Friday, November 7, 2014

Friday Misery - "Theodore Donald Karabatsos...Good night sweet prince."

Jacksonville is dead. Sure as shit y'all. Now, it may come back to life in some alternate time frame, or universe, or even a college football season. Maybe. But right here, right now, in this particular moment, it's dead. Its ashes are blowing in the wind. The prayer/eulogy/drunken mumbling has ended.

In other words, the WLOCP (version 2.014) would like you to move on dipshit. And below you will find your complete guide. It takes you from the lowest of lows to some semblance of peace and order. It may be wrought with words and context and links considered grossly unsafe for work environments, but it'll get you outta the gutter Dude.

And then we crashed.
Humming along to the Creedance in our tape deck, notice something suspicious on the periphery and then BOOOOOOOOOOOM!

What the hell just happened? I mean, things were rolling along smoothly without much worries to the contrary. Maybe we weren't quite footloose, but we were fancying our groove man. Out of nowhere, blindsided by what should have been a mere deterrence, a casual glance, a simple safety check on your six. Then quickly, without cause or reason, escalates into a chaotic, reckless, fretful dumpster diving mission.

Say what you want about the tenets of epic road trip swings, but they appeared to be an ethos, a means by which the nation had bound together and stood ready to take on all remaining formidable foes. 

(Voice within my head..."Don't be fatuous Bernie.")

Now, here we are with a burnt hole in our chinos, spilled beer all over the front seat, floorboard, as well as some dive bar on St. Simons Island, and listening to "Heartbreak Tonight" on endless repeat. Ugh. Eff. Me.

Our brain is rattled, perhaps from the self-medicating, or maybe we brushed too hard against DuBose's ego. There's no way out and everything we reach for is somehow beyond our grasp. Trapped. Alone. Confused. Surrounded by a bunch of goddamn nihilists and we're pretty sure Donny is dead and Brandt sure as shit ain't walking through that door. Richt is saying one thing. Ramik is saying another. And all Marshall wants is some fucking lasers. Jeezus!

No way this jalopy can make it to Lexington. No damn way dude. Can you not read the internet boreds? Have you not heard the twitters? Whatever or whoever set this whole shitastic sequence in motion is much bigger than some Malibu Chief of Police. It goes beyond a head coach losing control of something and everything. It's even bigger that the darkest, mostest evil and mostest vile dealings of a double secret agent, codenamed "Will".

Ironic isn't it? Will. Because we have none man. No. Just sit here. Let's accept our fate and be done with it. If we live to see Christmas we'll all go bowling man. Then we'll swing by the offseason and invest in a new rug.
^^^^^^ Once had beers with Erk Russell and John Wayne ^^^^^^

Strikes and gutters.
/cues "Dead Flowers"
/orders a cold one
/prepares to reflect

"Howdoyado Dude?"

There's always something peaceful, serene, and so goddamn chill about The Stranger. He exudes quiet, introspective, all-encompassing confidence. He never forces himself on you, just sits there waiting for you to notice that you need his voice, his guidance, and his wisdom. He waits for you to be drawn in by his moustache, and once you finally tear your eyes away from it and engage him he's not going to belabor the point that Donny is dead and run the risk of reducing you to a weepy, ball of raw emotions on the floor of a bowling alley bar.

In fact, he doesn't say much of anything, yet he communicates everything. "Life ain't over Dude. Glad to see you doing well." Yup, he's glad to see that you're abiding and shit, takin' er easy for all them sinners. Yeh...and again...of course, he was sad to see Donny go. But he's already looking forward to catching you later on down the trail.

And friend, that trail leads us to Commonwealth Stadium tomorrow. Better or worse, healthy or wounded, ready or with your stupid drunk jock strap down there around your ankles. Dumbass. So go tell Cynthia to take care of her own goddamn pomeranian and Bunny to blow on her own goddamn toenails. Dude, it's time again to play football. Football.

Football. RIP Donny. RIP Jax. RIP my second liver. RIP GODDAMN GUTTERBALLS!! Let us pray...Lord Baby Jesus, please help me set the edge and Pruitt's dudes to conquer the Bourbon Trail. Or vice versa. Cuz that'd be cool too man. Amen.