It’s been a long week. You’re a hotshot blogger. You’ve got to meet a deadline. Literally six or perhaps even fewer people are depending on you to amp them up with some Kentucky blue flavored misery. And the only thing swirling in your head are the rumors in the air.
“Pruitt took a dump in Coach Richt’s F-150.”
“McGarity is looking for his balls again.”
“Schotty is thinking of voting for Hillary.”
So yeh, you’ve got nothing.
Then...a text from Hank and a few minutes later the wife cues up a YouTube video from the CMAs...boooooom!!
Let’s do this y’all.
“a thousand proof don't change the truth”
I can’t quit you Dawgs. You could tell me that you once saw Richard Tardits paint his toenails pink. Or that you used Mudcat’s car to give Chubb a ride to Knoxville. Or how Robert Edwards drank Gatorade before the 1997 WLOCP. Orange gatorade. Hell, you could spend your last, dying breath telling me how Herschel actually thought the ball was pretty heavy after all.
Don’t matter. I mean, did I falter when a Dooley wore orange britches? Did I even waver when they turned Pollack into a bulimic Finebaum coattail-rider? Nope.
UGA is in my double helixes. Georgia Red courses through my superior vena cava. No amount of bat shit crazy can make me turn my back on you. You're both the symptom and the cure for my insanity. When the sun comes up tomorrow you can find me doing the same. I’ve been all in since before Joe Waterloo introduced me to Mr. Boston and I’ve been singing Glory Glory in Nama’s shadow since Preston Jones was battling Greg Talley for snaps. The proof on the bottle doesn’t fuzzy my vision and the seal is never cracked without your blessing.
I love you Georgia Football. Like a moth to a flame, I will search you out through all the fog, the mist, and the bullshit. We’ll live together through the highs and the lows, we’ll survive together through the AJCs and the THCs. I can be the Laurel to your Hardy, the Moe to your Curly, the Hunker to your Down, the Baba to your O'Riley. I can’t wait until we meet again tomorrow and turn our gaze towards the Southwest corner. I’m looking forward to hearing the crack of the pads against the backdrop of another Saturday afternoon in Athens.
Pass the glass Georgia Football. The week has given me a pounding on my brain, but the next round is on me Dawgs.
BIG TEAM, little pricks
Lemme cut right to the chaser.
Guy in the Kroger fast lane checkout with the florida walmart jersey...you can shut your mouth, please and thank you. I like the way your kid disgracefully shakes his head whenever you open your trap. But yeh, shut up.
And whoa boy, Fran Tarkenton….you can most definitely shut your gotdamn mouth. Faton Bauta has more dignity and school pride in one of his pinkie fingers than you could find in any of your beloved checks. The next time you feel it necessary to borrow a shock jock microphone to steal the spotlight so you can throw MY team under the bus, please come on by the house so I can set your shit straight once and for all.
Yes, and anyone else that would like to self-aggrandize or show off their pretentiousness or publicly self-gratify theirowndamnself, you can shut it too. And if you have any trouble with that directive, I have a house full of women that can slap that shit eating grin off your vainglorious face. You’ll blame your Saturday lackadaisicalness on the rain tomorrow, an irreverent stark contrast to Tanner’s crew that’ll have their mudboots in place before dawn. Then there’s those of you that won’t even realize it’s raining because you never even leave your mother’s basement where you have our coach’s face set up as a dart board that you use as your only means of daily exercise. It’s lazy, and poor, and ill-mannered, and cocky, and very Sakerlina-ish to pile on when the team is down just to hear your own whiny-assed Franny voice. It’s low-rent, cut-off jeans extraneous noise to squeal like a little bitch when the players are preparing to play the next game. You’re just a low-blow, talk show ho if you get anything out of throwing the team under the bus you drove into town while honking the horn with the hazards on.
Get a life Tark. Either come out from behind that microphone and speak up like a man, or go back to Minnesota until your balls freeze off once and for all.
Been saying it all week, but it’s time to play football instead of playing on the internet like children. Tomorrow it’s no more message boreds and twitter and innuendo and speculation and scenarios and rumors and soap operas and low budget drama. It’s time to crack some skulls that aren’t our own. It’s time to see just how down our hunker can get. It’s time to set aside this mess we’ve made and sit at the big boy table.
It’s time to be men about our business. It’s time to tee it up between the hedges. Let us pray...Dear Lord, we’ve feasted on ourselves for weeks. Please help us to put down the fork and raise our voices in unison. Also, please help Schotty spell t-o-u-c-h-d-o-w-n correctly. Amen.
