Unverified Voracity: Putting It To Bed Edition
Basketball coming up this afternoon. For now, Big Ten Wonk has a recap par excellence for you.
Joey would undoubtedly refer to this as "peep game" but my flaccid indie band tendencies prevent me from knowing what in the sam hell this means. In any case, even though you undoubtedly do not care about the Edmonton Oilers in the slightest, I must point out "Covered In Oil," undoubtedly the finest blog anywhere. I mean:
Man, if you had told me a month ago that Ty Conklin would be between the pipes for the Oilers first shutout of the season, I would have called you a filthy little liar and slapped you right in the mouth. Then, I probably would have felt bad for overreacting and bought you a caramel Drumstick or something, guilt-ridden but resting assured that my point had nonetheless been made. That point being Ty Conklin is bad.
Huzzah, etc. One of the best things about this whole "college football blog community" thing that magically happened is that I know various southerners--probably based in Atlanta and wondering if they should drink whiskey or Drano after the Sugar Bowl--peruse this space on a regular basis and regard any and all hockey posts with puzzlement and bemusement. Yes, kids, when water gets cold it turns into something hard and slippery.
Er. Anyway, you may now continue your dirt-track racing careers.
Introspection and bitching from around the web. Alamo Farce fallout was truly radioactive. Commisseration occurs from various places on the ref screwjob. Paul Westerdawg:
Worst officiating ever. At least when Al Ford and his crew killed the Dawgs in 1999 vs. Tech, they didn't have instant replay as a resource.
Yeah... Michigan got f***ed pretty thoroughly. Having to burn two timeouts for replays ended up costing them big time, and the circus that was the final play was just a fitting end to an all-around ass-raping by the semi-trained monkeys from the Sun Belt.
Every coach knows that if players do run onto the field during a play, the penalty is harsh. Nebraska's entire team ran onto the field during the game-deciding play -- yet not a single yellow flag. That's spectacular officiating ineptitude. Maybe the Sun Belt Conference zebras working this game were anxious to head to the locker room and didn't care about doing their jobs properly. Whatever the explanation, "Sun Belt Conference officials" will now be synonymous with incompetence, while "Alamo Bowl" will now be synonymous with botched game supervision.
Back at the Michigan ranch, Johnny freaks everyone out by quoting "Hurt," but makes it clear in his lead that killing yourself... eh... could possibly be avoided...
Please, open the garage door before you start the car, untie yourself from the train tracks, spit the mouthful of bleach into the sink, drain the bath before you toss in any appliances, and fire that .38 into the sky, for another voice of delirium commands your attention, and like you it has absolutely no idea what has just happened. So gather round, pop the last of your 12 dollar New Year's Eve champagne, because calamity of this caliber loves company.
...but only because then there won't be anyone to bitch to. I sort of expected Joey to ignore this advice and post a recording of his grisly demise at the hands of a shotgun blast, but he lives(!) and posts something aptly titled "Make It Stop." Indeed. Stop, don't git it git it. Etc.
Vijay, more mature than the rest of us combined into Bitchy Whiny Blogger Voltron, has emerged from a private cocoon of sorrow with a State of the Program Address which I'll respond to later; it deserves fuller consideration since it'll be the topic du jour for the duration of the offseason.
I did this. Before when I ran across dumb internet things and created derived dumb Internet things with them, they died quietly. Now they liiiiive... on the blog!
Alamo Aftermath, y'all. Caution: it sucks.