The ALABAMA-CLEMSON Diaries

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Saturday, 9:34 A.M. –

 

Ouch. My head feels like the Bataan Death March.

My brain is fucked. 

My brain is a hotel concierge, and last night is Kobe Bryant. 

My brain is the San Francisco 49ers organization, and last night is the guy who picked Alex Smith.

Last night is Tom Cruise, and my brain is dudes.

What did I do? How did I get home? Why the fuck is there hummus on my iPod? Whose still-full Bud Light is this? We drunk-ate? And drunk-drank?

Why is the aero-mattress/couch crowd up and at ‘em like an early morning bridge club? Is this a fucking nursing home? Were these not the same poor fucks who took two tequila shots in a 15-minute span last night?

 

9:40 A.M. – 

I need water. I need water like a dry bag of grits. 

What do we have a here, a plastic divorced-wedding cup? Fuck it. I’m sinking it up. The way my throat feels, I’ll drink water out of the homewrecker’s dog bowl.

 

9:45 A.M. –

Well at least there’s a cab receipt. That’s good news. At least no one was out pulling a Rock-Star-games on the great city of Atlanta last night.

 

9:46 A.M. – 

So apparently last night at Kramer’s I was smoking cigarettes like Humprey Bogart on adderall.

How do I know? Because my throat feels like the movie “Backdraft.”

 

9:50 A.M. – 

Wow. Going through the phone. The mass-text I sent at 1:04 A.M. is harder to understand Bear Bryant on the Jumbotron. 

I feel better when I look at the one my buddy sent back. It’s got more typos than a rushed Captain Hook term paper.

“fick clemency!@”

Ah, the combination of T1 prediction and free Yager bombs. You sound like a lawyer on a three-day acid binge.

 

10:03 A.M. –

Enter bacon.

And not just any bacon. Thick-sliced premium bacon. Much like Heath Ledger in The Dark Knight, its mere appearance takes things to a whole new level. 

Right now, I would probably nominate this piece of bacon for the Oscar. No joke. This is the fucking Daniel Day-Lewis of pork products.

But, just like The Dark Knight, the supporting cast is no slouch. Eggs over easy. Link sausage. Illy coffee. College Gameday.

Today has indeed made an epic turnaround.

 

10:34 A.M. –

I will pay a hitman eleventy-billion dollars to kill the Washington State Gameday douche. In the face.

I will. I will stand in line and buy a hitman an iPhone 3G to run over this flag-holding d-bag with a souped-up Dodge Ram.

Dude, why are you here every week? Please tell me you have a like a starting lineup of douches who rotate the weekly responsibilities of this ridiculous charade. Either way, who cares? Just stop.

Washington State is not fucking playing on Gameday. Washington State is never fucking playing on Gameday. You go 5-7 every fucking year. Go home. Turn in the flag. Stick your head in the oven.

P.S. Nebraska called. They want their uniforms back.

What, do you think you’re putting Washington State on the map? Tell me, oh Bledsoe of backdrops, how many 5-star prospects have you seen saying,

“Well it was close. Nebraska, Oklahoma, and Texas all have championship-caliber programs, top-notch facilities, unbelievable tradition and top-flight coaching staffs. But in the end, what separated Washington State was that uber-virgin flag-fag.

I know. Let’s set a trap. Let’s tell him next week’s Gameday will be broadcast from the basement of a New Jersey slum house. And let’s off him Pesci-in-Goodfellas style.

 

10:50 A.M. –

In-the-moment equation: College Gameday + two cups of caffeine = the Power of Greyskull.

 

10:51 A.M. - 

I’m fucking He-Man right now. I’m ready to go. A few short minutes ago, I may have been Clark Kent. But the College Gameday theme song is my own personal phone booth. 

I'm ready to go.

Only problem is, I’m pinching a loaf right now. The coffee ran through me like Hussain Bolt at the Special Olympics.

In short, I need Corso to pick Tommy Bowden, so I can go drop a Terry.

 

12:26 P.M. –

Showered. Dressed. Ready. The crew’s rounded up. 

The college football season is full-fledged like a wart on Nicole Richie's va-jay-jay.

Bloody Mary poured. On to the Dome it is.

 

12:27 P.M. –

Wait. I sound like I have a vagina, but I can’t decide what to wear.

What do you call it when you go back-and-forth on the decision to wear flip-flops?

 

12:29 P.M. –

Flip-flops.

 

1:08 P.M. –

The MARTA is some ghetto shit.

Does Lil’ Wayne have a mini-me? Or a mini-him? And if so, why is he asking me for money? Doesn’t Lil’ Wayne sell like a thousand records per A-Rod at-bat? Back that shit up shawty.

 

1:30 P.M. –

The Dome! Tailgates as far as the eye can see. Hot Clemson girls as far as the eye can cut without getting busted by the girl.

What is it about an orange stamp on a girl’s cheek that makes her look so hot? Girls with Auburn logos, ‘T’ logos, Clemson paws. Hot.

There’s no doubt about it. If I were still in college, I would get so much ass.

 

1:45 P.M. –

A bunch of people are crowded around watching the Virginia Tech game. I don’t watch Virginia Tech games.

The eternal score of a Virginia Tech game is 13-9.

Every game Virginia Tech has ever played in the history of their program has ended up 13-9. No matter what happens. Virginia Tech could score touchdowns on six straight drives, and the final score would still be 13-9.

Virginia Tech could be leading 56-0 after three quarters, and the final score would still be 13-9.

 

2:41 P.M. –

Free yellowhammers at the Innisfree tent are a very good thing.

In fact, they’re a very good things. Because I’m just on my third one. And this barbeque sandwich is the tits.

I wonder if this other tailgate will mind if I help myself to some Cool Ranch Doritos. I hope not. Because I just nuked the whole fucking bag.

 

2:58 P.M. –

Just heard Virginia Tech lost to fucking East Carolina 27-22. Wow. Bullshit. Herbie called that this morning, and I figured he had been hanging out on the ESPN set with Michael Irvin snorting oxycotin or something.

Hold on. Where’s a TV. Really? Yep, here comes the ticker.

‘East Carolina 13, Virginia Tech 9.’

I’ll be damned.

 

3:41 P.M. –

Free yellowhammers at the Innisfree tent are a very bad thing.

Some girl just threw up her entire ’08 bodily intake. Hey lady, it’s a tailgate. We’re all supposed to bring something to the table. And you brought the tummy-slaw. Thanks for that.

P.S. Just because we’re all outdoors doesn’t mean you can go spillin’ guts all over the field. What is this, ‘Nam?

Go home. Your face is whiter than a team hockey bus. And your lips are paler than Courtney Love’s cleavage.

 

5:00 P.M. –

Fuck. Is it 8:00 yet? Because this QT-sized Red Bull & vodka I’m pounding has me jacked like Lattimer.

By now, I’ve seen everybody I ever met in college and pretended to know most their names. ‘Hey buddy.’ ‘What’s up dude?’ ‘What it be bitch?’

I’m so smooth at fake know-you’s. My favorite:

‘Tell Sam I said what’s up.’

Everybody knows someone named Sam. It’s like ‘Huh? Does he even know who I am? He didn’t even say my name. But, oh wait a minute, now he’s talking about Sam. Well, clearly if he knows about Sam, then he knows about me. Wait, what is this guy’s name again?’

 

5:26 P.M. –

And I thought the first barbeque sandwich I had was good. This barbeque sandwich is epic. I’m an Alabama fan. And this sandwich tastes like the 1970’s.

 

6:10 P.M. – 

There’s no more beer. Everybody’s drunker than shit and now the Innisfree tailgate is more populated than Paris Hilton’s abortion count.

 

6:12 P.M. – 

Great news. Somebody just handed me a bottle of liquor in a brown bag.

Now I feel like that guy who plays a bum in a James Cameron action movie. I feel like at any moment, a murderous Austrian robot is going to appear from inside a ball of lightning in the middle of the street and I’m going to be woken from my day-to-day bum-like activities to hold up my brown-bagged liquor bottle and make an off-the-wall comment like ‘What the-’ before they cut to the next scene.

 

6:40 P.M. – 

This tent is getting out of hand. It’s like Woodstock for bammers. It’s time to make a move. We start rounding up the crew.

 

7:10 P.M. – 

Inside the stadium.

The first guy we see is a Clemson fan, who turns to the group and says “You suck ass.”

Listen, you chubby douchebag. Judging by that nut-duster goatee and your purple-ass shirt, it’s looking like you’re the one who sucks. Cock.

Most of the Clemson fans have been cool. We don’t say anything. We’ll do our talking on the field. If by “on the field” you mean, when we’ve had enough bourbon.

 

7:30 P.M. –

We have seats on the 35-40 that are 10 rows up from our bench. They probably cost a child. I could probably propose sleeping with a guy’s wife for an entire weekend for these seats.

Being as we’re this close to the sidelines… WOW. Our team is fucking huge. We don’t even look remotely like we did in 2006. Even players on the team then are much stronger, more cut, taller and like, better.

They look better at everything they did under Shula. They’re better at standing on the sidelines than they were under Shula. They’re better at walking on the field than they were under Shula. They’re better at breathing than they were under Shula. They’re better at being better than they were under Shula than they were under Shula.

 

8:00 P.M. –

Kickoff’s in ten minutes. Man, I hope we win. I hope we win.

 

8:10 P.M. –

We’re going to win. Holy shit. Yea. We’re going to win.

Our team looks more pissed of than Mike Gundy. Our team's a man. Our team's 40.

 

8:23 P.M. –

In-the-moment Observation: Roughly 87% of our freshman class looks like they were genetically created in the machine from the 1985 film Weird Science.

 

8:38 P.M. –

Somehow the score of this game is only 6-0. Which reminds me, did they keep early score at the Alamo?

 

8:45 P.M. – 

Wow. It’s only 8:45 and Terrance Cody has already collapsed more pockets than the Great Depression.

 

8:56 P.M. – 

13-0. Rout. Is that Nick Walker or Dwight Clark?

 

8:58 P.M. - 

Wow. Is that Mark Barron? I didn't know black guys were inducted into the Spartan army. (“Weird SCI-ence, da da da! Da-da-da-da-da-da!”)

 

9:12 P.M. – 

Terrance Cody just picked up the Clemson center ala Hulk Hogan in Rocky III, called him a “meatball,” and slammed him into James Davis for a loss of 43. Brother.

 

9:22 P.M. – 

20-3. Speaking of ROCKY movies, this is like watching 'Ivan Drago v. Apollo Creed II.' Only now, Apollo Creed is already dead, and his limp, lifeless body has been rolled out to the middle of the ring in a wheelbarrow to be repeatedly club-punched by Drago in front of a blood-thirsty mob.

Why is Tommy Bowden still holding that white towel? And why is Vic Koenning’s wife screaming in slo-mo for him to throw it?

 

9:30 P.M. –

In-the-moment Mathematical equation: Nick Saban > Nick Saban’s cat > Tommy Bowden

 

9:48 P.M. – 

Terrance Cody just turned invisible, blended in with the Georgia dome, fixated his heat-vision on Cullen Harper, blew off Carl Weathers’ arms, and skinned the entire Clemson offensive line.

 

9:50 P.M. – 

We need more beer. But I don’t want to miss the beatdown. Mmmm, beatdown.

 

9:52 P.M. – 

It’s halftime, and I’m 95% convinced Terrance Cody is the Rancor.

 

9:55 P.M. – 

In-the-moment SAT question:

Tommy Bowden is to Clemson what:

A)   Mike Shula is to Alabama

B)   Dave Shula is to the Cincinnati Bengals

C)   Stan Shula is to a fictional shittiocre football team

 

10:00 P.M. – 

In-the-moment Observation: Nothing in life makes you more uneasy than slight urinal splatter when you’re wearing flip-flops. Especially when you haven’t even started peeing yet.

 

10:06 P.M. – 

Start of the 2nd half. CJ Spiller makes it interesting…

  

10:06:30 P.M. –  

… for about 30 seconds.

We don’t even looked phased. Our team is more aggressive than fucking Pepe Le Pew. They’re playing like they know Clemson fucked their girlfriends last night.

 

10:08 P.M. – 

Another Clemson injury. Did Clemson fuck their girlfriends last night?

 

10:12 P.M. – 

In-the-moment Observation: Mark Ingram’s calves are the size of Mark Mangino’s chin. Seriously, his shins look more inflated than Clemson’s preseason ranking.

 

10:23 P.M. – 

I am officially shitfaced. I think I just yelled out something about Nick Saban running over Clemson fans’ pets. What ridiculous statement to make. Mainly, because I’m pretty sure he did.

10:25 P.M. - 

In-the-moment random Definition: Collective vagina stare (noun) (plural)

a. - look of helplessness often found on face of dumped middle-school girlfriend

b. - Clemson’s sideline during entire 4^th quarter

  

10:28 P.M. – 

Terrance Cody just performed the Liu Kang bicycle kick on the Clemson center, gave him an uppercut, shot CJ Spiller with a roped spear and screamed “Get over here!” before ripping his head and spine clean out of his body.

Terrance Cody wins. Fatality.

P.S. 'Flawless victory.'

 

10:50 P.M. – 

Julio ices the game, I ice my bourbon. 31-10.

10:51 P.M. – 

In-the-moment Mathematical equation: This team + a couple of years = scarier than Russia.

 

10:52 P.M. – 

Fuck it. I’m cheering for Clemson on this drive.

 

10:53 P.M. – 12:00 A.M. – 

Drunken celebration, singing of Rammer Jammer, sloppy Men’s Room piss, chanting of “SEC! SEC! SEC!,” taunting of Clemson fans, anointing of Saban, spilling of bourbon, forgetting of probation, losing of voice, exiting of stadium, high-fiving of strangers, making of plans.

 

12:15 – 12:30 A.M. – 

Drunken perusal of Centennial Park. We should go home before we get stabbed by bums/dejected Clemson fans. Yea, we should go home. Where the fuck is STATS?

 

12:31 A.M. – 2:00 A.M. – 

Shots. Drinks. Party. 

This bar is fucking sweet. The bartenders are bitchier than Nancy Pelosi at an NRA convention, but everything is futuristic. Everything.

To take a shit in STATS, you have to do a retina scan. Seriously. The bathrooms in Stats are like something out of Back to the Future II. (“Your penis is now dryyy!”)

 

(2:30 - 9:33 A.M. - Sleep.)

…

 

Sunday, 9:34 A.M. – 

My head feels like the Bataan Death March. 

My brain is fucked.

My brain is the legal process and last night is a rich celebrity.

My brain is Lindsey Lohan and last night is everybody in Los Angeles.

My brain is Tommy Bowden, and last night is “The Process.”

Comments

[Trey Torp]

Nice read dude.

[Josh]

you are the man

[Hicks]

I had the exact same experience.

Good stuff.

[Doublek]

Coming from a Razorback fan, that diary was beautiful.
I'm glad you brought up the 10pm observation as I had the same experience last weekend... is it piss or water or piss-water that lands on your bare feet? Either way, I don't like it.

[Mr. Pelican Pants]

Funny stuff. I have had plenty of times similar to that, except the Tide was playing the role of Clemson during the Dark Years of Dubose....we had a reason to drink usually around the 2nd play from scrimmage when Kitchens would fumble or maim some one with a laser ball 2 yrds away..
3-8, hope we never go back, dont see it happeneing this year, the SEC West is ours...

[Mr. Pelican Pants]

Also, with that TD in the game, did Julio get a free year of OnStar?

[muskrat]

you just took me to my "happy place." i just hope i get to stay there until earl january.

[Charles]

You need to learn some grammar and spelling before you make fun of the better school in Alabama.

[GUMP]

Charles,

University of Alabama: 37th-ranked public school in America.

Auburn University: 45th-ranked public school in America.

What school?

P.S. You mean watch the typos? Thanks. Gump4Heisman is currently accepting applications for two positions: Assistant Editor and Bitch-Ass Secretary. You should apply for both.

[ImAlive1459]

This is still my absolute favorite blog entry. I've read this one several times and I still find it hilarious!

"Terrance Cody just picked up the Clemson center ala Hulk Hogan in Rocky III, called him a “meatball,” and slammed him into James Davis for a loss of 43. Brother."

Love the "Brother." addition!

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