"Man did he turn it on when he had to!
" - Larry Munson
on Herschel trucking past some chickens
Inspiration is for those who need it
I've never read one, but those chicken soup books were all the rage a couple few years ago, weren't they? They had one for every subset of human existence
- chicken soup for the teachers' soul, Jesse Palmer's teleprompter, golfers, dads and moms, B1G coaches, dog lovers, cat lovers, teenagers, pre-teenagers, dads and moms of pre-teenagers, Beyoncé (no...just
Beyonce), elementary school crossing guards, college students, Waffle House short order cooks,
, Urban Meyer pan pizza deliverers, grandmas, rent-a-Santas, Knoxville periodontists, the Internal Revenue Service, Chicago Cubs fans, encyclopedia salesmen, encyclopedia saleswomen, Wikipedia editors, drivers ed teachers, Mrs. Bernie (no...just
Mrs. Bernie), blog readers, all the single ladies, teenage mutant ninja turtles, engiNerds, sisters, the brothers, Michael Adams' tailgate, Canadians, that person in Montana, runners, walkers,
emerging scooter and alley enthusiasts
, Indian Armed Forces (no, really
), NBA majority owners, gardeners, Craig James' dead hookers, House Baratheon, iPhone 1 users, Walter White's chemistry students, my college advisor(s), and even your local legislators of all people. Bless their hearts.
I missed a few probably. But you get the point. Whoever it is that needs their soul soothed, their confidence lifted, their spirit heightened to new altitudes, there's a book for that poor bastard.
Us..you, me, and most of the other dumbasses reading this right now...we don't need that shit. Soup is for the sick and the downtrodden. How do you make soup? You throw a chicken carcass in a pot of boiling water and then go find a spoon. I don't want chicken soup. I want what comes first. I want what makes that chicken carcass a chicken carcass. I want the blood
that Richt was referring to
the other day. I want the meat and not the slimy discarded byproducts.
|Got chicken? (via)|
I want to roast that sucker to perfection, carve it up like Gurley, grab a hunk like Leonard Floyd grabs Dylan by the scruff of his neck, dip that sucker in a vat of sauce and the feast on the mother.
Then I want to turn to Spurrier and say, "The spoons are in the Light/Inspirational reading section
A badass is not born from a greasy wishbone
Two years ago we were there outside of Williams-Brice pretty early. Three older Damn Good Dawgs had arrived even earlier than us and waved us in. I had met them only once before but they had graciously offered to let us join them after Robert vouched for us.
Now, if you've never been to a Georgia-Sakerlina game, you probably listen to the rest of us talk about the stadium being set against a barren landscape and think those guys love them some hyperbole. But truly, it's a shithole. Perhaps Tyler put it best
- "...you know that Columbia is a utopia of good breeding, manners, and well designed urban planning. Or the exact opposite of all those things."
I've even met some Gamecock fans that will admit to the unattractiveness
of the stadium's environs. That is if they themselves have ever ventured to other stadiums. You know, ones that are actually a part of the campus. So yeh, it's a dicey tailgate scene.
And as we hunkered down in a dilapidated warehouse district we watched both Georgia and Carolina fans trickle in. Just across the way a very large tailgate was set up and the music started. I say music, but it wasn't. It was sound being blared at a decibel level taller than Jadeveon Clowney with his dreads on end. The noise bounced off the brick facades until all you heard were "lyrics" about "bitches" and "ho's" and "mother f---ing haters".
It wasn't even 9am and we were already miserable. I turned to Ben and Brian and said something. If the words escaped my mouth it was a miracle. I tried again before giving up. And it was then that I noticed Larry walking over there to "greet" these dudes.
Now, I'm an older fella. And this guy could be my uncle and was wearing a knee brace. He towers over most people much like Paul Bunyun did I would imagine, Except Larry wears red and black better than Bunyun ever could. The twenty to forty gamecock fans (actually, I'm pretty sure they were former players that get that spot every home game for a reunion of sorts) on the other side never saw Big Larry coming.
I guess Dean saw the tension in my eyes. After all, he couldn't hear it in my voice since some mother f---er
was about to bitchslap
across a dance floor. But I did manage to hear his words as he leaned in close. "Now watch this. They're gonna turn that shit down."
"Naw," Dean interrupted, understanding where I was going. "Ol' Larry has a way with words."
His emphasis on those last three words didn't ease the tension and I readied for whatever the hell comes when a group of 30 some odd gamecocks turn on one solitary giant Dawg fan. In my head it was fight or flight, but what it should of told me was to just sit my ass down and light a cigar cuz Badass Larry is on the mother.
What seemed like an hour but was actually just a few seconds passed and finally Larry limped back in our direction. The music dropped so low you could almost hear him grunt as he settled back into his chair. He casually re-engaged with the television that he could now hear as well as see, and sipped his bloody mary.
Or perhaps it was White Lightning, or jet fuel. Hell, it may have just been a Diet Coke. Didn't matter. Badass Larry had set the tone for the day. There have been many times since then that I wished he had been the one to give the pregame speech for Georgia. To this day I still don't know what it is that he said to that head henpecker in the garnet and black jersey. Don't really care. Like Dean said, Larry has a way of making people see what's in everyone's best interest.
In other words, show some respect and don't be a goddamn cock.
Let's close with a prayer shall we?...Dear Lord, please feed Gurley the ball. Forever and ever, Amen.