here's one vote for "John Beilein's head in a Futurama jar"
I spent a great deal of my evening in an attempt to repress the events of the afternoon:
"Sorry about the game man."
"What game? I think it got rained out. Hurricane Gustav or whatev."
This was useless:
I saw OSU get pummeled.
There's nothing like the smell of burning flesh to remind you that some teams are worse than other teams; the teams that are worse than other teams are also better than some other teams; one of these other teams beat the hell out of our team. Moving on:
I saw Michael Phelps bomb on SNL.
He did wear a Michigan shirt while announcing Lil Wayne. He might have been the worst host of all time.
Reliving it all under the guise of a Michigan win:
I would still be laying in my bed with laptop on my chest, the heat emminating from the battery (fantastic birth control method if you lay it in your lap, in case you didn't know), trying to type something worth reading. I am a pathetic excuse for a writer, but even as I type this I hold on to some ridiculous fantasy that someone will respond: "what a well written post". Narcissism is a beautiful thing. Since the end of the game, four diaries have been written (not including this one); this is not because there is a lot to say (there is little to say). It is because want-to-be writers (like me) subconsciously know that a herd of forlorn fans will look to MGoBlog for answers, all but guaranteeing that their diary will be read by the masses.
Read my diary (I'm under-qualified).
Respond with comments. It feeds me. So does whiskey.