Friday, September 2, 2016

the Friday Misery is cocaine, cheese, and baby blue free y'all!

Yes, we’re back. New era. Newly constructed knee. Newly constructed quarterback controversy. Newly invented SEC East favorite Tenersee VLOLS!! Newly prepped tailgate gear. New gameday wear. New pitcher of kool-aid, and a new pitcher of reality tonic. New blackout date set! And fresh tots for your lunchroom plate!
But, of course, it's the same old Misery.
Carolina history lesson, the crib notes version: Follow these directions for me real quick: open up your Google machine thingiemadoohickie and type these words into the search bar - north carolina football traditions. (now, be sure and add the “north” to the beginning of your search or else you gonna step right into some chickenshit that we’ll save for later in October.) Okay, now click on the first link which as of the typing of this post was a 247Sports “article” outlining the Tarheels’ top five football traditions. Now, let’s dive in!
  1. At first the Tarheels’  own “4th Quarter Hype” reads similar to our Krypton Fanfare to start the fourth quarter. But then you get here…Everyone then moves their arms back and forth, almost like a Seminole chop, signifying the end for the opposition.” Wait, so one of your top five traditions can only be described by mentioning one of your conference rivals? Uh, that’s just too cute baby blues! Then this... “The video board shows highlights of the team. It is impossible to not get excited.” Okay, try me.
  2. This next one uses their video board again, but this time to remind fans and opposing visitors of all the past Tarheel greats…”Fans love seeing the faces of some of the all-time Carolina greats such as Jeff Saturday, Julius Peppers, T.J. Yates, and Giovanni Bernard.” Excuse me, but wasn’t Lawrence Taylor a Tarheel?
Awww hell...

Okay, enough of that exercise. Here’s what we know as fact: they once had a coach with a cool name like Carl Torbush. That’s a tackle football coaching name right there. Say it with me...Carl TORbush! If your coach is named TORbush you tackle a damn ball carrier to the ground or you don’t bother going back to the sideline for fear of the TORBUSH WRATH.
But UNC fired him and replaced him with a guy that has a baseball coach’s name - John Bunting. There is absolutely NO goddamn bunting in football. None. The equivalent of bunting in football is punting...from the 30...your OWN damn thirty. That’s just weak. Very extremely weak. Very.
And now they wear a fedora. He's the one that has that cute new fangled offense with the pretty pass protection and the quick screens. Buncha gus bus finesse bullshit if you ask me.
Which is why we run the damn ball. Look it, this norcareliner defense is like a colander. And not the one made of iron that weighed twenty-eight pounds and your grandma used for forty years through both the Great Depression to drain navy beans as well as through the second World War to make the neighbors a warm, home-cooked meal while the men were off shooting goddamn Nazis out of the sky. No this is a colander you buy at a Dollar Store and you get change back and then it melts because the water is too hot and it’s made of plastic. Very, very thin plastic.
Yep, there are holes all through it. Both the small holes that were there when it was manufactured as well as larger ones that are the result of shitty coaching by grown men wearing baby blue pants with matching baby blue blouses. And they refer to their clothes as outfits. Yes...outfits. So effin' cute!
Whatever helps you get through your miserable day cupcake.
So for us it’s not rocket surgery. You hand the ball off and chew that clock and wear their sorry Zinfandel ass out before the end of the first half.
Home...away from actual home. No Athens tomorrow. Sorry. We’ll have to wait another week. But we ain’t going far; this is still SEC country. Forget that the game is played in Tech’s backyard. The last time we lost to those pansies in Atlanta I was still in school and George Bush was president...yes, Daddy Georgia Bush. Because NO! As a matter of fact I don’t recognize that “loss” in 1999 because Jasper’s knee was down goddammit! Between the moment his knee hit the turf and that Al Ford bastard blew his disdainful whistle George O’Leary had time to add three bullet points and two more degrees to his resume.
Yet I digress...
"Why can't our power forward tackle 27??"
This is the landscape where basketball remains a backdrop until January, dammit! Football is our hard tack and bourbon is what forces it down the gullet. Meanwhile in Chapel Hill…
“Oh dear Percival. I must say these Georgia Bulldogs are rather braggadocious with their barking and other animalistic behaviors that I’ll spare mention of in front of our better halves. Would you like that I procure another pound of Beaufort D’ete for our pregame table? Nothing charges the ole gridiron battery like a gruyere and a mellow merlot for good measure! I say!!”
WTF? Seriously. What. The. F**k? Look, I know about as much about french cheese as I do UNC’s African and Afro-American Studies Program. Which is to say if I could throw a ball in Chapel Hill I could get an A in the course. And to be fair, I didn’t know Jim Harrick Jr. had the credentials to teach the subject. But I do know that you can’t let these sissyass-britches come up in here and pretend to be superior when they’ve been handing out A’s for decades to point guards and wide receivers that are now selling Toyota Carollas all the way from Raleigh to Wilmington.
But that’s none of my business because the NCAA certainly isn’t interested...
Instead we need to set our own table. And the perfectly blunt assessment after an entire offseason is this table is a GOTdamn mess. Most of y’all wanted to start the meal with a fork and the rest feel safer with a knife. That’s all fine and good except you seem to have forgotten that YOU WILL EAT THIS GODDAMN MEAL THE WAY THAT COACH KIRBY SMART TELLS YOU TO!
I don’t care if he puts my old English 102 professor in the first huddle tomorrow. Yes, the fancy dude with the starched pinstripe button down and the matching navy sweater with the sleeves cuffed. Yes, talk about Mr. McPrissy Britches. But you know what? Never saw him wear baby blue. Never saw him draw up some weak ass screen pass when his running back was gaining six yards a clip.
And I damn sure never saw him wear a fedora.
The point is you, me, my mailman, the guy at the office that reheats fish for lunch in the microwave, the kids’ algebra teacher, the lady in the produce section at Kroger back in March that saw your Georgia cap and decided to weigh in with her thoughts on Jacob Eason, and also the guy at the beach this summer that cornered you for a half hour next to the low tide to explain away his expertise in tackle football...none of us...NONE of us know shit.
While he's smacking a damn gator Kirbs says,"Time is short 
so I'll get right to the your
team asshole. Be a team player or GTFO!!"
We’re all the same damn people that cheered with joy when we heard Schottenheimer was gone. And we’re the same damn people that nodded our heads in approval when Coach Smart hired Jim Chaney. So what’s changed? Really, what makes us think we can dictate which quarterbacker takes the field first? What makes me more qualified than an actual real life footballing coach? These guys haven’t even taken the sideline in their first game with a McG signed paycheck, yet we can’t help but second guess them like we wrote the damn book on how to wear a headset in the SEC.
“But...but Eason played so well at #93KDay Bernie!”
STFU dumbass. He also didn’t need to worry about getting his ass sacked either. Your own tired ass could complete a pass or two if you had anywhere between seven and twenty seconds to step into one.
Please. I’m sick of it. Let’s stop sniffing the Krazy Glue tube and start acting like we have just an ounce of goddamn sense. Jesus. Put down the tweeter and pick up your dignity while I stop bitching and start barking. It’s time y’all. It. Is. TIME!
No (zero, none, nada) more days left on the countdown calendar. No more hours left to pick our own damn butts.
The Tarheels are coming. We need to put a fat ass red clay stain on those baby blues. Go Damn Dawgs!
Now, let us bow our heads… Dear Lord God Almighty and your Southern Saint Lewis Grizzard, please don’t let these northerners slander our grits and unsweeten our tea pitchers. Give Mr. Chubb gaping holes a’plenty and let our kickers be true. Amen.
Go Dawgs y’all!