“Well, Urban, you’re the one who didn’t get on the plane, gotta own that. I know, buddy. I know. Things do get blown out of proportion sometimes. The media IS liberal and biased. Well, OK then. You have as good of a night as you can, big man, and I’ll talk to you later. Mmhmm. That’s right. Bye!”
Jimbo clicks his right ear bud, terminating the call with Coach Meyer. Wasn’t much point in arguing with him, he knew he messed up, and Jimbo had other things on his mind anyway. First and foremost being the sheet of blotter paper in front of him. Fucking dealer printed it on Houndstooth. What an asshole.
Jimbo darkens the film room, places a piece of paper on his tongue, and clicks play on the remote to begin the film “Urban Wildcat.” It was a documentary recommended on the prior phone call to help stir up some ideas for this week’s contest. Maybe Jimbo could titillate his subconscious desire to mess around more on offense with running back porno working at the highest level.
But the universe had other plans. As soon as he clicked play, the reality Jimbo had been so comfortable in collapsed within itself. Coach was instantly transported to the moment of his own birth. Through his own eyes, he saw himself being removed from this birth canal… but this wasn’t the OBGYN holding him… it was.. someone else. Someone familiar.
“Got ‘em to give you a raise with my same record, huh? You’re pretty smart, aren’t ya?”
No, not Kevin. It couldn’t be.
“Yeah, I see what you’re doing, but that…” Coach Sumlin points to the bed where Jimbo’s mother once laid. It was empty minus a National Championship trophy with an uninscribed year. “That will remain unfilled unless you open. Your. Mind.”
SMACK. Jimbo felt the ass slap from Dr. Sumlin as it shot his spirit across time and space. Coach Fisher spoke to all the coaches past, present, and future. He watched every permutation and combination of universal outcomes for this game, and returned with the knowledge. He is ready. He has reached his final form.
“I’m getting $9 million next year, this shit doesn’t matter.”
Jimbo breathed a sigh of relief and changed the DVD. Ashton Kutcher and Seann William Scott won’t find that car by themselves. Gig ‘em.
300 CLUB—Sorry bowlers, not talking about the perfect game. The Aggie O is still in search of its first 300+ yard performance against a Power 5 team since January 2nd of this year (thanx Macky, we owe you one). There may even be a chance the streak continues past Saturday!
OTHER TRENDS— Were you aware that Alabama has scored a non-offensive touchdown in 75% of their visits to Kyle Field since realignment? Look it up if you don’t believe me or if you have self-loathing tendencies. Gig ‘Em!
ALL EYES ON WE— It’s prime time on CBS, which means evvverybody’s going to be tuning in to see how last weekend’s main character responds this week against Mean and Powerful Ex Boss. Who’s up for four hours of suspension in a chaotic trance with the whole world watching in grim curiosity to see what he’ll put us through next? It truly does just mean more.
- We may not beat Alabama, but at least we can say we crimson tried.
- Nick Saban’s knowledge of Texas A&M’s excellent punter never wavered. Nick constant, he knew.
- The refs must know what TV networks these games air on, because we know we’re gonna gonna see BS.
- This year is the 100th year anniversary of the 12th Man, and this Saturday we’ll need every bit of their help to avoid getting E. King killed.
Scattershooting while wondering whatever happened to Dennis Fran…eerrrr fucking shit again….Mike DuBose
- Hey Shooter, Mr. Positive, how are you doing at this point of the season? Well it’s a Tuesday night and I’m trying to figure out what to write. I’m drinking scotch and listening to The Smiths. And looking at a nude picture of Puddles the Duck. Damn Shooter what corner of the Internet did you find that? Haha . Well I’m a child of the 80’s which means I still know the best place to find the best smut is in the woods. There’s some truly sick pictures of Pistol Pete behind that sweetgum over there. Roll Tide and what not.
- We should just call the SEC Championship game between Bama and Georgia the National title game and be done with it. Then let all the other FBS teams get a lottery chance at the four playoff spots. Why the hell not. Imagine Oregon State and Bowling Green fans finding out they can spend the holidays in New Orleans for the Sugar Bowl. SMU and Wyoming in the Rose Bowl, who says no to that?!!
- You want to enjoy those special wins as an Aggie, that means you gotta sit through A&M-Alabama. You can’t just bail and pretend you live and die with this team. It’s time to go full on Opus Dei on Saturday night.
- The Oh Shit Trap Line of the Week: Michigan -3.5 at Nebraska. STAY AWAY!
- On the random chance we actually pull an upset? Smother yourself in horse paste, cross off 3-4 shot selections from the Dry Bean, and make out with as many people as you can in Northgate while carrying around a tambourine and claiming to be the 6th cousin twice removed of E. King Gill.
- Aggies Very Little to Sabantron7000 Death Machines Way Too Much, wager wisely mi amigos.
Each week we are proud to bring you a concession review by a dignitary associated with one of the schools involved in the game.
Just bring me a bottle of whiskey and a paper cup
by Bear Bryant
It ain’t a difficult request. I ain’t a picky sumbitch. I didn’t even specify what variety of whiskey. Tennessee, Bourbon, Canadian, Irish, hell, I’ll even pinch my nose and swallow down some Scotch. The whiskey part is the crux. You know what, just skip the paper cup and focus on the whiskey.
I find it somewhat hard to believe that in this entire futuristic superstructure there ain’t a single bar to be found that’ll serve a man plain whiskey in a paper cup. Maybe a pitcher of water on the table to splash in there if you’re driving later or somethin’. I don’t care what the cost is, and I imagine it is substantial considering I saw a bunch of booths selling draft beers in beach buckets for eighteen dollars a pop. I’m a supernatural being, so money is no object. Neither am I, for that matter, being in the form of a spirit, but I’m here again at Kyle Field anyway. Kinda like that 2010 Big Twelve Champ sign (rolls eyes).
I do two things: football and whiskey in paper cups. They go hand-in-hand: as in, I draw up my game plan with one hand while I sip whiskey out of a paper cup being held in the other. I don’t need a cut crystal decanter or mineral waters. No sir, I just need a half-decent bottle and a stack of cheap paper cups.
Especially when you’re about to make me watch one of my old teams do the sorts of things to another of my old teams that I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy. That enemy? You guessed it: the absence of whiskey and paper cups. Have mercy, Tide.