Five star, sub 4.4 forty hate
For 363 and one quarter days a year I'm old, oddly disproportionate, out of shape, slow to grasp simple tasks, easy to forget many others, mostly sedentary, unathletic, lacking unimpaired mobility, awkwardly coordinated...you know, whatever the opposite of agile is. And I rely a lot on fake juice to get me through the day.
Also, I'm not fast. Did I mention that already?
The other forty-eight hours of the year I'm a world beater. I am quick to action and get there with authority, purpose, and ill-will oozing out my fingertips. I have the strength of ten men and my muscles are always ready to break bones as easily as spirits. My mind sifts through the unessentials with great ease, eager to focus on the most important task at hand. And when needed, I can change directions at full gait, as if my body were on rails destined for complete and utter destruction.
Those two days a year started this morning at 12:01am. For two days I can hate scripted helmets with ease and effortlessness, yet with the ruthlessness and the intensity of a runaway train. I can look down on the tallest, most egregiously degenerate Gator fan as if they were the smallest, most insignificant puddle of piss on the sidewalk of Gainesville Fla. I can go from 0-60 in the blink of an eye, ready to show those goddamn cretins what a party is supposed to look like and just how down my hunker can get. And just when they get that slack-jawed, dumbass look on their ugly stupid face, I'll look deeply into their vacant, beady little eyes and say:
My name is Bernie. I am here to repel your evil and your stupid fucking ignorance with just
my presence and this cup of bourbon in my hand. I know more about football and this series than all of the 3rd grade multiplication facts you couldn't wrap your brain around twenty years ago. And because my mom is not also my aunt and I wasn't born in a dilapidated single wide on the wrong side of the swamp, I can dress myself like a normal, red-blooded, GOTdamn American. Get outta my face with your haphazardly cut off jeans and your tired ass tebow jersey with the skoal stains and the eight year stench. Crawl back into your hole in the ground and wait for basketball season when you can look down at your toes and try and remember how many points a basket is worth. Yes, take your cardboard box of shitty beer and go ask the other village idiot to remind you how to open each can. Then drink away the rest of the day so when you tell your friends you were here you won't piss your jorts again at the memory of me telling you what your whole life's existence is screaming at you - Timmy's not walking back through that door dipshit. So you might as well make it another date with your right hand and call it an early night.
Go Dawgs!
/ends rant, refills, smiles
Here. Now.
You don't win this game just to get to Atlanta. God knows we've lost enough times in Jacksonville and still managed to back our way in downtown. And you don't win this game just to give yourself an excuse to celebrate and eat the rest of the leftover Halloween candy that you told all the neighbors' children you most definitely didn't have left in the house. "See, the bowl's empty. No more candy Sorry little Frozen girl and cute zombie kid."
No, you win this game because you're Georgia. You win this game because it's what is right with God and somewhere it is even written into the Constitution of the United States of America. You win this game because Nat Hudson once threw a block so that Larry could break his metal steel chair with about a five inch cushion. You win this game because Hutson Mason tells you to. You win this game because no matter what they ever do or amount to in life, they still dress like third grade, low rent poverty with drool on their chins.
You beat Missouri because they are just in the way. You beat Arkansas because they wanted you to do it. But you win this game because it's history. It's in the very fabric of our being, our existence as Georgia Bulldogs. You win this game because it's what Lindsay ran so far for that day and why Herschel toted the rock 47 times in one afternoon in order to put them back in their place. You win this game because Mark Richt says you need to.
Here now! You win this game because while they were planning to slither over the state for the afternoon we were packing cars and trucks and RVs and boats. While they were sleeping in, we were setting up the tailgate with one hand and trying not to spill the Bloody Mary with the other. You win this game so that when they clap their hands like a fool you can just point to the scoreboard and thereby end other successful cycle of two days...forty-eight full hours in which all you did was hate the University of Florida.
You win this game. You win it.
Now, enough talk. Let's do. But first, bow your heads.....Dear Lord we only ask that you help us contain our enthusiasm the first time Brendan Douglas and Nick Chubb trucks a damn gator. For deep down we will know we want more of that. All day long. Amen.
