This week's episode is not steeped in communism. It loves cold beer on a Friday night, will defend Zac's dog Pete, lives for the love in his woman's eyes, and understands that losing a chicken can lead to quite a nice supper.
Let's dig in, shall we?
Let's dig in, shall we?
|"I told that de Leon fella don't drink the water! |
But I hear he died of dysentery, which is sad
Little known fact, but true. Look it up. Or for you whippersnappers, google that shit yo!
Yet I digress…
The gamecocks are so bad they lost to Kentucky. (No, the actual Kentucky football team!) They’re so bad somewhere in a Del Boca Vista Wal-Mart pharmacy aisle covered in spittle Lou Holtz is second guessing his own proclamation that Sakerlina would win both the SEC and the Republican nomination. (He also wonders aloud why the hemorrhoid cream tube has to be child proof, but that’s a post for a different kind of blog.) The gamecocks suck so bad their own fans think they may only be a four seed in the CFBOMGPLAYOFFS!!™ on their way to winning it all this season.
Well, most of their fans. The other 10% believe their beloved cluckers will back their way into the Independence Bowl, fire Spurrier, and then hire Donald Trump to rule the roost. Except they spell (and pronounce) it Donul Trunc.
Bring out the butter AND the flour
I’m sorry. Please take that previous section that was dredged through a platter of bullshit and then shaken in a bag of lazy entitlement and toss it right in the trashcan. Ashamed I wrote it to be quite honest with ya. Disgusted at my logic and embarrassed by my own reasoning. Let’s agree to forget I even brought it all up. Because Steve Damn Spurrier don’t give no mind to his own age.
And you know what else? 4 of 5. Four. Of. Five.
That’s right. In case we forgot, the chickens have won four of the last five against us. So we can talk a big game all week. WE CAN PUFF OUR CHEST OUT ALL THE WAY THROUGH TOMORROW AFTERNOON, acting like somebody who’s proven something beyond beating some misplaced yankee school anchored down in Nashville TN. Go ahead Dawg fans, PRANCE AROUND AND TALK ALL YOU WANT about how Nick Chubb wears red, not garnet. Blather on and on about Jeremiah Pruitt and how he’s gonna unleash his Wolfpack on poor little Perald Orth until that kid ain’t got an arm to throw with and his ball coach is PICKING THAT SUCKER OUT OF THE GODDAMN DIRT!!
When you’re done dancing JUST YOU SIT YOUR ASS DOWN HOTSHOT AND BOY LEMME TELL YA WHAT!! You know who don’t care NOT A DAMN THING about the birthday candles on his next Krogers sheet cake? The one with the icing shaped like a golf ball landing perfectly through the opening of a Coors Banquet beer? That’s right. Spurrier don’t care how old he is. Hell, ask him to do twenty push ups and he’ll drop right down and pound em out while he tells you ALL ABOUT PISSING IN COACH GOFF'S BOWL OF COCOA PUFFS way back when.
Oh, UNC’s little ball carrier ran for ten yards a carry on the Gamecocks did he? THAT'S COOL! And you’re right, that Hood fella ain’t no Chubb. But you just go on into the stadium with that same smile tomorrow night and you’ll be WIPING THE BLOOD FROM YOUR LIP BEFORE YOU EVEN FIND YOUR SEAT!!
Speaking of which, I SAID SIT DOWN!! Jesus and the Mother Mary you’re awfully dense this week. ACT LIKE YOU'VE BEEN HERE SON. I don’t care if South Carolina lost to Kentucky’s tackle football squad or their bass fishing team. They’re coming to Athens for a fight. Their backs are to the wall and you need to stop whistling Dixie, open your eyes, and FACE THE FACT THAT JUST SHOWING UP MAY NOT BE ENOUGH TO CUT THE F---ING MUSTARD.
We’re Georgia. They’re Carolina. We’re that Junkyard Dawg that’s had enough of some filthy feathered rooster pecking around our side of the fence. We’re in control of our dreams and aspirations. They’re a few weeks away from a forced retirement at the miserable end of a career that once was all fun and guns.
You remember. The Head Clucker once hung half a hunnerd in Sanford. Tomorrow let’s fry that bastard to a crispy golden brown. Dredge his visor through the flour, light a fire under the oil ‘til it sizzles and cracks with anticipation, drop them sonsabitches in and….GET THAT NAPKIN OUTTA YOUR SHIRT COLLAR FANCY BOY! THIS IS AN SEC TILT DESIGNED TO BE MESSY, GREASY, DIRTY AND DOWN RIGHT CHICKEN FRIED!!
Thank you. Now, as I was raised up beneath the shade of a Georgia pine, let us bow our heads....dear Lord, please don't let us Quincy this thing tomorrow. I'm hungry and Mrs. Bernie swears if we don't win nobody eatin' til Bama week. Go Damn Dawgs! Get after that