He had to regulate . . . the radio industry, that is.

My response to this bit of genius.

HJS asks the tough questions.

I don't have to be here talking to you right now, you know. I had multiple people offer to credential me at SEC Media Days, where I could be with Spence and Holly right now, rubbing elbows with journalists from around the country, stuffing my face with free Chick-fil-A biscuits while getting to interact with the top coaches and players in college football.

But instead I'm stuck at that job I was so happy about for some reason a couple months ago, so that ain't happening. But if I were there, these are the questions I'd ask:



WEDNESDAY
Alabama
For Nick Saban: When it was announced that USC was getting nut-punched by NCAA sanctions, how hard did you laugh, or did you not have time for that shit?
For RB Mark Ingram: How many times have you heard/read that Trent Richardson might actually be better than you, and how do you feel about that?
For QB Greg McElroy: For some reason I always feel like your first name should be spelled "Gregg." You ever feel like that?

Mississippi State
For Dan Mullen: I've never seen you and Rob Riggle in the same room before. Can you confirm, unequivocally, that you are not Rob Riggle?

Kentucky
For Joker Phillips: Am I the first person to have ever made a "Smoker"/"Midnight Toker" joke about you, or do you get that all time?
For WR/QB/RB/PR/KR Randall Cobb: Why don't you ever play tight end or offensive line? Are you fucking lazy or something?

Florida
For Urban Meyer: I think you're a pussy because you couldn't eat this Hardee's Monster Thickburger and then run a mile in under five minutes. Wanna bet me that you can?
C Mike Pouncey: I bet you'd like this nice, crisp hundred-dollar bill, huh?



THURSDAY
Georgia
For Mark Richt: I couldn't help but notice that you only had one Chick-fil-A biscuit this morning. Is that a sign that you're on the hot seat?
For P Drew Butler: Does "I'm the best punter in the country" help you get ass?

Arkansas
For Bobby Petrino: I'll say a job and you blink twice if you put your name in the mix for it, once if you didn't. OK, ready? USC. Tennessee. Washington Redskins. Vanderbilt. Argentine national soccer team. Barack Obama's old senate seat. Akron . . .
For QB Ryan Mallett: So that little knee-scooter thing you were riding around on this past spring: Did you feel, like, totally gay on that thing?
For DE Jake Bequette: The Arkansas defense has finished dead last in the SEC in both of Bobby Petrino's seasons as head coach. What are y'all doing to move up to 11th?

Vanderbilt
For interim head coach Robbie Caldwell: Wait, where's is Steve Martin?
Follow-up: No, seriously, where is he?
For LB Chris Marve: Look, I'm tired of playing games -- where the fuck is Steve Martin?

South Carolina
For Steve Spurrier: Does it eat at your soul that you're probably going to end your career winless against Lane Kiffin?
For FB Patrick DiMarco: Coach Spurrier brought only one offensive player to Media Days and it was his fullback. Let that sink in for a minute: his fullback. No, I don't actually have a question, I just wanted everyone to ponder that. OK, if I have to, here's a question: Dude, how awesome was "Inception"?!?



FRIDAY
Auburn
For Gene Chizik: Have people started calling you "13-24 Gene" yet?
For OT Lee Ziemba: Has Ryan Pugh ever gotten confused and tried to break your knees by mistake?

Tennessee
For Derek Dooley: Did you get to inherit all of Lane Kiffin's Ed Hardy shirts and Axe Body Spray, or did he take that stuff with him?
For LB Nick Reveiz: Not only are you and Janzen Jackson the only two halfway decent players left on Tennessee's roster, you're the only two who aren't facing a reasonably lengthy jail sentence at the moment. How are you handling the pressure?

LSU
For Les Miles: Coach, what time is it?

Ole Miss
For Houston Nutt: How long do you think you can hold this lit firecracker in your hand before it goes off?
For DE Kentrell Lockett: I don't really have any questions, I'm just gonna start this tape recorder and you say whatever comes to mind. Ready? . . .

Hi, everybody!

I'm back . . . and you may all consider yourselves iced.



But more to the point, Hey Jenny Slater is back as well, rested and refreshed after a hiatus that ended up lasting exactly three months. I know you all probably hate the new format, but don't worry, I'll be tweaking it over the next few weeks. The posting, however, will be exactly as douchetastic as you remembered.

But never you mind any of that -- you've got some drinking to do. Bottoms up, schmucks.

From "Who dat" to "Who da f&%$ cares."

Sorry for your loss. Door's that way.

Your Super Bowl matchup is thusly locked in, and for the first time in a while, it's got two teams I actually like -- no Patriots, no Cowboys, and praise be, no Brett Favre. Seriously, the thought of two solid weeks of Favre hero worship on the part of the media might have been enough to make me voluntarily not watch the Super Bowl for the first time in as long as I can remember.

But that just meant the talking heads had to pack their planned two weeks of hero worship into a single column or postgame show, kind of like those shopping sprees they used to give away on Nickelodeon where you'd have five minutes to barrel through a Toys 'R' Us shoveling as much stuff into your shopping cart as you possibly could. And the rod-gobbling followed a predictable pattern, whether it was the print media (here represented by the equally predictable Favre hagiographer Peter King) . . .

No matter what you think of Favre -- and it's no secret I think he's the most charismatic and interesting player I've covered -- you have to admire how he bleeds in front of us. He goes out and gets the snot knocked out of him ("We were determined to hit him over and over and make him feel it,'' said none other than his old friend with the Packers, Saints safety Darren Sharper), somehow survives, then makes a throw he never should have made.

. . . or Tom Jackson, normally one of the saner hosts of ESPN's "NFL Countdown":

"He's not afraid to throw a pick. That's the thing I admire most about him," Jackson said on "SportsCenter."

Everyone owes the Saints a thank-you card, because this is what they saved us from two weeks of: Commentators-slash-fanboys earnestly trying to convince us that Favre is so awesome even his brain farts smell like fresh-baked croissants. Look, resentment over Favre's retirement gamesmanship and other offseason asshattery aside, I'm as impressed as anyone by the career the guy's put together, but even with a body of work as impressive as that, there comes a point at which the adulation becomes just a bit ridiculous, and we streaked past that point way back in August.

But since one's embarrassments only add to his or her legend, I see no reason why we shouldn't revisit and, in some cases, rehabilitate the memories of those who've gone and embarrassed themselves before Favre. Try these on for size:

· "Say what you will about Willie Martinez, but it takes guts to not have a defender within 10 yards of an eligible receiver. People need to remember that."

· "He's not afraid to throw five picks in a game. Even when the opponent just broke a 21-game losing streak. That's what I admire most about Quincy Carter."

· "Everyone has their own opinion of Dan Snyder, but it takes guts to hire an untested career QB coach as the head coach of an NFL franchise, and I admire the hell out of that."

· "Some guys, when placed under the media glare of the most powerful office in the free world, would think twice about accepting a blowjob from an intern. You have to respect Bill Clinton for breaking that mold."

· "Why do I call myself a lifelong John Travolta fan? Simple: because it takes a lot of courage to make a movie like "Battlefield Earth."

· "That's why you've gotta respect Canadian geese: They're not the least bit afraid to fly into the engine of an Airbus A320."

· "We can debate the legacy of George Armstrong Custer all day, but let there be no dispute about one thing: The man wasn't afraid of Indians."

Feel free to throw your own in the comments.

A fittingly stupid end to a stupid year:That's So Urban!

As you read this, I'm most likely headed up to Tennessee for a one-two punch of New Year's Eve wedding and auld lang debauchery with Holly and all her rowdy friends. Since I'll most likely be too car-bound, too drunk, or too hungover to post anything between now and 2010, I'll leave you ingrates with this sampling from a TV pilot I just started working on with Holly, a docu-dramati-comic peek inside the life of the hardest-working man in college football. Ladies and gentlemen, we give you: "That's So Urban!"



SCENE 1:
INT. CONFERENCE ROOM -- DAY
A boardroom in the offices of the University of Florida Athletic Department. Assistant coaches CHUCK HEATER, DAN McCARNEY, and SCOT LOEFFLER sit around the table busily comparing notes and play diagrams; away from them, offensive coordinator and one-time interim head coach STEVE ADDAZIO idly bounces a tennis ball off the wall, ignoring them. Presently head coach URBAN MEYER enters the room, and every head except ADDAZIO's whips around as he does so.

HEATER, McCARNEY and LOEFFLER: Urban! You're back.

MEYER: Thanks, guys. It's good to be back, but before we get started today, I want to say two things: One, it's "Coach Meyer" unless I tell you otherwise.

(AUDIENCE: slightly uncomfortable laughter)

MEYER: Second, I think we should all thank Coach Addazio for his service while I was on my leave of absence. Steve, heard we had some damn fine drills the last couple months.

ADDAZIO: Yeah, they were good, I guess. I mean, I could coach some actual games and everything, but if you don't need me to, that's cool, I guess. I mean, whatever.

MEYER: No need. All right, men, what have you got for me?

HEATER: You sure you want to jump in right away, Coach? I mean, you want to talk about what you did on your vacation, or what you reflected on, or . . .

MEYER: Only the weak reflect, Heater. Let's get down to business. Loeffler, you've been working out with Brantley lately, how's he look? He gonna be ready to go against -- who we got opening day?

LOEFFLER: Citadel for the Deaf, sir. And, well, he's throwing the ball real well, but his pocket presence isn't great. We're really gonna have to redesign a lot of this stuff now that we don't have --

All action ceases as the phone on the conference table rings insistently. Everyone looks around to see who's going to pick it up, except MEYER, who stays radar-locked on his play diagrams. Presently McCARNEY sneaks a look at the caller ID window.

McCARNEY: Says "Meyer, N." 'S your daughter, Coach.

MEYER: 'F it's important she'll call back. (back to LOEFFLER) So what's his problem in the pocket? Footwork problems, is he staring down receivers, or . . .

LOEFFLER: Yes.

MEYER: Yes to what?

LOEFFLER: (sheepishly) Uh . . . all of it?

(AUDIENCE: Whimsical laughter, except for the Gator fans)

LOEFFLER: I guess it's mainly his footwork -- jumps around trying to find an open receiver, and by the time he figures out there isn't one, he's too far behind the --

Another phone rings, this time the one in MEYER's pocket. Once again, everyone sits around waiting to see if it's going to get answered, and when MEYER finally notices all the eyes in the room are on him, he lets out a withering sigh and pulls out the phone.

MEYER: Hi, honey, and before you say anything you should probably know that I don't believe in hiding anything from my coaching staff, which means you're on speaker. Go.

NICOLE MEYER (V/O): Daddy, I've been carjacked!

MEYER: What?

NICOLE (V/O): I've been carjacked! I got turned around and ended up on the wrong side of downtown, and when I stopped to ask these guys for directions, they pulled me out of the car and drove off with it!

MEYER: Did you use the baseball bat I put in the trunk for you?

NICOLE (V/O): Daddy, they had guns!

MEYER: So it's a conditioning problem, then.

NICOLE (V/O): Daddy, you always do this! I'm sitting here at the police station, scared out of my wits, and you're giving me advice on how I should . . .

As NICOLE rails away, MEYER slowly slides the phone away from him, to the center of the table.

MEYER: Uh-huh. You're right, honey. Daddy's listening. (back to the coaches) All right, you were saying. If he's dancing around in the pocket, then we need to increase his regimen of footwork drills, and give him more quick-release stuff in the meantime . . . (back to phone) Uh-huh, honey, that's terrible . . . (back to coaches) We get Azzanni in here, see what he's got in the way of swings and short routes? . . .


SCENE 2:
INT. MEYERS' KITCHEN -- EVENING
The matriarch of the Meyer family, SHELLEY, stands at the kitchen island putting together a bowl of salad for dinner. She looks up when URBAN, wearing his characteristic furrowed brow, trudges in the back door of the house.

SHELLEY: You're home early!

MEYER: Don't remind me. One lousy cardiac incident and all of a sudden I got a doctor telling me I gotta start coming home at seven-thirty. Any earlier and I might as well be a frickin' Wal-Mart greeter.

SHELLEY: Well, maybe you should do that, it'd improve your attitude.

(AUDIENCE: Surprised, "Oh no she dih-ent!"-type laughter charged with female empowerment)

MEYER: Oh, you're gonna start in on me too now, is that it?

SHELLEY: Oh, come on. (gives URBAN a hug) You know what might help you wind down and do your heart some good in the process?

MEYER: Circumcising some Filipino kids with Tebow?

(AUDIENCE: Uproarious laughter quickly devolving into uncomfortable silence when they realize yeah, he'd probably do that)

SHELLEY: No, helping your son out with his science project. He's been sweating over it all afternoon.

MEYER: We have a son?

(AUDIENCE: "He-can't-be-serious"-type laughter)

SHELLEY: Nate, your 10-year-old??

MEYER: When did this happen?

(AUDIENCE: "He-really-can't-be-serious" laughter, followed by more awkward "Is-he-serious?"-type laughter)

SHELLEY: Do I need to start posting a roster on the fridge?

MEYER: That'd be a start, yeah.

The Meyers' 15-year-old daughter, GIGI, bursts into the kitchen from the den, earning the obligatory "WOOOOO!!!" and wolf-whistles from the male members of the audience. This continues until URBAN whips around, points at the audience, and stares them down into silence.

MEYER: You made me break the fourth wall. That was a bad deal. And next time, I'm going to make it a big deal.

GIGI: My life is over!

SHELLEY: Again?

(AUDIENCE: Knowing, "Teenage-girls-are-such-histrionic-bitches"-type laughter)

GIGI: I was all set to ask Bobby Thompson to the Sadie Hawkins Dance at school in two weeks, but today I found out that Jamie, my so-called friend, already asked him. How could she do that? She knew I liked him!

URBAN and SHELLEY just look at each other while GIGI stews. Eventually SHELLEY urges URBAN over in their daughter's direction with her eyes.

MEYER: (sotto) What? This sounds like, you know, girl talk.

SHELLEY: (also sotto) Well, I'm busy, and this is a perfect opportunity for you to bond with a daughter you barely have time to say two words to in an average day, so go out there and be a father and do something besides drive me crazy.

MEYER: (pause) I bet Terry Saban doesn't talk to her husband like that. (to GIGI) Come on, uh, honey, you can tell your dad all about it, I guess.

URBAN leads his nonplused daughter into the family room to sit down with him on the couch.

MEYER: All right, tell your dad what's on your mind.

GIGI: (still wary) Uh . . . you really want to know about this stuff?

MEYER: Well, yeah, you're my daughter, so I guess it's my responsibility.

GIGI: (brightens) Oh my God! Dad! This is so awesome! I feel like I have my dad back! OK, so you know how I've had this crush on Bobby Thompson for, like, forever, right?

MEYER: Bobby Thompson, he's the, what, running back on your school's football team, right?

GIGI: Right! See, you have been paying attention! OK, so anyway, the first time I started talking to him was at one of the games last season. He had just run for this, like, 90-yard touchdown, and even though I was so nervous, I went up to him and I --

MEYER: Wait. Bobby Thompson did that?

GIGI: Well, yeah, he's like the fastest guy on the team. So anyway, I was so nervous I thought I was gonna throw up, but I went up to him after he'd come off the field, and . . .

MEYER: Did you get his number?

GIGI: Oh, god, no, I was way too nervous to ask him for that the very first time I talked to him, but later on that week, while we were changing classes, we exchanged e-mail addresses, and so we started --

MEYER: What's his e-mail address?

GIGI: Oh, something funny like speeddemon49 at yahoo or something like that. Anyway, we started e-mailing each other back and forth, and I didn't tell him straight-out that I liked him, but I mean the way I was talking to him he probably kinda knew I liked him, and besides, I had been telling my friend Jamie about this the whole --

GIGI stops talking as she notices that her father has surreptitiously pulled out his BlackBerry and begun typing on it with one thumb.

MEYER: Keep talking, honey, Daddy's listening.

GIGI: No you're not, you're typing on your BlackBerry. What are you doing?

MEYER: Just trying to get in touch with Bobby, that's all.

GIGI: Oh my God! You're not telling him what we're talking about, are you?

MEYER: Pffft, honey, I'd never tell somebody something like that.

GIGI: OK. Good.

MEYER: I'm trying to find out if he's gotten offered by anybody yet. Can't believe I let someone like this fly under my radar. Kid sounds like a stud.

GIGI: Oh my God, that is so gross! Forget it, I don't even know why I bothered talking to you about this! You don't understand anything!

GIGI storms upstairs, leaving her dad sitting there, BlackBerry still in hand.

MEYER: Jeez, this house is a tougher crowd than Tiger Stadium.


SCENE 3:
EXT. BACKYARD -- NIGHT
A lonely, troubled-looking MEYER trudges outside into the chilly air and wanders around his backyard for a bit. He stops at the back fence, behind which his neighbor WILSON is chopping away at something. We can only see WILSON from about the nose up.

MEYER: The hell are you doing back there, Wilson?

WILSON: Well! My neighbor has a second name, it's M-E-Y-E-R. Howdy-ho, Urban. I'm just chopping up some bay leaves for my bath.

MEYER: You got especially dirty bay leaves or something?

WILSON: (chuckles) Nooo-ho-ho-ho, Gator Neighbor, you throw these in steaming-hot water and it makes a very nice soak. Clears the sinuses, good for tense muscles . . . it's really quite relaxing.

MEYER: Man. Well then chop up some for me while you're at it.

WILSON: Do I sense some stress emanating from Gator Country, Coach M?

MEYER: Ehhhh, it's just, you know, I got a job to do, I got a top-ranked football team to run, and on top of that I got my wife and kids nagging me to help them out with every damn thing as soon as I get home. I mean, I only got so many hours in the day, you know?

WILSON: Weeeh-heh-heh-heeelll, Urban, I'm kind of surprised you'd be so frustrated by that. Seems like a guy such as yourself would take that as a compliment.

MEYER: Whaaaa . . . ?

WILSON: You're familiar with the concept of the "medicine man" in Native American culture, aren't you, Urban? Well, the medicine man was more than a healer, he was an advice-giver, a leader of men. And your position as the head football coach of one of the grandest football teams in the land puts you in a similar position. You're seen as a bright guy, someone who finds ways around problems, so it's only natural that your family would come to you for --

MEYER: Yeah, I tell you what, Wilson, all this Indian history is fascinating and everything, but I just thought of some new direct-snap formations that might be a temporary way around this whole Brantley thing. Thanks for the pep talk, you keep . . . uh, choppin' em up, or whatever it is you're doing.

URBAN turns and jogs back into his house. WILSON just stands there watching him.

WILSON: (shakes his head) Urban, Urban, Urban. If there's any justice in this universe, the Dawgs'll lay 60 on your ass this year.

WILSON shakes his head again and goes back to his chopping.


SCENE 4:
INT. BEDROOM -- NIGHT
The darkened master suite of the Meyers' home. The door opens and all we can see is the silhouette of URBAN in the doorway.

MEYER: Honey? You in here?

SHELLEY: I sure am, hon.

MEYER: Well let me turn on a light, for Chrissakes, I can't even see you.

SHELLEY: No, don't --

URBAN snaps on the room light to reveal SHELLEY stretched out on the king-sized bed wearing a very revealing negligee. Obligatory "WOOOOO!!!!" from the crowd, which URBAN is too shocked to even admonish.

SHELLEY: Well, so much for the mood lighting.

MEYER: Uh, wow. What's the occasion?

SHELLEY: Oh, nothing -- you just seemed really stressed out and preoccupied with work lately, and I thought I might be able to help you relax.

MEYER: Really? 'Cause you know, Wilson out back was telling me about this thing you could do with basil or something, I didn't really catch all of it . . .

SHELLEY: This'll work way better. C'mere.

URBAN crosses the room to his side of the bed, where SHELLEY immediately envelops him in a passionate embrace.

SHELLEY: You think you kind of got the idea here?

MEYER: Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.

MEYER plants a long kiss on his wife's mouth and moves his hand slowly up her thigh, prompting an even more fervent "WOOOO!!!!" and some scattered applause from the audience. They make out for a few moments, and then, with his left hand up on the back of SHELLEY's neck, URBAN glances at his watch. He immediately pulls himself off his wife and jumps off the bed.

MEYER: OK then. We good? I thought that was pretty good.

SHELLEY: "Pretty good"? Neither one of us is any less dressed than we were when we started.

(AUDIENCE: Condescending, smutty chortling from the ladies; pruriently sympathetic "I'd-hit-that!"-type belly laughs from the guys.)

MEYER: Ehh, we start taking clothes off and it's just more stuff we gotta put back on later. Besides, I'm supposed to meet Addazio and Loeffler in -- (checks watch again) seven minutes and twenty seconds, and it usually takes eight-thirty-five to get to the athletic building. I think I'm plenty relaxed for right now, can we, I don't know, take a raincheck or something?

SHELLEY: The team never has to take a raincheck!

MEYER: The team kicks off against Citadel for the Deaf in just -- (checks watch yet again) five months, seven days, fourteen hours and seven minutes. You think that gameplan's just gonna right itself? With a first-year starting quarterback?

SHELLEY: (as URBAN turns to go) Well, what am I supposed to do while you're gone?

MEYER: You're smart, you'll think of something!

MEYER gives a "goodbye" point-and-stare to his wife and hurries off. SHELLEY sighs dejectedly and stares straight ahead.

SHELLEY: Well, I guess I'll do what I always do.

SHELLEY reaches into her bedside table and pulls out a black plastic . . . remote control, which she points at the TV and turns it on. She hits a few more buttons and retrieves a TiVo'd recording of one of her husband's football games: the 2009 SEC Championship Game.

VERNE LUNDQUIST (V/O): First and goal for the Gators, they need a score here and badly. Tebow back to pass, looks right and throws for the end zone -- INTERCEPTED! Tebow was looking for Jeff Demps in the end zone but Javier Arenas was right there! Boy, what a blow to this Florida team, and I'll tell you, Gary, that's the kind of ill-advised throw you're just not accustomed to seeing Tebow make . . .

SHELLEY: (smiling) Oh, Verne, you always know just what to say to a girl.



FADE TO BLACK

"That's So Urban!" was filmed before a live studio audience.

V-T Day.

ATLANTA, GEORGIA -- As the explosions of the epic Alabama-Florida battle were gradually silenced on the frigid plains of the Georgia Dome, a new commotion arose -- the voice of a freed people celebrating their liberation from a once-unstoppable force:

"WE ARE FREE! WE ARE FREE!"

The brave, crimson-clad soldiers of Alabama's most elite fighting force did more than vanquish Florida's feared Gators -- they unshackled an entire nation, set free a society that had spent four long years under siege from an inescapable despot that reached into every aspect of their lives to control them. The Tim Tebow Übertreibungswaffen that had subjected them to the most sickening depths of hype and overexposure finally lay in smoldering ruins, and football fans across the country were free to rejoice.

"I dreamed this day would come," said Atlanta resident Georg Kozpecl, who identified himself as a member of the "Red and Black Resistance Army" that had fought the Tebow machine with only sporadic success over four grueling years. "Finally, my family will be able to watch 'College Gameday' without being subjected to the grinning idiot's face or hearing people laud his 'humanitarianism.' Lies, I tell you. His reign has been filled with nothing but cruelty, and we are grateful to God almighty to be freed of him."

Fans of teams across the Southeastern Conference and, indeed, the totality of Division I-A took to city streets all over America, shouting "Long live players other than Tebow!" and slapping posters of the Florida quarterback with the soles of their shoes. A statue of the 6'3", 240-pound Tebow erected in Bristol, Connecticut -- headquarters of the quarterback's massive propaganda operation -- was toppled by a mob of citizens sometime Saturday night.

The location of Tebow himself is not known at this time; he is thought to have retreated to his base of operations in northern Florida, perhaps to plan one final assault on New Orleans, the Bugle-Inquisitor has learned. However, rumors continue to spread like wildfire that Reichsführer-UF Urban Meyer has fallen ill, potentially cutting off the head of the Gator war machine. In addition, Thom Brennaman, Deputy Reichsminister of Propaganda, has been found dead in his basement, dead from a self-administered cyanide pill.

CRIMSON TIDE EFFICIENT, "RUTHLESS" IN ONSLAUGHT

Those who witnessed the Alabama fighting force spring into action in the streets of Atlanta told of a well-oiled machine that was "ruthless" in dispensing with both the offensive and defensive forces of the once-invincible Gators. Lieutenant General Mark Ingram drove fearlessly across the Georgia plains, mowing down defenses once thought to be impregnable, while General Greg McElroy supported the invasion with the rapid establishment of air superiority and (continued on page A-3)

The poetry of premature trash-talk.

This was originally a feature I wanted to do on a weekly basis for Dr. Saturday, but he wanted to go with "Profiles in Disillusion" instead. And since that feature is on hiatus now that the season is winding to a close, I thought to myself, what better way to finally let it see the light of day than to spotlight the poignant poetry of the overconfident Tech fan? And so I bring you "The Poetry of Premature Trash-Talk," starting with the moving and evocative "This is OUR Moment (Soak This One In)" by StingTalk scribe "JoltinJacket." Read this and see if chills don't go up your spine:

This is our chance
To take the state by storm.
The tide was already started to turn
With some of the state's fence-sitters.

More and more folks are rooting for Tech.
More importantly, more and more HS players
Are paying attention to Tech.
Everything is aligned for a magical night.
As Brent Musberger said
At the end of the '90 Citrus Bowl telecast,
"These moments may come once a lifetime;
Enjoy 'em."

We may never see an opportunity again where
A 10-win Tech team hosts such a hapless,
Helpless bunch of Mutts.
Moments like these are special.

Indeed, JoltinJacket. You will be equally moved by our next selection, "The Hate Week Armory," with its stream-of-consciousness influences from "Song of Solomon," e.e. cummings, and mid-'80s hair metal:

I just....
i just can't wait anymore. I think I'm gonna break into BDS
and sit there until kickoff...
I'll skip Thanksgiving...

I just want to see this beatdown that has been playing in my head day and night actually manifest itself in a glorious and utterly mind-blowing fashion this Saturday. I think I have crossed over into over-confidence for the first time this entire season. For no other game have I been so thoroughly convinced that we will win as this one...

On Saturday the Jackets play the role of undertakers
as we will usher Georgia
straight to the fiery depths of Hell.

Sublime. BbuzzOff revivalist "brainbucket" strikes a more spiritual tone with his brief work, "Ugay [p]rayer request":

Dear Lord,
Please be with CMR & his staftt [sic],
the Ugay players, jawrjadawg,
20ozbulldog and the rest of Bulldawg nation.
Prepare them for the ass whipping they are about to receive.

Haunting, isn't it? Sometimes we forget that our most poignant and beautiful images are contained in the words we speak to our Higher Power.

But some of history's greatest poetry has found inspiration from battle hymns and war cries, too, which is apparent from our next two lyricists. First, published author Winfield Featherston, a double-threat who both composes verse and contributes to the blog "From the Rumble Seat," draws his beautifully crafted line in the sand with "A Football Preview":

It is time to tell the mutts that we are in control.
Make them piss themselves and make them leave Bobby Dodd early
because of our celebrating.
To Hell with Georgia.

It's time to wipe them off the face of the Earth.
54-10 Jackets.
TO HELL WITH GEORGIA!

In the comments thread for that same post, "chrisinindy" displays the poetry of not only premature trash-talk but premature counting of chickens that didn't even exist to begin with -- a brief, surrealist jaunt through an imagined world, undercut by a bitterness that evokes both T.S. Eliot and the Beat poets of 1960s counterculture. Here, "Makers and turkey hangover":

My hatred for Georgie is shining
through this morning after spending all day
yesterday with the inbred side of my
family.

We almost match the Cumberland score and
roll, 179-0 as they feel the
effects of no Green and Samuel.

And if A&M had even half a
defense, we’d be looking at a
#6 rating next week,
at worst . . .

The bitterness is palpable, isn't it? The kind of inner turmoil that can only spring from worrying more about a team from halfway across the country failing to earn you something you couldn't even bother to earn yourself. Dark, tortured . . . haunting.

We close with the rustic, workmanlike cadence of BBuzzOff's "ramblin gambler," whose contribution to the Breaking Down the DAWG Game! anthology is as simple and straightforward as the society from which it sprang:

Special teams advantage Ga?
Really?

They are so scared of having a kickoff returned for a TD
that they give it to their opponents on the 40 every time.
GT LOVES a short field.

Their kicker is better long distance on FG's,
but Blair has looked much better as the season progresses.
Also, we are the masters of the fake punt,
they are masters of shooting themselves in the foot
(see the blocked punt & facemask against KY).

I have to believe this is the game
where we steamroll them
and Cocks throws 5 INT's
trying to get back in the game.

Not even close -
GT 63
Leghumpers 13

I am breathless. As, I'm sure, are you.

I'm Doug Gillett, and this has been "The Poetry of Premature Trash-Talk." Good night.

A public service from Meat Loaf.

Things I Will Do For Love: Checklist
Yes	No
Run right into hell and back	That
Be there 'till the final act
Take the vow
Seal a pact
Raise you up
Help you down
Get you right out of this god-forsaken town
Make it all a little less cold
Hold you sacred
Hold you tight
Colorize your life
Make it all a little less old
Make you some magic with my own two hands
Build an emerald city with these grains of sand
Give you something you can take home
Cater to every fantasy you've got
Hose you down with holy water if you get too hot
Take you places you've never known

Feel free to print out this chart and keep it in your wallet for easy reference.

My pledge.

Re my performance on Saturday:

I thought I had a good, a good mindset, I thought I had a good game plan -- you know, I just, I didn't start out great, but then I got some momentum going, and I got some, some drinks in me, got a nice buzz going, and then, you know, we had those turnovers that -- just stuff we never do. And, and that kind of just -- I don't know, I think that maybe took away a little, a little of my confidence, and just the momentum, and for the next few drives I wasn't drinking like a Georgia Bulldog. Um, and then we got that going, and we got some momentum, and, and kicked that long field goal in the third quarter.

Just stupid mistakes. You heard me talk after the bowl game last year about how well I did, you know, not making bad decisions about what to drink and not getting up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the action, and, um, and I did that this game.

You know, that's something you get used to -- you want, as a fan, that opportunity, two minutes left in the game, to be able to knock back one last drink before your team clinches the victory -- the whole, the whole time I had one-hundred-percent, um, trust and faith in my team and myself that I was gonna be nice and drunk by the time we drove down and scored. And, um, and I still, on 4th-and-5 from midfield -- that's, that's something that very rarely stops me from drinking, when we have a 4th down with that kind of field position. It's kind of like a little bit of my, you know, swagger that I can keep drinking and stay focused on 4th down. And, you know, I've done it for the last two years, and, um, they, they just beat me to it. They beat us.

I'm extremely disappointed. Um, and you've got to give credit to Oklahoma State -- they kept fighting and, uh, made a big play with the touchdown pass and everything, but that's a game that I feel like we should've won and we could've won, and, um, I have to make smarter, better drink choices to win the rest of 'em. And it's just, it's just frustrating.

I wanted to say, in my heart, since it still hurts, this will motivate me personally, and, I think, everybody else -- the tailgaters and the rest of the fans -- to never let something like this, um, happen again. Especially when we feel we're better than the team we're playing and, um, don't drink up to our ability.

And, uh, I just want to say one thing -- to the readers and everybody of Hey Jenny Slater, I'm sorry. Extremely sorry. I was hoping for an unbroken string of drinks for an entire game -- that was my goal -- something I've never done here. But I promise you one thing: A lot of good will come out of this. You have never seen any blogger in the entire country drink as hard as I will drink the rest of the season, and you will never see someone push the rest of the fan base as hard as I will push everybody the rest of the season. And you will never see a tailgate crowd drink harder than we will the rest of the season.

God bless.

ADDED: DAve would like to contribute this, because he is the man, and he can.

Monday Morning Cage Match XIII:An age-old debate resolved. Well, not really.

As a very wise man by the name of Jim Tressel once said, "Side boob is the new under boob, but not as good as boobs-pushed-against-glass-view boobs." Jimbo hasn't been blogging a lot over at Tressel's World since the Buckeyes got their collective faces rocked off in the 2006 national championship game, which is a loss for all of us, but his sage wisdom lives on and still holds true for us today. But I wanted to know: Is sideboob really the new underboob? Goaded on by Holly, who should really know better by now, I decided to make this age-old question the subject of this week's Cage Match: Sideboob vs. Underboob.

	Sideboob	Underboob
Urban Dictionary definition	"A view of the female breast seen from a side; generally under loosely-fitting clothes. Very titillating (pun intended) and sexual without showing any overt nudity."	"Hands down, one of the finest aspects of a woman's anatomy that can be enjoyed in any public venue. "Underboob is achieved by wearing a very short halter top or cropped tank, also known as an underboob shirt, which exposes the bottom areas of a woman's breasts. "Much like the combination of low-rise jeans and a thong, the underboob shirt can only successfully be worn by select few women."
WINNER: Underboob
Common habitat	Awards-show red carpets	Panama City and other Spring Break locales; various Bike Weekends
WINNER: Sideboob
Well-known practitioner	Lindsay Lohan	Lucy Pinder
WINNER: Underboob
Advantages	Easy to pass off as an accident or "wardrobe malfunction," if necessary	As signs of sexual interest go, it's hard to misinterpret
WINNER: Sideboob
Drawbacks	Less flattering in many instances; association with Lindsay Lohan	Can only be pulled off with breasts of a certain size; more likely to result in a public-indecency charge
WINNER: Underboob
First result on Google image search
WINNER: Tie
Social acceptability rating	5	2
WINNER: Sideboob

FINAL SCORE: Sideboob 4, Underboob 4. There's no need to rank or quantify here; clearly, when it comes to alternative boob views, there are no losers, only winners.

Glengarry Glen Frank.

I went in for what will hopefully be my final back surgery this morning, so I'll be out of commission for a couple days. To tide you over until my return, here are some exclusive scenes from David Mamet's forthcoming film adaptation of "The Diary of Anne Frank."

INT. ATTIC, DOWNTOWN AMSTERDAM -- DAY

Seven people climb tentatively into the large attic of an office building in Amsterdam. It is summer, 1942, and they are Dutch Jews hiding from the Nazis. OTTO FRANK, his wife EDITH, and their teenage daughters MARGOT and ANNE are followed by PUTTI and PETRONELLA VAN DAAN and their son PETER, about the same age as the Frank children. They set their suitcases down and stare open-mouthed at their stark new surroundings for a few moments before KRALER, a former business associate of MR. FRANK's, and his assistant MIEP GIES follow them inside.

KRALER

Are they all here?

MIEP

Everyone except Mr. Dussel.

KRALER

Fuck it, I'm going anyway.

(to the family members)

Can I have your attention please?

The FRANK and VAN DAAN families turn to face him.

KRALER

This is where the seven of you are going to be spending the next few months, or weeks, or however long it takes before the Nazis are gone and it's safe to come out. I'm a business associate of Mr. Frank's here, and this is our building; aside from Miss Gies here and myself, none of the people who work downstairs know that you're up here. We can't babysit you every hour of the day, so it is going to be up to you to keep your presence hidden from anyone else who might be using this building.

KRALER walks over to a blackboard on one of the walls and writes the letters ABC.

KRALER

A, B, C. A, always; B, be; C, concealing. Always be concealing. Always be concealing. You don't display a single thing in the windows, you don't make a single sound during business hours, that might indicate your presence to anyone outside. That means no radio during daylight hours, no talking if you can help it, no running water while anyone might be --

MR. VAN DAAN

No running water? Are you serious?

KRALER

That's right.

MR. VAN DAAN

So we can't even take a shit during work hours, is that what you're telling me?

KRALER

You're Mr. Van Daan, right? What's your first name? Putti? The fuck kind of a name is Putti?

MR. VAN DAAN

I don't have to stand here and listen to this --

KRALER

You certainly don't, pal, because guess what, there's a train leaving for Bergen-Belsen in the morning. You want on it? (to MRS. VAN DAAN) How about you? You think I'm doing this for my health, ladies? Think I painted over the windows 'cause it looked nice? SS hears somebody fucking around, popping popcorn in the middle of the afternoon, busts in and finds you've all been hiding up here, I'm just as dead as you are. I'm trying to keep you alive, people. You're willing to make some sacrifices, follow some rules you might find uncomfortable, you might just make it through this thing. You don't want to, there's a whole bunch of Gestapo roaming around Amsterdam right now love to make your acquaintance.

Long pause. MR. VAN DAAN appears chastened.

MARGOT

So what do you suggest we do, become nocturnal?

KRALER

That's exactly what I suggest you do. Once the sun goes down and everybody's gone home, you do whatever you want, eat, listen to the radio, play No-Limit Texas Hold'Em for all I care. But during the day, you might as well sleep, 'cause you're sure as fuck not gonna want to do anything makes any noise. Unless you gotta get up and take a piss so bad you think it's worth going to the ovens.

Another long pause.

KRALER

A, B, C. Always be concealing, ladies and gentlemen. We've been at war for three years now and there's no reason to think we won't be at it another three, so unless you got any better ideas, it's time to tuck in for the long haul. And if you had any better ideas, we wouldn't be fucking standing here, would we?

KRALER turns and heads down the steps, followed by MIEP. The FRANKS and VAN DAANS just stand there for a few beats, looking at each other.

MRS. FRANK

Does anybody want . . . a drink or something? Or a sandwich?

MR. FRANK

Fuck this, I'm going to unpack.

* * * * *

INT. ATTIC, AMSTERDAM -- NIGHT

Several months later, the tenants of the attic now number eight: the FRANKS and VAN DAANS, plus MR. DUSSEL, a Jewish friend of MIEP's who is also seeking refuge. The remnants of a Hanukkah celebration are strewn about the secret apartment -- plates of food, crumpled-up newspaper in which gifts were wrapped. MR. FRANK holds aloft a scarf that ANNE has given him.

MR. FRANK

This is beautiful, Anne. Thank you.

MRS. VAN DAAN

How long did it take you to make that? Where did you get the yarn?

ANNE

Miep brings it to me every few weeks.

MR. VAN DAAN

Great. We can't even have fucking latkes for Hanukkah, but we can have all the yarn we need.

MRS. VAN DAAN

We couldn't even cook them anyway, there hasn't been a drop of olive oil in this town since March.

MR. VAN DAAN

So, what, we just don't have a proper Hanukkah dinner, is that what you're telling me? No latkes? No sufganiyot? We just sit up here and eat bread and fruit like a bunch of goddamn zoo animals?

PETER

We fry anything up here, we'll smell like grease for days anyway.

MR. VAN DAAN

The fuck cares whether we smell like grease? Who's gonna know? All those meshugas out there, don't even know we're here? Fuck do you care, anyway, you've been spending all your time with your damn cat. I told you not to bring that thing up here.

PETER

What was I supposed to do, just leave it at our house?

MR. VAN DAAN

Oh, what, you're afraid the Nazis are gonna haul a cat off to the concentration camps? Open your fuckin' eyes, Junior, you've got a lot to --

A door slams loudly in one of the offices downstairs. Everyone in the attic freezes.

MR. FRANK

The fuck was that?

ANNE

Maybe it was the cleaning people.

MR. FRANK

No, no, fuck the cleaning people, they're only supposed to come every two weeks.

A thud from downstairs, followed by a loud crash. MRS. FRANK puts her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming.

MR. DUSSEL

You know what that sounds like? The fuckin' Gestapo, that's who! Kraler snitched on us and they're rolling the place!

MR. FRANK

Kraler snitched? Kraler snitched? You ungrateful fuck, he's the one put us up here, why would he admit it when he stands to get sent off to the camps just like us?

MRS. FRANK

Otto, please, we have to be quiet --

MR. FRANK

Quiet, Edith.

(back to DUSSEL)

You got the memory of a fuckin' fly, you know that? If that is the Gestapo, I oughta throw you to 'em, show you who your friends really are.

MR. DUSSEL

(stepping toward MR. FRANK)

Yeah? Dutch national runner-up in the welterweight class, you cocksucker, you wanna dance with me?

DUSSEL and FRANK just stand there facing each other for a few moments, looking like they might charge each other at any moment. Eventually the tension is broken when MARGOT speaks.

MARGOT

There hasn't been any sound for a few minutes. I think they left.

MR. FRANK

I'm gonna go down there, see what happened. You think you can keep from pissing your pants, tough guy, you're welcome to come with.

Slowly MR. FRANK opens the attic door and heads downstairs.

ANNE

(to DUSSEL)

You lay a finger on my dad, it'll be the worst mistake you ever made.

DUSSEL

(bristling)

Fuck you.

ANNE

Fuck me? Fuck you, new guy, you're only up here because we let you be up here. You don't have seniority.

MR. FRANK returns.

MR. FRANK

Bunch of drawers opened, papers everywhere. They weren't looking for us, they were just trying to roll the place for some cash.

MR. VAN DAAN

They get anything?

MR. FRANK

The fuck should I know? (beat) I'm going to bed.

MRS. FRANK

Margot, Anne, help me clean up the dishes.

ANNE follows her sister into the kitchen, but not without glaring pointedly at DUSSEL.

ANNE

(whispering)

Watch your step, newbie. Unless you want us to stop being charitable.

* * * * *

INT. ATTIC, AMSTERDAM -- DAY

The FRANKS, VAN DAANS and MR. DUSSEL all look very tense as they sit around and drink their morning coffee.

MRS. VAN DAAN

Has Kraler still not called?

MR. FRANK

It's been five days. He was gonna call he'da called by now.

Suddenly there's a loud pounding at the door. Everyone immediately jumps up, and some of them begin edging toward the back of the attic apartment.

PETER

Fuck. It's them.

ANNE

Are we fucked?

PETER

We're fucked.

An SS OFFICER kicks in the door and charges inside, followed by three more OFFICERS and a COMMANDER in full regalia. The COMMANDER surveys his eight new prisoners and smiles.

SS COMMANDER

Well. Isn't this convenient. Eight of you all in one place.

MR. FRANK

Who dropped the dime on us?

SS COMMANDER

Excuse me?

MR. DUSSEL

It was Kraler, wasn't it? I told you all he couldn't be trusted!

SS COMMANDER

(laughs derisively)

You think it was Kraler? Well, you want to take it up with him, you'll have a nice long train ride to do just that.

(seeing their astonished faces)

Yeah, he's getting the same ride to Bergen-Belsen the rest of you are. Couldn't just let him go, could we? Shoulda been using his attic to stash old records like everyone else.

The SS COMMANDER strolls around the apartment, poking at the FRANKS' and VAN DAANS' personal effects with amusement.

SS COMMANDER

No, the one who dimed you was that punk burglar broke in here a couple weeks ago. You wanna know who it was? A former employee of yours, Mr. Frank. Fellow by the name of Dewijn.

MR. FRANK

That sniveling, flop-sweating little insect. I knew I should've fired that bug-eyed little fuck.

SS COMMANDER

Damnedest thing: Came in here one night looking to steal some real-estate leads. We picked him up the very next day, said he heard some people arguing up here.

PETER shoots daggers at his father.

SS COMMANDER

What a world, huh? Well, we can continue the chit-chat at the police station. Right now you're all gonna need to pack up your belongings and get ready to go. You don't bring it with you, you're not gonna see it again. Beck?

One of the OFFICERS rushes up to his COMMANDER and snaps into a salute.

SS COMMANDER

I want you to sweep this place after they've all packed up. No personal effects lying around, nothing, you got me?

BECK

Jawohl, Mein Herr. Heil Hitler.

SS COMMANDER

No no no, don't just stand there and 'Heil Hitler' me, tell me what you think I want to hear, forget what I said the minute my back is turned. I mean scrub this attic up and down, not so much as a spare yarmulke left behind, you understand me? Act like a fucking professional. You're working with men here.

BECK salutes and trots off.

SS COMMANDER

Kolter, Derwein, you round up the women. I'll be down in the car. Let's see if we can't wrap this up quick.

The COMMANDER heads downstairs. The OFFICERS begin prodding the eight attic dwellers toward the door.

ANNE (V/O)

In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.

One of the OFFICERS pokes ANNE in the back with the barrel of his rifle.

ANNE (V/O)

You know what, fuck that. People are cocksuckers.

The FRANKS, VAN DAANS and DUSSEL pick up their suitcases and march downstairs, followed by the SS OFFICERS.

FADE TO BLACK

The peanut gallery speaks, sort of, to no avail.

SEC Media Days is going on right down the road from me at the Wynfrey Hotel in Hoover, and while Orson Swindle, Joel Hollingsworth, and Cocknfire all got their media credentials for the event, I crapped out on getting any for myself. Hopefully one of them will be reading this and be brave enough to answer the questions I cannot, for here are the questions that I, on behalf of the great college-football-watching unwashed, would pose to each of the 12 SEC coaches:

Rich Brooks (Kentucky): What brings you joy? You don't have to say "coaching Kentucky football."

Gene Chizik (Auburn): Are there ever mornings when you wake up and think, "Holy fuck, how in the world did I ever get this job?"

Bobby Johnson (Vanderbilt): Are there ever mornings when you wake up and think, "I coach at Vanderbilt, if I win so much as five games they think I'm a fucking miracle worker," and if so, does that pretty much make your job the most awesome job ever?

Lane Kiffin (Tennessee): Faggotsayswhat?
Follow-up: I said, faggotsayswhat?

Urban Meyer (Florida): Will you take the head coaching job at Notre Dame after Charlie Weis gets fired at the end of this season?
Follow-up: How about the Dallas Cowboys?
Follow-up II: How about if I give you this nice crisp $100 bill?

Les Miles (LSU): You're basically wearing hats that size just to fuck with us at this point, aren't you?

Dan Mullen (Mississippi State): Do you ever feel pangs of regret at having left a wildly successful Florida program for this exceedingly difficult job, and if so, on a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being a single tear rolling down your cheek and 10 being such an incredible tsunami of tears that you wish you could drown yourself in it, how much would you say you weep at these thoughts?

Houston Nutt (Ole Miss): The phrase we keep hearing over and over again regarding your team's prospects in 2009 is that you "don't handle high expectations well." Do those kinds of comments make you crazy?
Follow-up: Crazy enough to . . . wrestle this bear?!?!? (lead bear into room on leash)

Bobby Petrino (Arkansas): If Auburn administrators had come to you last fall after firing Tommy Tuberville and offered you their head-coaching job, you totally would've taken it, wouldn't you?

Mark Richt (Georgia): Last season you said that you eased off on full-contact drills in tackling practice. You do realize that that pretty much runs completely counter to the concept of "tackle" football, don't you?

Nick Saban (Alabama): What kind of small, furry animals did you strangle to death after Alabama's losses to Florida in the SEC title game and Utah in the Sugar Bowl last year, respectively, and how many of each?

Steve Spurrier (South Carolina): On a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being "not at all" and 10 being "Kingdom of the Crystal Skull," how much would you say your lackluster showing at South Carolina has damaged your overall coaching legacy?

This blog's new logo.

Keep on chasin' that dream, Pasty Rose-Wielding Pink-Shirted British Kid.



(Photo bogarted from With Leather.)

SEC: THE MOVIE!, or what happens when yet another fun distraction gets completely out of hand.

So I finally got around to reading Michael Lewis's The Blind Side this past week, and tellingly, I only needed four days to devour it cover-to-cover; it was an amazing story, but also a fascinating history of the evolution of the left tackle position that explains precisely why a guy like Michael Oher (currently preparing for his rookie season with the Baltimore Ravens) would be in such high demand. As you may have already heard, they're turning the book into a movie, and three coaches who figured heavily in the recruiting battle for Oher -- Nick Saban, Phil Fulmer, and Ed Orgeron -- will be playing themselves in said film.

Having seen numerous interviews with Oher's adopted family and other people who figured prominently in the story that makes up The Blind Side's narrative, I had my own ideas for who should play whom in the movie, and had Saban, Fulmer, and Orgeron declined to appear in the movie, I decided I would've gone after . . .



Fred Thompson as Phil Fulmer
Who better to play Fulmer than a near-lifelong Tennessean? (Though if Thompson did decide to decline the role so that he could make another half-assed run for the presidency in 2012, Joe Don Baker would do in a pinch, provided he's not already booked for the long-awaited "Mitchell" sequel.)



Bruce Campbell as Nick Saban
The guy with the perfect look to play this pivotal role, of course, is Don Johnson, 20 years removed from "Miami Vice" but still as gloriously coiffed as ever. But I decided fairly early on that Bruce Campbell would have to be involved in this project somehow, and I can think of no more ideal role for him to play than that of the Armani Bear. Having gotten his big break playing a character who had to defeat hordes of demonically possessed, re-animated corpses, Campbell is perfectly suited to play someone charged with taming a massive fan base still convinced that Bear Bryant is coming back. Plus, can't you just picture Campbell saying the line "I just love those window treatments" in a perfect deadpan? I know I can.



Ed Marinaro as Ed Orgeron
Marinaro even played football himself (at both the college and pro levels), so all we'd need to do is get a voice coach to teach him to bellow incoherently and he'd be all set to play the coach whose program Michael Oher eventually chooses. Then again, if we wanted to throw caution to the wind and shift into total stunt-casting mode, we could always give the role to Sylvester Stallone, who is equally muscled up and has the incoherent-bellowing thing down pat already.

So that was all well and good, but then I got into an e-mail conversation with Dave from the quite excellent Michigan blog Maize 'n' Brew, and Dave had to go and mention the SEC coaches' meeting post from a few weeks back. And I got to thinking, how would I cast that as a big-budget slapstick comedy? And before I knew it, the morning was gone and I had a full cast for "SEC: THE MOVIE," coming the 12th of Never to a theatre nowhere near you! Let 'er rip:



Michael Douglas as Steve Spurrier
This was a challenge, as it takes a very special actor to convey Spurrier's unique blend of football-history-altering gravitas and snickering schoolyard douchebaggery. I think Douglas, who both delivered the legendary "greed is good" speech in "Wall Street" and played a sleazy toupeed hitman in "One Night at McCool's," could pull it off.



Alec Baldwin as Les Miles
Squint a little and they almost, kinda, sorta start to look a little bit alike. And if you've watched even five minutes of "30 Rock," you know Baldwin is well-equipped to play someone whose spectacular success and influence masks a core of barely contained insanity.



Christian Bale as Urban Meyer
Holly recommended this one, and while I would love to cast Robert "T-1000" Patrick in this role, Holly's right that there is a definite resemblance between Meyer and the guy from that other "Terminator" movie.



Seth Rogen as Lane Kiffin
In the TV series "Freaks and Geeks," Rogen played a class clown who was always trying to be the center of attention; in "Observe and Report," he played a disturbed individual who had delusions of grandeur far above his meager station in life. Is there anyone on the planet, then, better suited to play Kiffykins? I think not, and that's before we even get to the physical resemblance.



Dennis Quaid as Mark Richt
The physical resemblance is kind of meh, but Quaid has the right sort of freshly-scrubbed, All-American good-guy look to play Richt. (But he did play a sleazy drug-lord lawyer in "Traffic," so he's got enough inner villainy to order a team-wide end-zone celebration if it comes to that.)



Steve Martin as Bobby Johnson
Duh.



Tom Arnold as Houston Nutt
Also duh.



Rob Riggle as Dan Mullen
For State fans' sake, I hope Mullen is even half as funny as Riggle; I dug deep into the MSU roster for a preview article I was writing for the 2009 edition of Roll Bama Roll's preseason publication, and trust me, the folks in Starkville are gonna need something to make them smile this season.



Dylan Baker as Bobby Petrino
Plenty of disagreement here: Holly says Kevin Spacey is too oily to play Petrino, while I think oily is exactly what the character calls for. So we'll go with Baker instead, who played a corrupt accountant in "The Road to Perdition" and a bank-fraud-committing "fixer" in "Changing Lanes," and is thus plenty capable of playing a sleaze.



Philip Baker Hall as Rich Brooks
Hall is a little old to play Brooks, but I think he'd be curmudgeonly enough. (Still, Holly had another good stunt-casting idea: Mel Brooks as Rich Brooks?)



Gary Cole as Gene Chizik
This one was hard, too, because there were just so many people who resembled Chizik to some degree. In the end, though, I decided there had to be a little bit of Bill Lumbergh in Auburn's new coach. I just know it. I can't tell you how I know; I just do.

With Ron Rifkin as SEC Commissioner Mike Slive, Buck Henry as former South Carolina coach/ESPN commentator Lou Holtz, and Brendan Fraser as Heisman-winning quarterback Tim Tebow.

(Got any better ideas? By all means, let me hear 'em.)