In a week of crazy college football news, I'd like to take a moment to address the bastard in the corner.
You see, when someone "resigns", people are naturally inclined to say nice things. They do this for one of two reasons: 1) they like the guy, or 2) the don't like the guy but are super excited to see the asshole leave and want to say something positive in an attempt to show they're the bigger person.
Bull. Shit. Spurrier was, is, and always will be a prick. If you don't think so, tune in tomorrow when he stumps for his own cause on national television under the guise that he just did something selfless for the South Carolina program, all while the team continues to play out the schedule that the ol' ball coach was too scared to face hisownself. And those ESPN dipshits in suits will pucker up for that ass until it gleams brighter than the day Satan birthed him.
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| The ol' Cock Coach doing his "bend over buddy" exercises, in perpetuity. |
Argue that he's one of the best to ever coach...okay, if you really feel so inclined. Talk about how he revolutionized the forward passing game...hey, I get it if you feel you must. But don't pretend he's a saint when that douchebag would push over your grandma in the express checkout lane if her 16th item was her prescription blood thinner medication.
Coming to grips
The self-loathing is understood. The bickering is to be expected. And the descension in the ranks is all too familiar.
We ain't what we thought we were. That's on us. It's not on Greyson Lambert. It's not on the long concession lines. It's on us. We smiled and waved during every bit of the media hand jerking. We convinced ourselves the gamecocks beat down was something to build upon, only to find out it was just another empty-caloried cupcake.
The sooner we accept the fact that we brought this misery on ourselves the sooner we can stop pretending we have all the answers.
When all we really have are questions.
Southern hospitality
A brief historical perspective to clarify the here and now...
In this youthful rivalry, the away team has always come out on top. We went out west to witness the first edition and those midwesterns were as accommodating as they were dumbfounded when you asked them why the tea wasn't sweet. They bent over backwards to apologize for the "old man football" comment and they pretended to not care about professional baseball more than college football.
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| Pinkel in yet another Moment of "Zin" |
So cute. Until the next year when we rolled out the red carpet, injured their quarterbacker, then promptly shit the bed. And of course last season back in Columbia Brendan Douglas went head over heels and the paper tigers took the weekend off.
So this being hospitable bullshit ends tomorrow night. I mean, right? These bastards have been geographically misplaced for more than three seasons now. The newness of having a team from way out yonder in the conference has all but worn off, so there's no reason to even go open the door for them. They know where the beer is. Let em get it theirowndamnself. They know to say "Yes ma'am" when they're addressing Mrs. Bernie and they know we don't talk about basketball season before the leaves finish their grand descent.
I hope this message is clear - this ends now. Southern hospitality gives way to tough love tomorrow night. It's like when your cousin Zeke didn't wipe his feet before going into Grandma's house and tracked red clay on her grandma's rug that was the only thing survived that fire back in 18 hundred something and then your Uncle Pete took Zeke out back and gave him a whatfor.
Nothing personal, just the way we do the things we do. Because then Uncle Pete picked ol' Zeke up and helped dust him off, smiled, and said "If you ever leave your goddamn brains by the front door, you better damn well leave your boots there too!"
Gary Robin Pinkel will walk right in here, grab the jug of chardonnay from the fridge, plop down on Grandma's sofa her father bought right before he lost his job in 1929, prop his feet up on the coffee table, loosen his belt, drink straight from the bottle, change the channel to some Lifetime movie, and then lay a fart right there just as you're suggesting he take his feet down please goddammit and thank you.
Don't let Gary Robin Pinkel fart on your grandmother's Depression Era couch. Now, bow your head...Dear Lord, please help us tackle tomorrow as if Zeke is climbing up the steps and reaching for the screen door handle. And also, GOD BLESS CHUBB! Go Dawgs!
