LONG * read but funny * hell. #3 Herbstreit one is great as well as #6

DerHntr · Aug 27, 2008

if germans than delete the damn thing.

<div class="pkg" id="banner"> <div class="pkg" id="banner-inner"> <h1 id="banner-header">Gump For Heisman</h1> <h2 id="banner-description"></h2> </div> </div> <div class="pkg" id="alpha"> <div class="pkg" id="alpha-inner"> Gump4Heisman's 10 Things To Look Forward To This College Football Season <div class="entry" id="entry-54542198"> <div class="entry-content"> <div class="entry-body">

10) Getting into it with 'The Greatest Generation'

'Sit down.' 'We can't see the game.' 'I pay money for these seats.' 'I like Ike.'

You're bound to hear it. You're at a game. You stand up. You cheer. And, mostly, it goes by unnoticed.

Then, at some point, the grey-hairs in the back start bitching. And rightfully so. The way they see it, they didn't see their buddies die face down in the Battle of Antietam so young whippersnappers in zoot suits could stand up and act all uppity.

You pay it no mind. You glance back. Finally, the smuggled sock-bourbon forces it out of you:

'Listen old man, it's 4th and 1. Either stand up and watch, or just imagine the **** like you did during the golden era of radio.'

And before you know it, you have General Longstreet's superior officer coming at you with an AARP seat cushion like he's Sonny Corleone by an open fire hydrant.

The fight will rage on for eternity.

You'll never see eye-to-eye. And not just because he's bent over like an on-duty prostitute. Because you're from two entirely different worlds.

When you were in college, 50 Cent was a rapper. When he was in college, 50 Cent was a damn good salary.

9) Going back to campus and exaggerating how much *** you'd re-get in college

If you were still in college, you would get so much *****.

You would smash *** at such an record-shattering pace that it would lead to televised Senate hearings. See that hot girl? You would tap it. That blonde? You would crush it. The curly-headed one? Your id just %$#@@+ the **** out of her id. Doggystyle.

'Man, do you know what I would do if I were still in college?'

If you were still in college, parents would send their daughters to school with %!$$%@* wrought-iron panties. Dads would order their daughter's va-jay-jays to retreat to Helm's Deep to avoid being ransacked by the massive armies of your cock.

Never mind real life, and all the times you went home empty-handed and jerked it to Windows-Media-Player-porn.

Nevermind all the times you got shot down in front of the entire %!$$%@* bar, took home the fatty, or got too drunk to spit game and was turned down by an army of 3 A.M. Plan B's.

Because if you could do it again, you would be %!$$%@* Pierce-Brosnan-with-the-cameras-rolling. Your dick would be so active, it would have a resume. You would @#!$ until '1-UP's starting popping up over your head. You would would @#!$ like Star Power.

Oh, and all the girls now are hotter than they were when you were there.

All of them. You have to say it. It's a rule. It has nothing to do with the fact that you're used to working in an office all day with 35-year old women with tank asses and titties that look like Zip-loc bags full of water.

21 year-old girls now are hotter than 21 year-old girls were in the ancient bygone era of 1998-2002.

Uh huh. And you could bag them all.

8) Your girlfriend/wife questioning your sanity

Somewhere between the broken remote control and you shouting repeated obscenities at a 37"-inch Samsung LCD TV, it's bound to happen.

'You're crazy.'

She's right. You are %!$$%@* crazy. You're bat-****. And you know it. Then again, it's the fall. 90,000 other people in hundreds of American cities go bat-**** every Saturday.

She just doesn't understand. She's a woman. And women are irrational. Women are so irrational they don't understand why you spend 15% of your salary on season tickets and love your starting quarterback and hate your starting quarterback and love your starting quarterback and let the actions of 19 year-old strangers dictate your mood for one-fourth of the Caesarian calendar.

They just don't get it. Crazy bitches.

7) Deciphering incoherent message board code

'RTR.' 'WDE.' 'JFK.' 'FDR.'

WTF does any of this mean?

What in the name of monogrammed towels is going on?

No one knows, but in the midst of logging on to your team's message board and trying to find legit info, you'll want to find out. Because entering a message board as an abbreviation-virgin can be like the real thing: painful and confusing.

It starts out innocently enough. You log on in search of inside info on USC's new 13-star quarterback signee. You click on a thread that catches your interest, and - boom - it's like you're playing scrabble with Gary Busey.

'LMAO.' 'ROTFL.' 'IMHO.' 'STFU.' If these aren't the caps-lock ramblings of a deranged lunatic, well then just what in the @#!$ are they?

They're message board abbreviations. And it's college football season. So make like Nicholas Cage and decipher that **** ASAP.

What does all of this mean?

DLAMJFTSOFY.

(Don't Look At Me Just Figure That **** Out For Yourself.) </div><a id="more"></a> <div class="entry-more">

6) Breaking the spirit of the irritating small-school fan

You know that guy in your office, who invariably went to some non-BCS school, that's more of an annoying **** than Gilbert Gottfried in a full ****** outfit? You know, the guy who cheers for the impossibly mediocre program yet has unbearably high expectations at the start of every season?

"Man, I don't know, I just have this feeling this year. If our transfer JUCO QB can come around and the 12 freshmen on our offensive line can step up, I think our brand-new inexperienced coordinator will have a lot to work with and it won't really matter than our only scholarship running back runs a 23-minute 40. Shoot, we might surprise some folks in the [insert conference of choice]."

No, you aren't surprising anyone. Your team's mascot should be Danny Devito. Your favorite team is a legalized midget. And yet every year you display the same @#!$-me-in-the-brain hope syndrome.

And last year only made things worse. Giving these ******** the parity-driven '07 season was like handing a homeless guy the keys to a non-existant Jaguar. False hope abounds.

South Florida. Boston College. Appalachian State. Kansas.

Thanks Football Gods. Now, dumb ******** everywhere think teams like the Tulane Green Wave are going to pull a BCS six-peat.

At the start of the season, these small-time dreamers are more annoying than big-school blowhards.

But, come October, when their team is sporting a fat 3-loss lip, the bounce in their step has been replaced by cold, hard, satisfying reality.

If you have a state university coffee mug, this is the time to bring it to work.

5) Making hung-over Fantasy Football decisions

If you're a true college football fan, you don't give a proper @#!$ about the NFL. You watch it, you like it, you follow it. But you don't really give a @#!$ about it. To true college fans, the NFL is like the show that came on HBO after a really good episode of The Sopranos. Just because it's on your TV screen, doesn't mean you care what happens.

And so, in the choice between Saturday night and Sunday morning, Sunday morning gets run over like a fleet-footed possum.

The after-effect of this concrete fact? Fantasy football shame.

Should you go with Marshawn Lynch against the Patriots D or go to the bathroom and puke straight vodka?

Did you sleep in? Did you get lucky last night? Were you two up until sunrise playing 'Tag, you're it' with your pants down? Good for you. Hope you enjoyed it. Because while she might have been the one getting pounded last night, once 12:00 P.M. strikes, it's your turn Cinderella.

And in your sad state, you're %$#@@+. Your clothes smell like the Zoo. Your hair smells like Afghanistan. You aren't fit to lead a group of men onto the football field. You aren't fit to lead a group of men to Waffle House.

And when you come around to your senses at 8:34 P.M. with your fantasy team down 42-116, you have only your college fanaticism to blame.

What were you thinking sitting Edgerrin James against the SF D/ST? Why did you think Eli Manning was a must-start against the BYE?

Because you didn't know what the @#!$ you were doing, that's why.

Because your left eye was shut like the door to George Wallace's guest house.

Because you couldn't see straight. Because you couldn't see at all. Because your face looked like Rocky Balboa's at the end of Rocky IV.

Because you needed a bald sweaty black guy over your shoulder yelling "Start the one in the middle!" to even have a %!$$%@* chance.

Because either set your %!$$%@* fantasy line-ups during the week, or get Clubber-Langed. Fool.

4) Mooching the tailgate HD

There are some things that are just meant to be mooched. WiFi. Cigarettes. Domestic fridge beer. And campus-tailgate HDTVs.

You know. You're tailgating it up in a grass field full of tents as far as the eye can see. You were too lazy to get into town early, but you know a buddy who knows a guy who knows a guy who has a tailgate. And an hour after you roll into to town, you roll by the tent.

The HD is just sitting there. Big, bright, shiny. Go ahead. Mooch it. Ask the score. Squint. Lurk. Who gives a @#!$ if you don't know the tent owner from Adam? That's not what's important here.

What's important here is that it's 6:48 left in the 4th and Ole Miss is about to go up on Georgia.

'Hey, does anyone know the Ole Miss-Georgia score?'

Yea, the guy with the giant %!$$%@* TV knows it. Now quit asking questions and go mooch the HD.

The owner of the HD wants you to mooch it. The HD itself wants you to mooch it.

It's like a girl in a hoochie skirt at a nightclub. Do you think she spent all that time picking out her slut-gear and putting on her slut-gear and hiking-up her slut-gear and setting up her slut-gear... so that guys WOULDN'T stare at it?

Of course not. She wants you to stare at it. And not just one or two guys. Every guy who walks by it. She brought it out in public for that exact reason.

Sure, you stare at it long enough and she'll turn around and give you a look. Don't be fooled. She loves it. She loves the attention.

It's the same way with tailgate HD. Mooch and mooch hard.

And before you start to feel guilty, remember, there's nothing wrong with just lookin'.

The best way to HD-mooch is to just glance at a TV screen that's naturally within your view/conversation. So long as you're not stealing chairs, no one should give a @#!$.

And if they do, @#!$ them. Keep staring. Or, just go find another one to stare at. There are plenty of fish in the HD-tailgating sea.

If a 37-incher wants to play hard-to-get, @#!$ that *****. Go find a 40-inch.

But don't just go for one just because you're desperate. If there's some box with %!$$%@* rabbit ears sitting under a near-empty tent, don't just make a beeline for it, no matter how desperate you are for the Ohio State score. Use your %!$$%@* cellphone if you want it that bad. Or, just pound a few beers and say '@#!$ it. TV's TV.' We've all been there.

Haven't found one yet? Relax. There's bound to be a 47-inch HD beauty nestled somewhere in this grassy Saturday paradise.

Remember, alumni are rich as ****. How else do you think college football players make so much? Now go find you some damn HD.

Walk by. Look. Stare. Mooch. Mooch the HD. Hell, if you're close enough, mooch the Fritos.

3) Dreaming about being Kirk Herbstreit

Don't sit here and %!$$%@* lie. Don't even act, for one second, like you've never gazed into the handsome wonder that is Kirk Herbstreit's face and thought 'That guy gets more skirt-warmth during one commercial break than I got my Freshmen-to-Junior years.'

Go ahead. Stare. It isn't gay. It's actually quite the opposite.

Imagine showing up for work and your boss saying:

"OK (your name), what we need you to do today is to go to a college campus full of hot ***** and be good-looking on national television. Oh, and be sure to watch plenty of football, talk about plenty of football, and hang out with plenty of uber-famous football coaches. Anyway, here's your hotel key and a few extra copies for any big busty sluts that happen to throw themselves in the general vicinity of your cock during the upcoming Thursday-Sunday time frame."

You love you some Herbstreit. And please, no comments about the gelled hair. You aren't fooling anyone. You're jealous. You'd gel your pubes with hot kitchen grease if it meant taking Kirk Herbstreit's job for 15 minutes.

Why do you think your girlfriend lets you watch College Gameday, you dense @#!$? Because while you're busy geeking out over which cartoon-animal-face Lee Corso is going to put on top of his head, she's going for an imaginary ride on Kirk Herbsteit's pelvis.

You think you're jealous? How do you think other former mediocre Ohio State quarterbacks feel? How %!$$%@* pissed would you be if you were Craig Krenzel? While Herbstreit is out smashing on hot Big-12 puss, you're sitting at home jerking it to the 2002 calendar year and having wet dreams about phantom pass interference calls.

Coming to movie theatres this fall: Being Kirk Herbstreit. 'Three college-football fanatics find a secret portal to Kirk Herbstreit's head and discover an endless world of fame, college football, and hot sex as they embark on a spiritual journey of vaj-pounding across ACC/SEC/PAC-10 country.'

2) Chastising Wal-Mart jerseys

Much like sixteenth-century Britain, in the world of college football, there are social classes. Hierarchies, if you will.

And grown men in Wal-Mart jerseys are the %!$$%@* indentured servants of college football fandom. Everyone looks down on them. And for good reason.

Because if you could afford season tickets, Miller Lite, a wife, and the gas money to get to your favorite college town, you can afford a real %!$$%@* jersey.

Not a %!$$%@* Wal-Mart jersey.

We all know Wal-Mart jerseys. Those hideous team-oriented nylon beasts ugly enough to double as a future throwback for the 2046 Cincinnati Bengals.

We all know them. And we all hate them.

For instance, there is perhaps no jersey in college football as simple and elegant as the white-on-red home uni of the Alabama Crimson Tide. And what better way to show your home-game allegiance to an old-school masterpiece than by trashing it up with white zebra stripes, 3D numbers, grey shoulder squares and D-cup-sized elephant logos?

No matter what your education-level, job-status, career, salary, athletic ability, talent, house-size, dick-size, primary-TV-size, or ***-getting ability, you may forever look down on anyone in a jersey purchased from the king of Everyday Low Prices.

You could be a janitor with a two-inch dick, a GED and a publicly visible STD, and so long as you're a college football fan, you have total social permission to chastise any man in a Wal-Mart football jersey.

It doesn't matter if he's the CEO of the %!$$%@* Northern Hemisphere. His jersey looks like something a Chinese Rugby team would wear. To practice.

You could put the King of England in a Wal-Mart jersey and he'd immediately be labeled a redneck douche of epic proportions.

Wal-Mart jerseys. The college football equivalent of a fanny-pack.

1) ESPN will be out to get you.

ESPN hates you.

And more importantly, ESPN hates your team.

ESPN will go to any length to diss your team. Any length. You know that LSU coozie you used to have but can't seem to find? ESPN took it. Because ESPN hates LSU. That is, if LSU is your team.

It has nothing to do with you being too passionately involved in both liking your team and hating other teams. ESPN just likes to @#!$ with your head. That's why when Mark May says something like 'LSU has question marks at quarterback. Watch out for Florida in this one' you get pissed. Sure, you just read the same thing in the Times Picayune. But the Times Picayune isn't ESPN - who clearly is having a love affair with Urban Meyer and the Gators while simultaneously throwing the LSU Bengal Tigers under the bus every chance they get.

Unless you're a Florida fan. In which case the time that Chris Fowler made that dig about Urban Meyer's 28-point loss to Alabama is clear evidence of an ESPN-wide plan to, in fact, shut the UF football program down.

Remember that time ESPN ran a story about your favorite player getting arrested? Nevermind that he actually did get arrested. That's ********. ESPN is ********. And it is obvious that, by running timely stories about factual events, ESPN is biased against your team.

It doesn't matter who you pull for.

Whoever your favorite team is, ESPN hates it. ESPN hates anything you love, and loves anything you hate.

ESPN hates your dad. Unless you hate your dad. In which case ESPN loves your dad.

If you love bread, ESPN is 'anti-sandwich.' If you hate end-pieces, ESPN will run a special about end pieces. Mark May will hold up two hard, crusty-*** end pieces and hype the **** out of them all year long. Bob Ley will run a special called 'Outside The Loaf.' Ivan Maisel will write a column with a pun-filled headline like 'The piece to the end puzzle' and mind-force you to read it and then email him in anger about it.

If you were for the Union, ESPN was for the Confederacy.

If you had a Sega Genesis, ESPN had a Super Nintendo. If you had a Super Nintendo, ESPN had Sega Genesis.

If you liked like Tombstone, ESPN liked Wyatt Earp.

If you preferred Use Your Illusion I, ESPN preferred Use Your Illusion II.

If you pulled for Dan, ESPN pulled for Dave.

If you think OJ is guilty, ESPN is black.

ESPN hates everything you stand for. Unless you stand for something else. Then ESPN hates that too. </div> </div> <div class="entry-footer">

</a>

[url="http://click.linksynergy.com/fs-bin/click?id=6WwkUL73UPs&offerid=86407.10000045&type=4&subid=0"]

http://click.linksynergy.com/fs-bin/click?id=6WwkUL73UPs&offerid=135152.10000002&type=4&subid=0

http://click.linksynergy.com/fs-bin/click?id=6WwkUL73UPs&offerid=101680.10000002&type=4&subid=0

<a href="http://click.linksynergy.com/fs-bin/click?id=6WwkUL73UPs&offerid=129871.10000066&type=4&subid=0">[/url]

</div> </div> </div> </div>

DerHntr · Aug 27, 2008

if germans than delete the damn thing.

<div class="pkg" id="banner"> <div class="pkg" id="banner-inner"> <h1 id="banner-header">Gump For Heisman</h1> <h2 id="banner-description"></h2> </div> </div> <div class="pkg" id="alpha"> <div class="pkg" id="alpha-inner"> Gump4Heisman's 10 Things To Look Forward To This College Football Season <div class="entry" id="entry-54542198"> <div class="entry-content"> <div class="entry-body">

10) Getting into it with 'The Greatest Generation'

'Sit down.' 'We can't see the game.' 'I pay money for these seats.' 'I like Ike.'

You're bound to hear it. You're at a game. You stand up. You cheer. And, mostly, it goes by unnoticed.

Then, at some point, the grey-hairs in the back start bitching. And rightfully so. The way they see it, they didn't see their buddies die face down in the Battle of Antietam so young whippersnappers in zoot suits could stand up and act all uppity.

You pay it no mind. You glance back. Finally, the smuggled sock-bourbon forces it out of you:

'Listen old man, it's 4th and 1. Either stand up and watch, or just imagine the **** like you did during the golden era of radio.'

And before you know it, you have General Longstreet's superior officer coming at you with an AARP seat cushion like he's Sonny Corleone by an open fire hydrant.

The fight will rage on for eternity.

You'll never see eye-to-eye. And not just because he's bent over like an on-duty prostitute. Because you're from two entirely different worlds.

When you were in college, 50 Cent was a rapper. When he was in college, 50 Cent was a damn good salary.

9) Going back to campus and exaggerating how much *** you'd re-get in college

If you were still in college, you would get so much *****.

You would smash *** at such an record-shattering pace that it would lead to televised Senate hearings. See that hot girl? You would tap it. That blonde? You would crush it. The curly-headed one? Your id just %$#@@+ the **** out of her id. Doggystyle.

'Man, do you know what I would do if I were still in college?'

If you were still in college, parents would send their daughters to school with %!$$%@* wrought-iron panties. Dads would order their daughter's va-jay-jays to retreat to Helm's Deep to avoid being ransacked by the massive armies of your cock.

Never mind real life, and all the times you went home empty-handed and jerked it to Windows-Media-Player-porn.

Nevermind all the times you got shot down in front of the entire %!$$%@* bar, took home the fatty, or got too drunk to spit game and was turned down by an army of 3 A.M. Plan B's.

Because if you could do it again, you would be %!$$%@* Pierce-Brosnan-with-the-cameras-rolling. Your dick would be so active, it would have a resume. You would @#!$ until '1-UP's starting popping up over your head. You would would @#!$ like Star Power.

Oh, and all the girls now are hotter than they were when you were there.

All of them. You have to say it. It's a rule. It has nothing to do with the fact that you're used to working in an office all day with 35-year old women with tank asses and titties that look like Zip-loc bags full of water.

21 year-old girls now are hotter than 21 year-old girls were in the ancient bygone era of 1998-2002.

Uh huh. And you could bag them all.

8) Your girlfriend/wife questioning your sanity

Somewhere between the broken remote control and you shouting repeated obscenities at a 37"-inch Samsung LCD TV, it's bound to happen.

'You're crazy.'

She's right. You are %!$$%@* crazy. You're bat-****. And you know it. Then again, it's the fall. 90,000 other people in hundreds of American cities go bat-**** every Saturday.

She just doesn't understand. She's a woman. And women are irrational. Women are so irrational they don't understand why you spend 15% of your salary on season tickets and love your starting quarterback and hate your starting quarterback and love your starting quarterback and let the actions of 19 year-old strangers dictate your mood for one-fourth of the Caesarian calendar.

They just don't get it. Crazy bitches.

7) Deciphering incoherent message board code

'RTR.' 'WDE.' 'JFK.' 'FDR.'

WTF does any of this mean?

What in the name of monogrammed towels is going on?

No one knows, but in the midst of logging on to your team's message board and trying to find legit info, you'll want to find out. Because entering a message board as an abbreviation-virgin can be like the real thing: painful and confusing.

It starts out innocently enough. You log on in search of inside info on USC's new 13-star quarterback signee. You click on a thread that catches your interest, and - boom - it's like you're playing scrabble with Gary Busey.

'LMAO.' 'ROTFL.' 'IMHO.' 'STFU.' If these aren't the caps-lock ramblings of a deranged lunatic, well then just what in the @#!$ are they?

They're message board abbreviations. And it's college football season. So make like Nicholas Cage and decipher that **** ASAP.

What does all of this mean?

DLAMJFTSOFY.

(Don't Look At Me Just Figure That **** Out For Yourself.) </div><a id="more"></a> <div class="entry-more">

6) Breaking the spirit of the irritating small-school fan

You know that guy in your office, who invariably went to some non-BCS school, that's more of an annoying **** than Gilbert Gottfried in a full ****** outfit? You know, the guy who cheers for the impossibly mediocre program yet has unbearably high expectations at the start of every season?

"Man, I don't know, I just have this feeling this year. If our transfer JUCO QB can come around and the 12 freshmen on our offensive line can step up, I think our brand-new inexperienced coordinator will have a lot to work with and it won't really matter than our only scholarship running back runs a 23-minute 40. Shoot, we might surprise some folks in the [insert conference of choice]."

No, you aren't surprising anyone. Your team's mascot should be Danny Devito. Your favorite team is a legalized midget. And yet every year you display the same @#!$-me-in-the-brain hope syndrome.

And last year only made things worse. Giving these ******** the parity-driven '07 season was like handing a homeless guy the keys to a non-existant Jaguar. False hope abounds.

South Florida. Boston College. Appalachian State. Kansas.

Thanks Football Gods. Now, dumb ******** everywhere think teams like the Tulane Green Wave are going to pull a BCS six-peat.

At the start of the season, these small-time dreamers are more annoying than big-school blowhards.

But, come October, when their team is sporting a fat 3-loss lip, the bounce in their step has been replaced by cold, hard, satisfying reality.

If you have a state university coffee mug, this is the time to bring it to work.

5) Making hung-over Fantasy Football decisions

If you're a true college football fan, you don't give a proper @#!$ about the NFL. You watch it, you like it, you follow it. But you don't really give a @#!$ about it. To true college fans, the NFL is like the show that came on HBO after a really good episode of The Sopranos. Just because it's on your TV screen, doesn't mean you care what happens.

And so, in the choice between Saturday night and Sunday morning, Sunday morning gets run over like a fleet-footed possum.

The after-effect of this concrete fact? Fantasy football shame.

Should you go with Marshawn Lynch against the Patriots D or go to the bathroom and puke straight vodka?

Did you sleep in? Did you get lucky last night? Were you two up until sunrise playing 'Tag, you're it' with your pants down? Good for you. Hope you enjoyed it. Because while she might have been the one getting pounded last night, once 12:00 P.M. strikes, it's your turn Cinderella.

And in your sad state, you're %$#@@+. Your clothes smell like the Zoo. Your hair smells like Afghanistan. You aren't fit to lead a group of men onto the football field. You aren't fit to lead a group of men to Waffle House.

And when you come around to your senses at 8:34 P.M. with your fantasy team down 42-116, you have only your college fanaticism to blame.

What were you thinking sitting Edgerrin James against the SF D/ST? Why did you think Eli Manning was a must-start against the BYE?

Because you didn't know what the @#!$ you were doing, that's why.

Because your left eye was shut like the door to George Wallace's guest house.

Because you couldn't see straight. Because you couldn't see at all. Because your face looked like Rocky Balboa's at the end of Rocky IV.

Because you needed a bald sweaty black guy over your shoulder yelling "Start the one in the middle!" to even have a %!$$%@* chance.

Because either set your %!$$%@* fantasy line-ups during the week, or get Clubber-Langed. Fool.

4) Mooching the tailgate HD

There are some things that are just meant to be mooched. WiFi. Cigarettes. Domestic fridge beer. And campus-tailgate HDTVs.

You know. You're tailgating it up in a grass field full of tents as far as the eye can see. You were too lazy to get into town early, but you know a buddy who knows a guy who knows a guy who has a tailgate. And an hour after you roll into to town, you roll by the tent.

The HD is just sitting there. Big, bright, shiny. Go ahead. Mooch it. Ask the score. Squint. Lurk. Who gives a @#!$ if you don't know the tent owner from Adam? That's not what's important here.

What's important here is that it's 6:48 left in the 4th and Ole Miss is about to go up on Georgia.

'Hey, does anyone know the Ole Miss-Georgia score?'

Yea, the guy with the giant %!$$%@* TV knows it. Now quit asking questions and go mooch the HD.

The owner of the HD wants you to mooch it. The HD itself wants you to mooch it.

It's like a girl in a hoochie skirt at a nightclub. Do you think she spent all that time picking out her slut-gear and putting on her slut-gear and hiking-up her slut-gear and setting up her slut-gear... so that guys WOULDN'T stare at it?

Of course not. She wants you to stare at it. And not just one or two guys. Every guy who walks by it. She brought it out in public for that exact reason.

Sure, you stare at it long enough and she'll turn around and give you a look. Don't be fooled. She loves it. She loves the attention.

It's the same way with tailgate HD. Mooch and mooch hard.

And before you start to feel guilty, remember, there's nothing wrong with just lookin'.

The best way to HD-mooch is to just glance at a TV screen that's naturally within your view/conversation. So long as you're not stealing chairs, no one should give a @#!$.

And if they do, @#!$ them. Keep staring. Or, just go find another one to stare at. There are plenty of fish in the HD-tailgating sea.

If a 37-incher wants to play hard-to-get, @#!$ that *****. Go find a 40-inch.

But don't just go for one just because you're desperate. If there's some box with %!$$%@* rabbit ears sitting under a near-empty tent, don't just make a beeline for it, no matter how desperate you are for the Ohio State score. Use your %!$$%@* cellphone if you want it that bad. Or, just pound a few beers and say '@#!$ it. TV's TV.' We've all been there.

Haven't found one yet? Relax. There's bound to be a 47-inch HD beauty nestled somewhere in this grassy Saturday paradise.

Remember, alumni are rich as ****. How else do you think college football players make so much? Now go find you some damn HD.

Walk by. Look. Stare. Mooch. Mooch the HD. Hell, if you're close enough, mooch the Fritos.

3) Dreaming about being Kirk Herbstreit

Don't sit here and %!$$%@* lie. Don't even act, for one second, like you've never gazed into the handsome wonder that is Kirk Herbstreit's face and thought 'That guy gets more skirt-warmth during one commercial break than I got my Freshmen-to-Junior years.'

Go ahead. Stare. It isn't gay. It's actually quite the opposite.

Imagine showing up for work and your boss saying:

"OK (your name), what we need you to do today is to go to a college campus full of hot ***** and be good-looking on national television. Oh, and be sure to watch plenty of football, talk about plenty of football, and hang out with plenty of uber-famous football coaches. Anyway, here's your hotel key and a few extra copies for any big busty sluts that happen to throw themselves in the general vicinity of your cock during the upcoming Thursday-Sunday time frame."

You love you some Herbstreit. And please, no comments about the gelled hair. You aren't fooling anyone. You're jealous. You'd gel your pubes with hot kitchen grease if it meant taking Kirk Herbstreit's job for 15 minutes.

Why do you think your girlfriend lets you watch College Gameday, you dense @#!$? Because while you're busy geeking out over which cartoon-animal-face Lee Corso is going to put on top of his head, she's going for an imaginary ride on Kirk Herbsteit's pelvis.

You think you're jealous? How do you think other former mediocre Ohio State quarterbacks feel? How %!$$%@* pissed would you be if you were Craig Krenzel? While Herbstreit is out smashing on hot Big-12 puss, you're sitting at home jerking it to the 2002 calendar year and having wet dreams about phantom pass interference calls.

Coming to movie theatres this fall: Being Kirk Herbstreit. 'Three college-football fanatics find a secret portal to Kirk Herbstreit's head and discover an endless world of fame, college football, and hot sex as they embark on a spiritual journey of vaj-pounding across ACC/SEC/PAC-10 country.'

2) Chastising Wal-Mart jerseys

Much like sixteenth-century Britain, in the world of college football, there are social classes. Hierarchies, if you will.

And grown men in Wal-Mart jerseys are the %!$$%@* indentured servants of college football fandom. Everyone looks down on them. And for good reason.

Because if you could afford season tickets, Miller Lite, a wife, and the gas money to get to your favorite college town, you can afford a real %!$$%@* jersey.

Not a %!$$%@* Wal-Mart jersey.

We all know Wal-Mart jerseys. Those hideous team-oriented nylon beasts ugly enough to double as a future throwback for the 2046 Cincinnati Bengals.

We all know them. And we all hate them.

For instance, there is perhaps no jersey in college football as simple and elegant as the white-on-red home uni of the Alabama Crimson Tide. And what better way to show your home-game allegiance to an old-school masterpiece than by trashing it up with white zebra stripes, 3D numbers, grey shoulder squares and D-cup-sized elephant logos?

No matter what your education-level, job-status, career, salary, athletic ability, talent, house-size, dick-size, primary-TV-size, or ***-getting ability, you may forever look down on anyone in a jersey purchased from the king of Everyday Low Prices.

You could be a janitor with a two-inch dick, a GED and a publicly visible STD, and so long as you're a college football fan, you have total social permission to chastise any man in a Wal-Mart football jersey.

It doesn't matter if he's the CEO of the %!$$%@* Northern Hemisphere. His jersey looks like something a Chinese Rugby team would wear. To practice.

You could put the King of England in a Wal-Mart jersey and he'd immediately be labeled a redneck douche of epic proportions.

Wal-Mart jerseys. The college football equivalent of a fanny-pack.

1) ESPN will be out to get you.

ESPN hates you.

And more importantly, ESPN hates your team.

ESPN will go to any length to diss your team. Any length. You know that LSU coozie you used to have but can't seem to find? ESPN took it. Because ESPN hates LSU. That is, if LSU is your team.

It has nothing to do with you being too passionately involved in both liking your team and hating other teams. ESPN just likes to @#!$ with your head. That's why when Mark May says something like 'LSU has question marks at quarterback. Watch out for Florida in this one' you get pissed. Sure, you just read the same thing in the Times Picayune. But the Times Picayune isn't ESPN - who clearly is having a love affair with Urban Meyer and the Gators while simultaneously throwing the LSU Bengal Tigers under the bus every chance they get.

Unless you're a Florida fan. In which case the time that Chris Fowler made that dig about Urban Meyer's 28-point loss to Alabama is clear evidence of an ESPN-wide plan to, in fact, shut the UF football program down.

Remember that time ESPN ran a story about your favorite player getting arrested? Nevermind that he actually did get arrested. That's ********. ESPN is ********. And it is obvious that, by running timely stories about factual events, ESPN is biased against your team.

It doesn't matter who you pull for.

Whoever your favorite team is, ESPN hates it. ESPN hates anything you love, and loves anything you hate.

ESPN hates your dad. Unless you hate your dad. In which case ESPN loves your dad.

If you love bread, ESPN is 'anti-sandwich.' If you hate end-pieces, ESPN will run a special about end pieces. Mark May will hold up two hard, crusty-*** end pieces and hype the **** out of them all year long. Bob Ley will run a special called 'Outside The Loaf.' Ivan Maisel will write a column with a pun-filled headline like 'The piece to the end puzzle' and mind-force you to read it and then email him in anger about it.

If you were for the Union, ESPN was for the Confederacy.

If you had a Sega Genesis, ESPN had a Super Nintendo. If you had a Super Nintendo, ESPN had Sega Genesis.

If you liked like Tombstone, ESPN liked Wyatt Earp.

If you preferred Use Your Illusion I, ESPN preferred Use Your Illusion II.

If you pulled for Dan, ESPN pulled for Dave.

If you think OJ is guilty, ESPN is black.

ESPN hates everything you stand for. Unless you stand for something else. Then ESPN hates that too. </div> </div> <div class="entry-footer">

</a>

[url="http://click.linksynergy.com/fs-bin/click?id=6WwkUL73UPs&offerid=86407.10000045&type=4&subid=0"]

http://click.linksynergy.com/fs-bin/click?id=6WwkUL73UPs&offerid=135152.10000002&type=4&subid=0

http://click.linksynergy.com/fs-bin/click?id=6WwkUL73UPs&offerid=101680.10000002&type=4&subid=0

<a href="http://click.linksynergy.com/fs-bin/click?id=6WwkUL73UPs&offerid=129871.10000066&type=4&subid=0">[/url]

</div> </div> </div> </div>

biguglyjoe · Aug 27, 2008

#6 couldn't be more fitting considering who we play Saturday.

VirgilCain · Aug 27, 2008

especially when the abbreviation is harder to type than the actual name. A good example is HDN for Nutt... both are three different keys, and Nutt is so much easier to type (not an ill attempt at ole miss bashing, it was just the most recent example that pissed me off). I get the mental image of some middle-aged, computer illiterate, douche that thinks he's being hip and cutting edge.... which induces the anger sharks in my head.

Annnndd, cut... thats a wrap people, good work everybody

FlabLoser · Aug 27, 2008

Sometimes it takes effort to enjoy it more. TANSTAAFL.

dawgstudent · Aug 28, 2008

[No message]

jackstefano · Aug 28, 2008

"It starts out innocently enough. You log on in search of inside info on USC's new 13-star quarterback signee. You click on a thread that catches your interest, and - boom - it's like you're playing scrabble with Gary Busey."

MaleBovineK9 · Aug 28, 2008

If you love bread, ESPN is 'anti-sandwich.' If you hate end-pieces, ESPN will run a special about end pieces. Mark May will hold up two hard, crusty-*** end pieces and hype the **** out of them all year long. Bob Ley will run a special called 'Outside The Loaf.' Ivan Maisel will write a column with a pun-filled headline like 'The piece to the end puzzle' and mind-force you to read it and then email him in anger about it.

Shmuley · Aug 28, 2008

And please, no comments about the gelled hair. You aren't fooling anyone. You're jealous. You'd gel your pubes with hot kitchen grease if it meant taking Kirk Herbstreit's job for 15 minutes.

Why do you think your girlfriend lets you watch College Gameday, you dense @#!$? Because while you're busy geeking out over which cartoon-animal-face Lee Corso is going to put on top of his head, she's going for an imaginary ride on Kirk Herbsteit's pelvis.

MaleBovineK9 · Aug 28, 2008

You could be a janitor with a two-inch dick, a GED and a publicly visible STD, and so long as you're a college football fan, you have total social permission to chastise any man in a Wal-Mart football jersey.

dawgstudent · Aug 28, 2008

[No message]

HD6 · Aug 28, 2008

no member of this message board wrote that. It will be on that blog's archives, and that's enough.

ShaNaNa · Aug 28, 2008

dawgstudent · Aug 28, 2008

I have searched for the Texas Big 12 championship story to never find it again. It must be archived.

graddawg · Aug 28, 2008

I have it on my computer at home if you still need it.

Xenomorph · Aug 28, 2008

That was the only line I could specifically remember from the story.

This was the first hit: http://40acresports.blogs...t-fired-up-for-horns.html

6:00 Arise, play the Eyes of Texas and Texas Fight at
Full-freaking blast

6:20 Get in car, drive to New Braunfels

7:30 Tee off (me and a buddy were the FIRST tee-time of the
morning)

8:50 Turn 9 (crack open first beer)

8:53 Crack open second beer

8:58 Crack open...(you get the idea)

10:30 Finish 18 (holes, as well as beers), sign scorecard for
smoooooth 95

10:35 Headed for San Antonio (Alamodome - NU vs Texas)

10:50 Buy three 18-packs for pre- and post-game festivities

11:10 We decide we don't have enough booze, so we
double-back to a liquor store and buy the good ol' 750 ml
plastic bottle "Traveler" Jim Beam

11:50 Arrive at the tailgate spot. Awesome day. Not a single
cloud in the sky. About 70 degrees.

11:55 I decide that we're going to kick the **** out of Nebraska.

11:56 I tell my first Nebraska fan to go @$%% himself.

12:15 The UT band walks by on the way to the Alamodome.
We're on the second floor of a two-story parking garage on the
corner (a couple hundred of us). We're hooting and hollering like
wildmen. The band doubles back to the street right below us
and serenades us with Texas Fight and The Eyes of Texas.
AWESOME MOMENT.

12:25 In the post-serenade serendipity, 50-100 grown men are
bumping chests with one another, each and every one of them
now secure and certain of the fact that we are going to kick the
**** out of Nebraska.

1:00 The Nebraska band walks by on the way to the
Alamodome. Again, we hoot and holler like wildmen. Again, the
band doubles back and stops right below us to serenade us,
this time, however, with the Nebraska fight songs. Although
somewhat impressed by their spirit and verve, we remain
convinced that we are going to kick the **** out of Nebraska.

1:30 I begin the walk to the Alamodome, somehow managing to
stuff the "Traveler" and 11 cans of beer into my pants.

1:47 I am in line surrounded by Nebraska fans. They are
taunting me. I am taunting back, still certain that we are going to
kick the **** out of Nebraska. I decide to challenge a particularly
vocal Nebraska fan to play what I now call and will forever be
remembered as Cell-Phone Flop Out." Remember flop out for a
dollar? The rules are similar. I tell this Nebraska jackass that if
he's so confident in his team, he should "flop out" his cell phone
RIGHT NOW and make plane reservations to Phoenix for the
Fiesta Bowl. And then I spoke these memorable words: "And not
those damn refundable tickets, either! You request those
non-refundable, non-transferable sons-of-bitches!" He backs
down. He is unworthy. I call Southwest Airlines and buy two
tickets to Phoenix, non-refundable and non-transferable. Price:
$712. He is humbled. He lowers his head in shame. I raise my
cell phone in triumph to the cheers of hundreds of Texas fans. I
am KING and these are my subjects. I distribute the 11 beers in
my pants to the cheering masses. I RULE the pre-game
kingdom.

2:34 Kickoff. Brimming with confidence, I open the Traveler and
pour my first stiffy.

2:45 I notice something troubling: Nebraska is big. Nebraska is
fast. Nebraska is very pissed off at Texas.

3:01 The first quarter mercifully ends. 9 yards total offense for
Texas. Zero first downs for Texas. I'm still talking ****. I pour
another stiffy from the Traveler.

3:36 Four minutes to go in the first half: the Traveler is a dead
soldier. I buy my first $5 beer from the Alamodome merchants.
While I am standing in line, a center snap nearly decapitates
Major Applewhite and rolls out of the end zone. Safety

3:56 Halftime score: Nebraska 15, Texas 0. I wish I had another
Traveler.

4:11 While urinating next to a Nebraska fan in the bathroom at
halftime, I attempt to revive the classic Brice-ism from the South
Bend bathroom: "Hey, buddy, niiiiiiiiice cock." He is unamused.

4:21 I buy my 2nd and 3rd $5 beer from the Alamodome
merchants. I share my beer with two high school girls sitting
behind me. Surprisingly, they are equipped with a flask full of
vodka. I send them off to purchase Sprites, so that we may
consume their vodka. I have not lost faith. Nebraska is a bunch
of pussies.

4:51 No more vodka. The girls sitting behind me have fled for
their lives. I purchase two more $5 beers from the Alamodome
merchants.

5:18 Score is Nebraska 22, Texas 0. I am beginning to lose
faith. This normally would trouble me, but I am too drunk to see
the football field.

5:27 I call Southwest Airlines: "I'm sorry, sir. Those tickets have
been confirmed and are non-refundable and non-transferrable."

5:37 I try to start a fight with every person behind the concession
counter. As it turns out, the Alamodome has a policy that no beer
can be sold when there is less than 10 minutes on the game
clock. I am enraged by this policy. I ask loudly: "Why the @$%%
didn't you announce last call over the !$%$@*+ PA system??!!"

5:49 Back in my seats, I am slumped in my chair in defeat. All of
a sudden, the Texas crowd goes absolutely nuts. "Whazzis?," I
mutter, awaking from my coma, "Iz we winnig? Did wez scort?"
Alas, the answer is no, we were not winning and we did not
score. The largest (by far) cheer of the day from the Texas
faithful occurred when the handlers were walking back to the
tunnel and Bevo (the Texas mascot) stopped to take a
gargantuan **** all over the letters "S", "K", and "A" in the
"Nebraska" spelled out in their end zone. I cheer wildly. I pick up
he empty Traveler bottle and stick my tongue in it. I am thirsty.

6:16 Nebraska fans are going berserk as I walk back to the
truck. I would taunt them with some off-color remarks about their
parentage, but I am too drunk to form complete sentences. With
my last cognitive thought of the evening, I take solace in the fact
that if we had not beaten them in October, they would be playing
Florida State for the national championship.

6:30 Back in the car. On the way back to Austin for the basketball
game.

8:00 Texas-Arizona tip off. We can still salvage the day! I crack
open a beer. It is warm. I don't care.

7:12 We have stopped for gas. I am hungry. I go inside the
store. I walk past the beer frig. I notice a Zima. I've never had a
Zima. I wonder if it's any good. I pull a Zima from the frig. I twist
the top off and drink the Zima in three swallows. Zima sucks. I
replace the empty bottle in the frig.

7:17 There is a Blimpie Subs in the store. I walk to where the
ingredients are, where the person usually makes the sub. There
is no one there. I lean over the counter and scoop out half a
bucket of black olives. I eat them. I am still hungry. I lean further
over the counter and grab approximately two pounds of
Pastrami. I walk out of the store grunting and eating Pastrami.
The patrons in the store fear me. I don't care.

8:01 We are in South Austin. I have been drinking warm beer
and singing Brooks and Dunn tunes for over an hour. My
truck-mate is tired of my singing. He suggests that perhaps
Brooks and Dunn have written other good songs besides "You're
Going to Miss Me When I'm Gone" and "Neon Moon" and that
maybe listening to only those two songs, ten times each was a
bit excessive. Perhaps, he suggests, I could just let the CD play
on its own. I tell him to @$%% off and restart "Neon Moon."

8:30 We arrive at the Erwin Center. My truck-mate, against my
loud and profane protestations, parks on the top floor of a nearby
parking garage. I tell him he's an idiot. I tell him we will never get
out. I tell him we may as well pitch a !$%$@*+ tent here. He
ignores me. I think he's still pissed about the Brooks and Dunn
tunes. I whistle "Neon Moon" loudly.

8:47 I am rallying. I have 4 warm beers stuffed in my pants.
We're going to kick the **** out of Arizona.

9:11 Halftime score: Texas 31, Arizona 29. I am pleased. I go to
the bathroom to pee for the 67th time today. I giggle to myself
because of the new opportunity to do "the bathroom Brice." There
are no Arizona fans in the bathroom. I am disappointed. I tell
myself (out loud) that I have a "Niiiiiice cock." No one is amused
but me.

9:41 I walk to the bathroom while drinking Bud Light out of a can.
Needless to say, they do not sell beer at the Erwin Center, much
less Bud Light out of a can. I am stopped by an usher: "Where
did you get that, sir?" I tell him (no ****): "Oh, the cheerleaders
were throwing them up with those little plastic footballs. Would
you mind throwing this away for me?" I take the last swig and
hand it to him. He is confused. I pretend I'm going to the
bathroom, but I run away giggling instead. I duck into some
entrance to avoid the usher, who is now pursuing me. I sneak
into a large group of people and sit down. The usher walks by
harmlessly. I am giggling like a little girl. I crack open another
can of Bud Light.

9:52 I am lost. In my haste to avoid the usher, I have lost my
bearings. I have no ticket stub. I cannot find my seats. Texas is
losing.

10:09 Texas is being screwed by the refs. I am enraged. I have
cleared out the seats around me because I keep removing my
hat and beating the surrounding chairs with it. A concerned fan
asks if I'm OK and perhaps I shouldn't take it so seriously. I tell
him to @$%% off.

10:15 After the fourth consecutive "worst !$%$@*+ call I have
EVER seen," I attempt to remove my hat again to begin beating
inanimate objects. However, on this occasion I miscalculate and
I thumbnail myself in my left eyelid, leaving a one-quarter inch
gash over my eye. I am now bleeding into my left eye and all over
my shirt. "Perhaps," I think to myself, I'm taking this a bit
seriously."

10:22 I am standing in the bathroom peeing. I'm so drunk I am
swaying and grunting. I have a bloody napkin pressed on my left
eye. My pants are bloody. I have my (formerly) white shirt
wrapped around my waist. I look like I should be in an episode of
Cops.

10:43 Texas has lost. I put my bloody white shirt back on my
body and make my way for the exits. I am stopped every 20
seconds by a good samaritan/cop/security guard to ask me why I
am covered in blood, but I merely grunt incoherently and keep
moving.

10:59 With my one good eye, I have located the parking garage. I
walk up six flights of stairs, promise that when I see my friend I
will punch him in the face for making me walk up six flights of
stairs, find the truck, and collapse in a heap in the bed of the
truck. I look around and notice that traffic is lined up all the way
around the garage, six whole flights, and no one is moving. I take
a nap.

11:17 I awake from my nap. I see my friend in the driver's seat. I
lift my head to look out the bed of the truck and notice that traffic
is lined up all the way around the garage, six whole flights, and
no one is moving. I am too tired to punch my friend. I call my
friend a "Stupid **********."

11:31 I lift my head to look out the bed of the truck and notice that
traffic is lined up all the way around the garage, six whole flights,
and no one is moving. I call my friend a "Stupid **********."

11:38 I lift my head to look out the bed of the truck and notice that
traffic is lined up all the way around the garage, six whole flights,
and no one is moving. I call my friend a "Stupid **********."

11:47 I lift my head to look out the bed of the truck and notice that
traffic is lined up all the way around the garage, six whole flights,
and no one is moving. I call my friend a "Stupid **********."

11:58 I am jostled. The truck is moving. I lift my head to look out
the bed of the truck and notice that traffic is beginning to move on
the second floor. I jump out of the truck, walk to the edge of the
parking facility, and pee off the sixth floor onto the street below.
My friend looks at me like I just anally violated his minor sister. I
turn around pee on the front of his truck while singing the lyrics to
"Neon Moon."

12:11 We are moving. We are out of beer. I jump from the truck
and go from vehicle to vehicle until someone gives me two
beers. I am happy. I return to my vehicle

12:26 We have emerged from the parking facility. We make our
way to my apartment and find Ed sitting on the couch with a
freshly opened bottle of Glenlivet on the coffee table in front of
him. We are all going to die tonight.

12:59 We have finished three-quarters of the bottle of Glenlivet.
We decide it would be a wonderful idea to go dancing at
PollyEsther's. Ed has to pee. He walks down the hall to our
apartment and directly into he full length mirror at the end of the
hall, smashing it into hundreds of pieces. We giggle
uncontrollably and leave for PollyEsther's.

1:17 The PollyEsther's doorman laughs uncontrollably at our
efforts to enter his club. "Fellas," he says in between his fits of
spastic laughter," I've been working this door for almost a year.
I've been working doors in this town for almost 5 years. And I can
honestly say that I ain't never seen three drunker mother %*%%+!$
than you three. Sorry, can't let you in." We attempt to reason with
him. He laughs harder.

1:44 We find a bar that lets us in. We take two steps in the door
and hear "Last call for alcohol!" I turn to the group and mutter:
"See, dat wasn't that ******' hard. Day don't ******' do that at the
Awamo...the awaom...the alab...@$%% it, that stadium we was at
today..." We order 6 shots of tequila and three beers.

2:15 Back on the street. We need food. We hail a cab to take us
the two and one half blocks to Katz's. The cab fare is $1.60. We
give him $10 and tell him to keep it.

2:17 There is a 20 minute wait. We give the hostess $50. We
are seated immediately.

2:25 We order two orders of fried pickles, a Cobb salad, a bowl
of soup, two orders of Blueberry blintzes, two Reuben
sandwiches, a hamburger, two cheese stuffed potatoes, an
order of fries, and an order of onion rings.

2:39 The food arrives. We are all asleep with our heads onthe
table. The waiter wakes us up. We eat every !$%$@*+ bit of our
food. Most of the restaurant patrons around us are disgusted.
We don't give a @$%%. The tab is $112 with tip.

2:46 I'm sleepy.

9:12 I wake up next to a strange woman. She is the bartender at
Katz's. She is not pretty.

HOOK 'EM HORNS, BABY!!! Out-

ShaNaNa · Aug 28, 2008

<div class="pkg" id="alpha"> <div class="pkg" id="alpha-inner"> <div class="entry" id="entry-54542198"> <div class="entry-content"> <div class="entry-body">

Nevermind all the times you got shot down in front of the entire %!$$%@* bar, took home the fatty, or got too drunk to spit game and was turned down by an army of 3 A.M. Plan B's. </div> </div> </div> </div> </div>

I love me a fatty, they make for the best stories trying to recall why you smell like mustard in the morning and sneaking out of the room at 6:30 so not to wake her. I took home one the night before the 04 Florida game. I sacrificed myself for the good of the University

Ivehadbetter · Aug 28, 2008

Coach34 · Aug 28, 2008

dawgstudent said:
I have searched for the Texas Big 12 championship story to never find it again. It must be archived.

if you need it....that is my favorite story ever

ShaNaNa · Aug 28, 2008

Xenomorph said:
9:41 I walk to the bathroom while drinking Bud Light out of a can.
Needless to say, they do not sell beer at the Erwin Center, much
less Bud Light out of a can. I am stopped by an usher: "Where
did you get that, sir?" I tell him (no ****): "Oh, the cheerleaders
were throwing them up with those little plastic footballs. Would
you mind throwing this away for me?" I take the last swig and
hand it to him. He is confused. I pretend I'm going to the
bathroom, but I run away giggling instead. I duck into some
entrance to avoid the usher, who is now pursuing me. I sneak
into a large group of people and sit down. The usher walks by
harmlessly. I am giggling like a little girl. I crack open another
can of Bud Light.

I lost it right here

dawgstudent · Aug 28, 2008

the Zima part. When I googled - I used "Texas Fan Big 12 Championship".

ckDOG · Aug 28, 2008

And grown men in Wal-Mart jerseys are the %!$$%@* indentured servants of college football fandom. Everyone looks down on them. And for good reason.

Fixed it.

Grown men should never, under any circumstance, wear a jersey to a college football game. EVER.

jakldawg · Aug 28, 2008

probably from all the "Wal-Mart Wildcats" around here. I also look forward to #8 happening early and often Saturday.

Croomp · Aug 28, 2008

both of those are pretty damn funny

Stansfield · Aug 28, 2008

That is good stuff

HD6 · Aug 28, 2008

when I want to read that I google "Brice niiiice cock"

LONG *** read but funny *** hell. #3 Herbstreit one is great as well as #6

Well-known member

Well-known member

New member

New member

New member

Well-known member

New member

New member

Well-known member

New member

Well-known member

Active member

New member

Well-known member

Member

Well-known member

New member

New member

New member

New member

Well-known member

Well-known member

Member

New member

New member

Active member

LONG * read but funny * hell. #3 Herbstreit one is great as well as #6