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Archive for the ‘Vols’ Category

 Indianapolis, Jan. 13, 2008.

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Hey, you! Row D, seat 9! Yeah, I’m talking to you, fat ass. . . put that finger up again and I’ll come up there and break it off and shove it up your fat yankee corn eatin’ ass, motherfucker! Is that your wife or your pet haaaaaawg?!?! GodDAMM she’s a fucking haaaaawg!! Suuuuuuueeey,  pig! Get your fat yankee ass back in your Reliant K and go home and cry a river in your tractor back in your frozen, flat, yankee-ass soybean field. Your inbred, overrated punk-ass quarterback couldn’t win the big one at Tennessee, and he ain’t gonna win it here! Manning SUCKS!! Cutler SUCKS! That other Manning SUCKS!

I’m from ATHENS, ALAFUCKINGBAMA, motherfucker!! ALAFUCKINGBAMA, Motherfucker! Where we play REAL FOOTBALL!! ALAFUCKINGGODDAMBAMA!!!!!!

Your team SUCKS! Indianapolis sucks! The whole state of Illinois SUCKS! Fuck you, you cracker-ass inbred  corncob-pipe smoking fat farmer boy! Fuck you!!!

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Rivers. Dude. Cool it. Have a little class. You’re giving the fine San Diego quarterback legacy a bad name.

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Losers

My 12 year old stepson and I were walking (well, he was walking, I was staggering) into our local professional football team’s meaningless pre-season game, when he asked me,

“Phil, why aren’t you wearing Titans gear?”

“Same reason I don’t dress like Mr. Spock when I go see a Star Trek movie, son.”

He laughed, which I appreciated as I’m not sure he even knows what Star Trek is. That boy makes me proud in so many ways.

The fatherly point I was attempting to pass down to my heirs was that there isn’t a dime’s worth of difference between the geeks who camp out for a science fiction movie/Harry Potter book/stupid cell phone and the geeks who get overly involved in rooting for professional sports.

There’s a reason that they sell baseball cards at the same places they sell comic books. Both appeal to the demographic of the gullible consumer who needs a life. Please tell me the difference between the dork who spends $995 for a signed photo of the Next Generation cast and the dork who spends $995 for a signed baseball of the 2003 New York Yankees. Both of these dopes spent a thousand bucks on an item with no practical value.

The usual line of blather from the jock-sniffing homers is “Well, you got to support the team.” Which is jock-sniffing homer code for, “If we don’t spend all of our disposable income on this person’s business, they may relocate to a municipality that will spend all of its disposable income on supporting this business.” Gee whiz. Do you mean that shelling out $3000 for the scam known as the PSL, then spending an additional $1600 for season tickets, plus the parking cost and six dollar beers in plastic bottles isn’t supporting the team? I’m pretty sure that the five thousand dollars per year I’m throwing down Bud Adam’s gaping maw in order to watch a game that children play for free isn’t going to feed children in Third world countries. In fact, I’d be more pissed off it it were.

Never mind all of that now. Just watch these dorks waiting in line to shell out their hard earned dough. The only difference between these doomed fools dedicated, well-spoken football fans camping out for Titans single game tickets and the dorks in this video is, well, nothing.

In a worse case scenario, there are always the mutants who belong to both nerd camps. One at a time, ladies…

Ask me about Dr. Who!

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(RING.) Hello, this is the ol’ ball coach.

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Uh, Mr. Spurrier? This is Phillip Fulmer.

SS: Well, shoooo-weeeee, Philly-boy! What’s going on, ya big ol’ tub of lard?

PF: Uh, well, Mr. Spurrier, actually I’m calling about that dad-gum game last Saturday.

SS: What game exactly do you want to talk about, fat boy? I’m kinda busy here, being the ol’ ball coach and all.

PF: Well, Mr. Spurrier, I didn’t really take to kindly to you runnin’ up the dad-gum score on us like that.

SS: What in tarnation are you talking about, Jumbo?

PF: You know, 59 points. There was just no dad-gum call for that.

SS: Wait a minute there hefty, we didn’t play you last week. That was Florida. I ain’t the ol’ ball coach at Florida anymore.

PF: I know how much you like sticking it to us, Mr. Spurrier, but this time I ain’t gonna dad-gum forget it. You gotta come up to Knoxville next year, and we’re going to be a whole lot better. We might just run the score up on you, see how much you dad-gum like it.

SS: I think you need to call that other ball coach with the funny name, Oscar Meyer.

PF: You almost made me cry.

SS: Hey fatty, you know who I really like, it’s that gal on TV, Rachael Ray. Man I’d love to grease her up with some turkey juice and give her the old ball coaching, if you know what I mean.

PF: You stay away from her, Mr. Spurrier. I mean it.

SS: Hey, I gotta go now, fatass. Come on down and see us, ya hear?

PF: I don’t never go to Florida unless I dad-gum have to.

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Michigan-38 Notre Dame-0

Thirty-eight to nuttin’. Five td’s and a field goal to zoo.

From a historical perspective, that’d be XXXVIII to mayazero.gif. For you uneducated Philistines out there, that’s the Mayan symbol for zero, a concept they invented. But before we get all excited about how brilliant the Mayan society was and start jacking off Mel Gibson, let’s keep in mind the fact that they couldn’t invent the wheel, even after they had fucking seen it.

“Oh wise Jaguar’s Testicle, why do the evil Spaniards keep catching up with us as we retreat across the Yucatan through the jungle?”

“I don’t know, Feathered Snake, but hurry up and keep dragging our shit on sticks.”

But back to the Serial Papists of South Bend. They haven’t scored an offensive touchdown yet this year. They managed a paltry 86 yards of total offense against the Rabid Rats of Miss Again. They have at least seven or eight more potential losses on their schedule. Apparently any talent that Tyrone Willingham had left in the cupboard has already “graduated” or at least begun working in a tire factory in Gary, Indiana. Charlie Weiss has recruited the number one quarterback prospect in the country who, despite the fact that he looks like a crack-addicted emu, is supposed to be “The Kid with the Golden Arm.” Having listened to countless UT Vol fans defend his underachieving lameass older brothers, I can promise you that he will be as disappointing as Kenny Chesney’s senior prom experience.

So as far as I can tell, there are only two things to do now:

  1. Go ahead and let Notre Dame pick which BCS bowl they want to go to with their exemption before anybody else gets a chance to take their spot.
  2. Extend Charlie Weiss’s contract for another five years.

Whaddya expect when your head coach looks like something out of a Don Martin cartoon?

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[Charlie Weiss and QB coach Ron Powlus set off in search of their next starting signal caller.]

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I’m typing this from my wireless keyboard, cowering under my desk waiting for the seventh seal to be broken.

Four, count `em, four!, SEC teams lost at home this past weekend.  And only one of them was Vanderbilt.

The University of Miss-Again and the Serial Papists of South Bend are now 0-4, losing by a combined score of 137-54.  They meet next week in a “Loser Leaves Town” match-up while Les Miles shops for Midwestern real estate on Century21.com.

Thousands of Tennessee Vols fans shelled out $24.99 of their hard earned roofing wages to watch their team assault the University of Northern Katrina.  ESPN didn’t show any of the lowlights on Saturday, but it was at least fun to watch the nail-biter of a first half score crawl by on the ticker at the bottom of the screen and listen for the sound of “Rocky Top” emanating from a hundred thousand puckering assholes.

I need something to reaffirm my faith in humanity and college football!

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That should keep the frogs off for awhile.

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Why the heck do we have to go out to dad-gum California to start the season? Bunch of dad-gum hippies out there.

Boy, I sure do miss Peyton. At least his dad-gum, pansy-ass brother didn’t go to school here.

I bet all those hippies out there in dad-gum California are going to take pot before the game. I hear tell that taking pot makes you hungry. I don’t need no dad-gum pot to get hungry. In fact, I sure could use a turkey about now.

Man, I sure do like that one gal on TV. What’s her name again? Rachael Ray, that’s it. She’s a dad-gum firecracker.

We got us a whole state full of dad-gum inbred, mullet-sporting trailer trash named Peyton that are all about 10 now. I hope one of them dad-gum sumbitches turns out to be a Quarterback.

I bet that Rachael Ray could whip up a turkey. I wonder if she’d let me cover her fine ass in turkey juice and lick it all off. Whoooooooooie, that would be a good time. I don’t get that kind of dad-gum action at home.

I bet if Rachael Ray and Peyton had a son, he’d be Quarterback here in about 19 years. Man, she’s so fine. Mmmmmm. Rachael Ray.

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Dad-gum it Rachael, you’re spillin’ all the juice!

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