(Montage above by the divine Holly at EDSBS.)
It’s that time of the year again.
It’s the time where I will do all my beer and food shopping on Fridays because I know I’m not leaving my apartment the next day unless someone with a bigger set calls and says to come over and watch the game at his place.
It’s the time where I will wake up at 8 AM in the morning on a Saturday after a night of boozing because I want to see what ingenious, punny, and borderline dirty slogans college students will put on signs to raise behind the heads of Chris Fowler, Lee Corso, and Kirk Herbstreit.
It’s the season where even the most mundane and worthless of Big Televen games are welcomed into my home at 9 AM, even when Pam Ward is doing the play-by-play.
It’s the back-and-forth blog arguments about which conference schedules the most stupid cupcake games.
It’s another season of hating on Ohio State, Notre Dame, Nebraska, and UCLA — and not apologizing one bit for doing so.
It’s all about Lou Holtz blustering out his weekly pep talks.
It’s about walking twenty minutes to Spanos Stadium to watch Cal Poly’s I-AA squad get after those sons of bitches and eating tri-tip in the stands. (I can hear the screams from my apartment. The Mustangs are headed to Camp Randall this year to finish out Wisky’s season.)
It’s another season of yelling at the TV when my first half bet goes wrong and then trying to make up for it with a second half over/under.
It’s bitching at how the hell athletic directors can let their teams wear uniforms that make the players look like failed modern art projects (Oregon, West Virginia’s all-yellow muck, Cal’s mustard home jerseys, the Oregon State orange “bib” effect, just about every team in the Big East not named Rutgers, Tennessee’s all-Creamiscle orange get-up.)
(That is some fugly-ass stuff right there, U. of Nike.)
It’s about Verne Lundquist and Gary Danielson calling the SEC on CBS.
It’s me cussing at my computer when Yahoo’s feed of Raycom/Lincoln Financial SEC games craps out or at the Three Daves when they say something incredibly stupid.
It’s about Rey Maualuga causing another limp-off.
(Juice Williams is still feeling that one.)
It’s wondering how Kirk Ferentz manages to stay employed in Iowa City two years after Drew Tate carried his ass to bowl games and after numerous arrests that have left even the most partisan Iowa fan drowning in Hawkeye vodka.
It’s cussing out ABC for sticking me with some shitty, meaningless game involving a mediocre Pac-10 team or two rather than something actually competitive (read: Michigan State-Cal this Saturday instead of Alabama-Clemson.)
It’s memories of me getting up in college and driving an hour to Iowa City to catch a Hawkeye home game, because D-III football didn’t quite solve the fix.
It’s making sure I’m as drunk as Brent Musberger is when he calls the Saturday night game, even if I’m not playing the drinking game. (“YOU ARE LOOKING LIVE AT THE NECK OF MY BEER!”)
It’s BOOM, MOTHERFUCKER.
(Thrilled Will Muschamp went to Texas, cuz Bob Stoops is gonna hate his ass.)
It’s another season of Zombie Joe Paterno.
It’s Hawai’i games at 8 PM Pacific, as if the 12 hours I just spent on my couch weren’t enough.
It’s another season of Mark Mangino fat jokes, particularly if he breaks out the velour tracksuit again.
(Stacey Dales looks ready to puke about the fashion choice.)
It’s ogling Ms. Dales and Erin Andrews because they’re pretty and on the sidelines.
It’s more arguments about the merits of a playoff system versus the corrupt bullshit that is the BCS, and realizing yet again that without the arguments about the post-season, college football is nothing.
It’s Mike Leach rising to the mantle of Steve Spurrier for most colorful coach in college football. Yarrrrr.
It’s watching how hot the seat is for Ty Willingham, Tommy Bowden, and MIke Stoops.
It’s about getting that wood.
It’s another season of seeing a new #2 team every week in the polls, not having a fucking clue as to who will really wind up there at the end of the season.
It’s where you can’t go more than 2 losses and still hope to be in the national championship picture.
It’s waiting and watching to see whether this year’s anointed non-BCS school will crash the big boy bowl party.
It’s another December filled with manufactured, useless, bullshit bowls that I will watch every second of and enjoy; never mind the fact that I’ve probably not watched a minute of the teams previously.
It’s me entering a contest at work for a giant, analog projection TV giveaway because I need a bigger set to absorb the full impact of hits, lack of HD be damned.
It’s about watching an entire game just to catch the halftime performances of the marching bands of two great HBCUs.
It’s the annual insanity of arguments over a trophy in the shape of a stiff-arm pose decided on by people at the New York Athletic Club, as if they have any better knowledge of who the best player in the country is than anyone else.
It’s time for Ralphie to run free.
I’m ready to chop-block the next person who comes near me. I’m as jacked as Pete Carroll. Let’s do this.