, not next Wednesday. The third Wednesday of December! I hate their Nick Fairley guts! I hate their War, their Damn, their TigerEagle, and their laughable SAT scores. Everything they've earned, they've stolen. Everything they've won has involved some short cut. When they can't win the game on the field, they aim their fire hoses at anyone within a 100 yard radius that reminds them of everything they'll never be - smart, athletic, classy, well dressed, able to obtain dates with non-livestock, mature, sophisticated, intelligent enough to operate their own pants zipper, developed beyond the paleolithic era, funny, astute, enlightened, playing with a full 52 cards, capable of controlling one's own saliva, family tree branches. And it has leaves.
|Kristi Malzahn. Posturing for a robbery.|
Tradition rich thievery
Oh, perhaps that last one cut a little deep. After all, modern anthropologists agree that the citizens of Auburn have not been able to wipe their ass with anything other than their own hands since 1937. And hey! That's something all Auburn fans can claim as their own! A tradition as deep and rich as two-ply Charmin. Give yourself a pat on the back Barners!
But every other tradition on the plains is friggin' stolen. Right down to their fight song. Bless their hearts, music can be so hard to create on one's own when the university has all the rhythm of a frozen faucet. Don't believe me? Watch an Auburn "graduate" try and clap their hands after a touchdown or a successfully placed bribe. It's about the funniest twenty-six seconds of your life before they just give up and stomp their feet. Again, paleolithic era FOR THE WIN!!
Auburn steals players, they steal championships, they steal their own school's accreditation and burn it during some sixth grade science experiment go awry. "Look y'all! Fire really do get hhHHHHOOOTT!!! OUCH!"
Hell, they even have men there that steal women's purses. Sad really. Almost as sad as the guy that played Grand Theft Auto with someone's actual truck. Oh wait, that was Auburn too. Figures.
And now they've adopted a former Georgia quarterback; a kid that took money from his own teammates. It makes sense really. What other locker room would he possibly fit into except for the one that's also full of cheaters and short cutters? I'm all for second chances. You can believe that. It's just funny how so many of them come in Lee County AL.
You wanna hunker, or you wanna date Mr. Ed?
I need y'all to feel this now. I can smell the negativity from a mile away and I can sense the uncertainty in my sleep. You have doubts. You expect the worst. You're so caught up in your own lowered expectations that you're feeling a draft of cold air.
|Dawgs. Posturing for a fight.|
Sometimes. When given a minute or two. And the participle dangles just right.
I'm not asking much. Just that you not obsess over a quarterback who lifted personal property from his teammates in Athens just so that he could have a go at Nick Fairley's former equine girlfriend. You think the guys in red and black have forgotten? No. Then you shouldn't either.
Look, you have one team that has over-achieved and another that has under-achieved. Gimme the under. Give me the hunker! Give me the red and black. Give me the straight shooters and you can keep your fly by night fancies. I want Georgia. I want Johnson on a 70 X Takeoff. I want the road whites. I want Murray's scar. I want Dooley's tennis shoes. I want Wayne Johnson coming off the bench. I want Sean Jones crushing souls and then you can keep your Junior Rosegreen and his candy ass. I want Corey Allen's miracle and Ray Goff copping a squat on Baby Bowden's winning streak.
I just wanna hunker. Go ahead Auburn. Do your War Eagle things. Throw your bourbon in Munson's face. Turn on those hoses and let it rain down on me. I'll take your Jordan-Hare baptism if it means the clock ran out on you again. And here, take my wallet if you must. You already charged me nearly $100 just to get in, so there ain't much left. I'll let you continue your thievin' ass ways.
Yes, we're off towards the Cheatingest Little Village on the Plains. And Hell's coming with me!