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    From the desk of FIU Head Football Coach Rontario Turner the 7th:

    Early this morning, our football team had a workout and barbecue on Crandon Park Beach to conclude our summer conditioning program under the supervision of our strength and conditioning staff.


    Following the workout, some of our athletes went to rinse off at a designated public shower area and a few of them made a poor decision and changed their clothes in public.

    I want to apologize to the community and anyone who was at the beach this morning for this unfortunate incident.

    We are committed to helping our student athletes grow as gentlemen while preparing them for their careers. We are looking into this incident, and if appropriate, will take disciplinary action.


    Have a great weekend.

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    Lesley Stahl: Thank you for being here today.

    Bear: My pleasure.

    LS: So, how did this start?

    Bear: We were working downtown. Mostly drunks. Occasional searches. You'd be surprised how many college kids don't even try to wrap weed in fabric softener.

    LS: And you're in the car?

    Bear: I'm in the car. I don't like being in the car, mind you. But they keep me there. There's a lot of...challenges being a K-9 cop. The hours, the pay, the stress on your family. But the worst is the hierarchy. A human can total three cruisers in a year, but me? I don't even touch the keys, much less get behind the wheel.

    LS: You're saying dogs are discriminated against in police departments?

    Bear: I'm not saying it. It simply is. I don't even get pants.

    LS: Do you want pants?

    Bear: Oh, hell no. But yanno, health insurance? That'd be nice. My wife has 'em seven at a time.

    LS: So you're in the backseat.

    Bear: Yeah. And I'm just minding my business. Sniffing. Panting. I'll admit, I fell asleep for a few minutes, but I'm allowed to do that. Unlike some people, Officer Steve? Right? Like I don't know you're not supposed to do your speeding watches with your eyes closed? See, it's this shit that I---

    LS: Let's stay focused here. You're in the backseat.

    Bear: I'm sorry. Yeah, so I'm in the backseat, and I see Antonio walk by. And I give him a shout-out.

    LS: In English?

    Bear: Oh, no. My accent's horrible. So's Antonio's, because he tried to talk back.

    LS: So he was saying something?

    Bear: Well, I think he was trying to say "Thanks." But there's a tone, and an accent he had missing, and he ended up saying. He was working in a dialect of Wolfhound or Dane or something, too. Like, terrible Rosetta Stone stuff. I hope he didn't take that from UF, because they need to fire some dudes if that was the case.

    LS: We have a transcript? Let's listen.


    Bear: Yeah, so that's when they took him in. He was pissed. I was trying to explain to the cops what was happening, but...

    LS: Go on.

    Bear: They only speak Irish Setter. It's, like, the easiest dialect of dog. The piglatin of dog, if you will.

    LS: So they can't talk to you? Even if you're telling them not to arrest someone?

    Bear: Nope. I was sitting there telling them a guy just walked by with a pocket full of meth, and the good stuff, too, not a whiff of toilet cleaner on it. And they're stuffing some dumbass football player into the front seat while I'm yelling this. Peckerwoods.

    LS: Do you think they did the right thing?

    Bear: Well, yeah, if only because you probably shouldn't bark at me. I'm a police dog, and I'm an officer of the law, technically. You know, EVEN IF I HAVE TO GO OUTSIDE NETWORK FOR EVEN THE SIMPLEST OF WORMING PROCEDURES.

    LS: So you think he should have been arrested?

    Bear: I'm saying a dog would have gotten a lot worse in the situation. And that I'd like a break room with TV that I like on, not that Animal Planet shit left on 24/7.

    LS: You don't like Animal Planet?

    Bear: Does a Nazi watch the History Channel at night? Nah, you wanna get away from work. I'm a Ninja Warrior fan. Another place you won't see dogs get their due, mind you.

    LS: Don't you have to have hands to do that?

    Bear: Well, we don't know, do we? DO WE?

    LS: Point taken.

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    His eyes are beautiful, and this makes this so very much more disturbing than this has any right to be. Pooh-pooh ACC media days if you like, but it created this picture of Frank Beamer atop the Moonshine Throne of Blacksburg, Larry Fedora was walking around barefoot, and someone could--in theory, at least--get naked later. Odds on the coach locked out of his room nude TRICK QUESTION it was Chuck Amato and you know it.

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    FRANK SOLICH NEVER TURNED DOWN A RACE. It is a good morning and will be a good day and then will ascend to greatness sometime between 11 a.m. and 1 p.m. because it all started with this:

    There's video, too, because you really want to see that Frank Solich not only rides tricycles for charity, but gives 110% effort in the process. When you go 110% on a tricycle, you fall, and that's probably something else you want to see, and then make ABSOLUTELY NO JOKES ABOUT GHB WHATSOEVER. NONE AT ALL.

    TEXAS DOES LIKE A RELAXING NAP FROM TIME TO TIME. When you look back at how the 2012 season unfolded, and how many people have said things like this about Texas, it makes the absolute annihilation of Ole Miss in Oxford seem even weirder in retrospect. We did just type that about an Ole Miss team. It was weird for us, too.

    MAYBE HE MEANT A STACK OF CRAP, SINCE THAT'S ORDERLY? No, Charlie Weis meant a pile, as in an unordered and slovenly hunk of crap. He'll elaborate on it and everything for you, and even get players to agree with him. Charlie Weis has likely made more money than you will ever make, and life is funny like that sometimes.

    ESSENTIAL COMMUNITY POLICING. We repeat: you don't have to make up reasons to arrest Florida football players, Alachua County Sheriff's Office, and you especially don't have to do it with Antonio Morrison, but releasing the tape and admitting it should have been a warning is at least a nice bit of transparency on their part. Someone please hug that cop, and then send him to Disney for a few days with money for the turkey legs in Fantasyland.

    FOOTBALL CRAAAAACK. Nick Saban scouting his own team is delightful, particularly when you have him referring to everyone on the field with defensive terminology, and also when it's him politely pointing out how the went after Manti Te'o over and over again by design in that game.




    ETC: No, wait, really, Miley Cyrus really IS better without the music.

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    The Big 12's head of officiating explained proper tackling under the new targeting rules at the conference's media days today. The targeting rules are designed to prevent a number of harmful and illegal hits: helmet-to-helmet, leading with the head, and various other improper tackles that may lead to serious injury, paralysis, or death. And since we hate seeing players unconscious and twitching like stunned bugs as much as you do, we certainly appreciate the intent.

    The explanation, however, may be a bit lacking in clarity.

    We have attempted to illustrate the proper tackling positions for the head using exactly what the Big 12 used: Alabama tackling form. Please note that the Big 12 used a lot of Alabama footage in their presentation, because they are a major football conference that enjoys satire.


    Rather than leading with his head, the tackler could have chosen any number of otherwise safe head posiitons for the tackle by placing his head on his back, foot, knee, or ass, aka "The Bulgarian Embrace." Ideally, the player would remove their head before a play, execute the tackle, and then take instructions from the sideline from their disembodied head, but technology lags behind our best hopes and will for some amount of time.

    Other examples of tackling were clarified by officials. Examples thereof follow:









    We hope this helps officials as they make decisions to eject people from football games this fall.

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    HEY, LOOK, URBAN DIDN'T HIT THAT LADY. Carlos Hyde may not have hit anyone at all, something which should make Big Ten Media Days ever so slightly better for Urban Meyer. Oh, speaking of:

    We have a small army there, so follow along and taste the wholesome Midwesternness of it all. (It's also on BTN and ESPNU.)

    CAN GOD SAVE A HOOKER? Well, we don't know about save, but Bill Snyder will certainly take her out for a solid meat and three, discuss some basic concepts of financial literacy, give her one hundred dollars in U.S. treasury bonds, and then the number of a guy he knows who runs a cleaning business with flexible hours and good pay, because you'll be going back to school as soon as you finish rehab. Man, that got WAY sadder than we wanted it to get, but Bill Snyder's a builder, and sometimes that means an honest assessment of how shaky the foundations are, imaginary hooker who's gonna turn her life around this time.

    LORD KNOWS HOW TRILL ART BRILES IS. Since he's a 57 year old who can answer questions with Drake lyrics, we'll go ahead and assume that Hugh Freeze can spit Al Kapone on command.

    IT'S A LOSS ON DEFENSE SO NEVERMIND PROCEED AS PLANNED. Arizona DB Patrick Onwuasor is accused of ALL THE DRUG CHARGES, so he's off the team and probably will be replaced by someone pulled off the streets of Tucson randomly. This person will turn into a respectable piece of a 3-3-5 defense because Jeff Casteel is a sorcerer. (And yes, we will do a Fulmer Cupdate before vacation next week, and that's four felonies and a truckload of points.)

    ETC: Fuck you, that's why you do a Smolov Cycle. Follow. Adam. Jacobi.

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    This is a story about football, so let me tell you about the times I've set people on fire in the name of winning.

    I did it once on accident; backing into a corner, I fell into a camper with his sniper rifle equipped. Both of us were blind, scared, and suddenly thrown into a very small space with an amount of weaponry that would embarrass the most depraved of arms dealers. Naturally, it ended with knives, the ringing sound of a few accidentally thrown flashbangs, and after some fumbling, the flamethrower. It killed both of us. It always did.

    I've done it deliberately, too. In Call of Duty it was almost always a panic move, but in Team Fortress 2? That was the intent, the main idea, the thesis of being a Pyro. You were there to run around in a rubber suit, your eyes hidden behind a dead, comically blank mask, and set people on fire. There is no real strategy to TF2, and never will be, since the idea is to create a battle where everyone is equally crippled by some weakness, and surviving the chaos is the best you can really hope for in the long run.

    Those are two very different us vs. them games involving teamwork, a set series of rules, and problem-solving within a confined set of rules, limitations, and sets. I like a lot of us v. them games on various platforms, but the best one by far is football. It's played live, and also in a wide array of possible variations.


    Do we want football to be a continuous game?

    That's Alabama coach Nick Saban, who has never played a video game in his life, at SEC Media Days in 2013. Saban, more than anyone else, seems to just want to know what problem he has to solve, what answer he has to offer to no-huddle offenses, and whether he's going to get to substitute in certain situations. His issue is efficiency, and adjusting to a new strategy, because he is the coach, and more importantly one that specializes in defense.

    He seemed to be saying something like this: If this is what we want to do, tell me we're doing it this way so I can figure out a way to put it in a sleeper hold for four quarters until it loses consciousness.

    For a detail monster like Saban, that will mean adjusting conditioning, creating new packages, altering portions of practice, some new review of film, and perhaps changing the kind of shoelaces his players wear.

    That last part is not a joke. Nick Saban thinks about those things because he has a button on his door to save him seconds and eats the same thing for lunch every day to save nanoseconds of thought-energy. It's not the way he'd do it, but Nick Saban makes $4 million a year to solve game problems. He'll adjust.

    Arkansas coach Bret Bielema's opposition to teams speeding up the pace and short-circuiting laggardly defenses is a different kind of protest. First, Bielema clearly wants his steak, potatoes, and canned beer on the table at 6 p.m., and some Big Bang Theory on the TV at 8 p.m. because this is America, and we have traditions. There are fullbacks in the backfield, the third wide receiver is sitting on the bench where he should be, and when Bret gets enough money in the bank he's getting a Camaro, not some pamby-ass Mercedes, because these colors do not run.

    Yeah, we wanted to play a little bit of normal American football. We wanted to line up with a tight end and a couple wideouts, a tailback, and a fullback, see what we can do.

    Bielema went on to passionately defend his belief that yes, there should be rules to slow down the game because player safety in the no-huddle was a concern.

    He had no numbers to back this up, which puts him in good company. No one has those numbers, or at least does not have them yet. A very simple comparison of numbers from the fastest and slowest teams in college football suggests slower teams get hurt more often than teams that run high-tempo offenses.

    He had no numbers to back this up, which puts him in good company.

    That only suggests that being slow is bad for you. It says nothing about causation. Perhaps the teams that run the slowest-paced attacks in college football do so because of inexperience, another factor behind a higher injury rate. Teams may also try to do less on offense because injuries have a tendency to snowball, especially on the offensive line, where a lack of coordination between replacement parts gets running backs, quarterbacks, fullbacks, and fellow linemen injured.*

    *Watch USC 2012 if you want an example of how one or two injuries along an offensive line can devastate an entire offense's effectiveness and spread from one position to another.

    Without real evidence behind a claim of player safety as motivation for slowing down no-huddle offenses, you're left with one reason to dislike them: they are hard to defend and run counter to the old notion of a ponderous game of single-series violences interrupted by 40-second intervals of thought, huddling, and perhaps a quick drying of the quarterback's hands on a towel.


    It's dangerous to state any preference online, because you are wrong, and those who are wrong must be utterly destroyed with fire. I'll risk it by saying that in one Us Vs. Them format, I will always choose the more chaotic, less orderly, and more aggressive version of that particular game. I'll take the guns-forward philosophy of Total Football in soccer, Team Fortress 2 and the Grand Theft Auto series for my video game preferences, Hunter S. Thompson and other people who hated editing over the Jane Austens of the world, and a no-huddle spread that attacks for 60 horrible minutes over slugball clock-control any and every day of my life.

    That's not to say you can't appreciate Jane Austen football, or catenaccio, or the extremely conventional and wildly successful structures of a game like Call of Duty. They all work even if you hate them because they are rigid and deeply stratified and reward conservative, disciplined behavior with measured, consistent payoffs. They are also incredibly hard to do and require a hardass' attention to detail and an engineer's meticulous attention to quality control at every step.

    That's why being overly critical of someone like Bielema for invoking safety in hinting at a rule changes regarding the no-huddle is fine. If he doesn't have the evidence, there is no reason any rules committee in football should consider changing substitution or rules as they stand. Get numbers and make a case, or stop invoking player safety in the name of limiting something you simply do not happen to like.

    Yet you can't mock Bielema or Saban or Kevin Sumlin, for that matter, for having preferences. One of the great geekeries in football is its basic challenge: to take a certain number of variables, give them limitations and rights and rules, and then figure out how you can push them forward or backward across 100 yards of lined turf. There are 2,340 ways to line up on defense in the nickel formation alone, and that's with some pretty strict rules put in place to simplify the math.

    Preferences matched with skill set make football so interesting. You can run the flexbone or the 4-2-5 or whatever evil Chip Kelly left in a lead-lined box in Oregon or the 3-3-5 or the 3-4 or the air raid or the pistol, and it's all still football, a long series of moves and countermoves made on the fly against live opponents.

    In video game terms, you might camp in the corner with the sniper rifle, or you might barrel into a hostile crowd with a blazing flamethrower and all caution thrown to the wind. When those opposites meet, things blow up in unpredictable and messy fashion, and that's where some of the game's most incredible moments are spawned. That's how you get Boise State versus Oklahoma, or Alabama vs. Texas A&M, or any other compelling game of complete opposites.

    It would be an easier game for some if college football were more homogenous by rule. It would also be a poorer one.

    Photo: Wesley Hitt, Getty Images

    More from SB Nation:

    •SB Nation’s media days coverage, live from the scene: ACC | Big 12 | Big Ten | SEC

    Jadeveon Clowney knows Jay Z? So what?

    Suspended Ohio State player actually didn’t punch anybody

    Projecting every 2013 college football conference race

    National recruiting coverage

    Today’s college football news headlines

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  • 07/25/13--07:52: THE CURIOUS INDEX, 7/25/2013
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    HE'S A GAMER. RIP, Truck. Nick O'Leary of Florida State's coming through.

    That happened a while ago--and you can read all about it at Tomahawk Nation, of course--so Nick O'Leary, who walked away from that accident with no major injuries, will be ready for the season. It's perfectly fine to ride a motorcycle, provided you wear a helmet and are an immortal viking. If you are not an immortal viking, we call dibs on your liver and corneas.

    NOW EVERYTHING IS FIXED. This is why monuments and statues and plaques are stupid ideas in the first place. BTW, if you know the stone mason in question, hit us up because we will buy that for cash money and put it to good use.

    IT'S HELPFUL TO DIAGNOSE STUPID THINGS EARLY. Jason has a full list of terrible arguments about the Clowney hit/officiating brouhaha/ETC, and you should read it because stupid never turns its headlights on, so you have to train to see it coming ahead of time.

    SO HE'S PROCEEDING AS USUAL IS WHAT YOU'RE SAYING. The head coach at Michigan State is confused and disgusted with what he sees, so he is Mark Dantonio, and he is in good health and doing what he usually does re: everything.

    ETC: Thomas DeCoud, saying "it's all good" in the least comforting way imaginable. Ooh, new 30 for 30s don't include college football, but EDDIE.

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    First, you have to listen to Minnesota head coach Jerry Kill talk, and hear his accent and watch his mannerisms. Then, you'll realize that you've seen him before, in a different life, as someone who fixes things and has some very bad news about that water pump you probably heard knocking around in your engine.


    I got some bad news and some good news, sir. The good news is that you're goin' on vacation. The bad? It's gonna be at the Residence Inn down the street, because we gotta tent it. I'm gonna be honest. Might be a week. Might be two. But when we're done, I'll also promise this: everything trapped in there will be deader 'n a doornail, and your furniture will glow in the dark for months afterward.

    I'll also tell you this: I never seen so many armadillos in one wall. We take checks and credit cards, sir.


    Well, ain't that something. I've never seen a squirrel get that far down into a septic tank, but you got yourself the Andy Dufresne of squirrels there. He woulda gone a quarter mile to get down there for some reason. Maybe thought he was gettin' somewhere in life. Ain't that just like life? The bad news is that you're gonna have to pull up the whole shitcave just to get him out, because he's stuck right there in the dang main intake. The good news? You're not that squirrel. Then again, he's not paying for this, either, because he's a squirrel, and probably couldn't get a credit card in his name in most states.

    Not speaking for Indiana. They got a different way of doing things there. We take checks and credit cards, sir.


    Well, it's worse than I told you. Now, don't get too upset. Some other builders would just wall this up, but we're gonna go in there. Get those bones out of the crawlspace. Not ask too many questions about them because that's the past and we're living in the present and the future's where we're headed. Without the bones, which are going to the county dump, which will take 'em as "recyclables" without asking too many questions as long as you pack 'em with some mulch.

    Stay with me. That whole wall? It's being held up by mold. Can't even tell if there was wood there at one point. Who's the contractor who did this? Brewster? Well, that explains it. You skimp on cost by building a house out of packing peanuts and old cooking oil cans bound in duct tape and that's gonna happen. You've got a few of those mold walls, actually. Like, all of them.

    I'm not gonna lie to you: you might wanna look into getting new lungs. I don't even know how you're alive.

    But that's what we're gonna do. Build a new house here. I'm gonna have to take it down one way or the other. NOW LISTEN. Listen. It's gonna be expensive. Might take two years. Might take three. I really don't know. I SAID I DON'T KNOW. You might just wanna leave the country for a while. Work under an assumed name. Come back when we've burned the evil out of this glorified crackhouse you got here. Pardon my language: this glorified crackhouse with a mold problem worse than a jungle poacher's skivvies you got here.

    But we'll work hard is what I'm saying, and by the time we're done you're gonna have a real house and not a giant mold spore with cable and central heat and air.

    Also, you might have walking Legionnaires' Disease. Jeez, this is worryin' the piss outta me now.

    Oh, and I talked to your insurance company. Said you're only covered for phylum zygomycota. Yeah, I told 'em you had the "Total Shield Coverage Plan." Print's the print, ma'am. We take credit cards and personal checks, sir.

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  • 07/26/13--07:47: THE CURIOUS INDEX, 7/26/2013
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    NO, THIS IS A REALLY GOOD IDEA, WE SWEAR. The nights in Arkansas are longer by three minutes than on anywhere else on earth. Three minutes doesn't sound like a lot, but remember that the smallest margins add up with the greatest effect over time. Take an eternity of those three minutes, and it adds up to utter madness.

    The man off-camera--yes, probably chained to a radiator--is what makes this so very good, terrible, and...Arkansas. (Via)

    STOOPS NOW, STOOPS FOREVER. Bob Stoops has capped off an emotional summer of Testosterone Replacement Therapy, press conference barrages, SEC-baiting, and a burglary at his house by getting a contract extension until 2020. He celebrated by taking Skyler against the refrigerator, and by hiding his burner phone in the ceiling of the Oklahoma offices.

    HE'S SO FIRED. Pat Haden comes out pre-season to assure the media and concerned parties that Lane Kiffin has his full confidence, and that there is no hot seat for him at USC. HE'S SO FIRED, and not because of the unusual "passion"of USC fans, either.

    HE NEVER SHOULD HAVE LEFT UC-DAVIS. Based on what Walt Harris and Petersen say about UC-Davis in this interview, you think you could get the job because, just applied and got lucky, and then decided to stay there the rest of your life?

    TODD MONKEN IS AS SALTY AS THE GULF OF MEXICO HE NOW RESIDES BY. Any time a coach drops "prostituting" in his Media Days remarks, you know you're in for a good time. He's right, of course, and that's why he's Todd Fuckin' Monken.

    PLEASE STOP BEING SO HEARTWARMING AND ADORABLE. It makes jokes about Memphis football that much harder to make, Jacob Karam.

    DREAMS ARE GOOD THINGS TO HAVE AND FANTASIES ARE EVEN BETTER. Oh, Jim Delany, you optimist who can't say no to love.

    ETC: Williston seems like a crunk-ass town or total sadness or possibly both. John Adams could slander a bitch when he wanted to.

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    WOOO. Man, it's been a while since we took that shirt off. Feels good. Let's the areola breathe a bit. Tans the corpsey flesh of the cave-dweller. Feeds those little moles some valuable melanoma gas, and gets the blood pumping. What we're saying is that we're going on vacation next week, and this means you shouldn't ever look at yourself with your shirt off, ever, unless you have the confidence and blind swagger of a Bret Bielema, which you don't.*

    *If you are Bret Bielema, you do, and what are you doing reading the internet YOU THINK SABAN DOES THAT HELL NO HE CAN'T EVEN TURN ON A COMPUTER WITHOUT HELP BECAUSE HE'S BEEN WATCHING FILM FOR THE PAST 40 YEARS.

    You'll be in good hands with guest host Celebrity Hot Tub and a cavalcade of internet stars to fill the week, Then it's back full steam until January, where we will collapse in a weeping heap as we write "ALABAMA WINS THIRD TITLE IN A ROW" like we didn't know it was happening all over again.

    This is what we will do on vacation:

    • Create "Chuckie Keeton for Heisman" website
    • Pull Bielema out of pool, find he's still breathing underwater somehow, place back in pool
    • Read Phil Steele, pretend we just memorized an entire conference's offensive lines, and then puke acronyms from our eyes for days afterwards
    • Sunburn-proof back of neck by layering sunburn with rolls of moleskin under new layers of sunburn
    • Practice Will Muschamp sayings by yelling confused questions at tree in seaside park. "WHAT'S A PADAWAN, LIVE OAK?"
    • Begin acceptance of inevitable Florida loss to Vanderbilt
    • Prep conditioning for couch-ass with 1000 yard pantsless scoots on exposed sandbar
    • By request, brew gallon of blinding moonshine and send to Frank Beamer for use as "cure-all and genital tonic"
    • Hahahaha, like Frank doesn't brew his own.

    In the meantime, y'all behave, and try to clean up so the parties weren't so obvious.

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  • 08/05/13--09:55: NOTRE DAME'S NEW UNIFORMS
  • Se78_medium

    Not bad, Adidas. Blood highlights would be nice, but red's not really in the ND branding universe, and we understand that.

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    How to succeed in the American Athletic Conference. Remember the American Athletic Conference is just the Big East after a diet. A weird diet. A diet where you lose your pecs and glutes but keep your love handles. Maybe add on a second something you don't need. A third ear that doesn't hear anything right on the back of your neck. Right where the tag on your shirt will chafe it. THE AMERICAN CONFERENCE.

    Get everyone some shirts. Shirts with names. The kind of shirts workers wear. With the cursive letters and in some shade of blue. The blue that blends with blood and oil and the things men spill on their shirts when they work real jobs. Okay maybe it doesn't blend. That's the wrong word. Makes a darker, distinct, but less bad stain that you'd see on most shirts. Whole shirt's made of that eventually. What color is that shirt IT'S WORKSTAIN AND I WILL WEAR IT TO SEE THE QUEEN AND USE WHATEVER FORK I WANT.

    Revolutionary war. Eating the steak with a shrimp fork to pretend I got a really big piece of steak. Or I'm a giant coach. Either way. It's what Jim Harbaugh would do and therefore that's what Willie Taggart would do. Laugh. He won at Western Kentucky. You pull off one damn miracle in your life and get back to me and Willie will call you even. Now go get him some shirts. AMERICAN SHIRTS FOR AN AMERICAN CONFERENCE DAMMIT.

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  • 08/06/13--07:52: THE CURIOUS INDEX, 8/6/2013
  • BRAVO, PITT. An approving growl and a shake of the jowls in your direction, Pitt.

    We don't know what they're going to name after Dave Wannstedt, but we really hope it's the punter's nets.

    "YOU'RE NOT DEAD."Michigan State's Micajah Reynolds had to tell a random teenager he was not dead, which is difficult when the teenager knows he has been shot in the head and left to die in the middle of the street. Micajah Reynolds is phenomenally composed for a man his age, and also a way better person than we are.

    JEREMY HILL WILL GET SOME CARRIES SO GET OUT OF HIS WAY BECAUSE HE'S NOT VERY NICE. In an extreme contrast to the preceding story, Jeremy Hill has been granted his third chance at LSU after his assault case. If Baton Rouge would just legalize all fistfighting in parking lots, they could avoid like half the trouble the LSU football team has ever had, since that seems to be a thing in Baton Rouge anyway. Also, Jeremy Hill may not have the best self-control skills, and that'll go real well for the rest of his career in the hot pot of anger fondue and sexual gymnastics that is Baton Rouge. GOOD LUCK.

    DEPLOY AUBURN COMPLIANCE TEAM. Go get 'em, dogs of the compliance world.

    WHYYYY. Bill C has to preview every single football team every year. It's in the charter of the alien planet he comes from, and to not do so would resort in immediate deportation and extradition to his home planet, where he owes a spectacular amount of money to sports gamblers and several many-tentacled ex-wives. And he has to do it, but the preview of UVA cannot be the most savory, pleasant experience for someone wondering "What, oh what, is UVA football, ever?" (Besides very unlucky, per actual data from last year. And ooh! Look at that level, unimproving F+/- line there.)

    ETC: Memphis needs someone to confront their masked demons.

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    I have never seen Alex Rodriguez play baseball, nor watched an entire baseball game in over 20 years. The last baseball I watched at all was the end of the Braves one-game playoff in 2012. I don't remember who they were playing because I cared about watching people throw garbage on the field in Atlanta. On the scale of great events in Atlanta history, this is where it falls in terms of importance:

    1. Left Eye burning down Andre Rison's house
    2. Sherman burning down everyone's houses
    3. Freaknik 1996
    4. That time Dar Robinson jumped out of the Peachtree Westin
    5. Freaknik 1994
    6. Mike Vick and dogs and stuff
    7. The Dukes of Hazzard


    This field-littering brought to you by Drinkability (and Getty Images).

    I also did this that night:

    So it was a success, and I should probably watch more baseball. I will need incentives, though. I will need a spectacle. I will need a disaster. I will need what America craves more than anything else.

    I will need Alex Rodriguez to be allowed to take as many drugs as possible, for as long as he likes, and in combinations that would kill professional cyclists and banned powerlifters. I will need him to be allowed to play baseball under the influence of these drugs. Finally, I will need you to allow Alex Rodriguez to play baseball as our forefathers did: with whatever equipment they liked, and cutting as many corners as they want on the way towards home base and glory.

    I'm not saying this will be fair. I don't know much about Alex Rodriguez, but I do know this: he really, really likes taking steroids. So would you, if you could. Modern steroids are amazing, and can turn a middle-aged man into a giant clump of indestructible veiny grapefruits arranged around the supersized skeleton of what was once a normal human being. They can keep you in playing shape long after your natural expiration date has passed, and can turn you into Alex Rodriguez. And being Alex Rodriguez is awesome, because he's very rich, talented and has accentuated that by taking a tremendous amount of awesome, expensive and powerful steroids.

    And I want to see what happens when we maximize the Alex Rodriguez experience. Namely, I want Alex Rodriguez to be immune from the strictures of our mortal world, and the petty rules of baseball. I want him to be what baseball fans desire most: not just a villain, but a supervillain for the entire sport to blame for everything, a universal bulletproof scapegoat. Baseball needs a Dark Knight, and somewhere on the hot corner in the Bronx, he waits, probably sweating something so tainted with bootleg pharmaceuticals he's not allowed near open flame or pregnant women.

    He will take drugs. Not necessarily the performance-enhancing ones, mind you. Alex Rodriguez will be granted immunity from all federal and state narcotics laws. He will be allowed not only to work with labs like Biogenesis, but to serve as their consultant and human guinea pig, providing live data and feedback as he uses their products in the field. He may turn blue and start screaming about fireflies eating his brain in the middle of an at-bat, or start eating a base mid-inning. This is both a bug and a feature of the program.

    Furthermore, Alex Rodriguez may take them in the dugout, and if logistically possible, while striding to the plate. A Bane-type mask pumping pure nandralone into his lungs or a belt-mounted HGH pump are possibilities. He may also be permitted the use of an IV stand for supplements provided the stand has rugged performance tires provided by an appropriate sponsor. A caddy will be permitted as an assistant for at-bats featuring the IV stand.

    In response to all queries about Rodriguez's flagrant drug use, Bud Selig will shrug his shoulders, sigh, and say "Someone's gonna have to rein that guy in one of these days."

    He can, if he likes, become terribly obese. Or should, immediately, balloon to somewhere around 350 pounds. A-Rod will be allowed to hit with the immediate substitution of a pinch runner from home plate, and if necessary use a custom vehicle of his choice to get to the plate. Bud Selig, when asked about this unusual rule exemption for the morbidly obese Rodriguez, will shrug his shoulders, tug at his weird compression socks, and say, "Man, that guy. Just, yeah."

    He can use a giant, superlight bat, and a special rubber ball thrown by a pitching machine. Rodriguez will be permitted the use of this ball-and-bat combination. He alone will be allowed to use it. All Rodriguez at-bats will take place under home run derby rules except those involving the Golden Globe Ball, a special LED-lit baseball allowing Alex Rodriguez to grab as many spectators from the front row as he can carry around the bases. Thanks to his intense use of illegal steroids and inhuman lifting schedule, this could be up to four people at a time.

    He will be allowed to use a very large glove. The glove will be big enough for Rodriguez to relax in, and contain pockets and chambers for snacks. Fielding interns will perform his duties as he berates them for poor effort and sloppy technique. He may stop the game for a smoothie break at any moment, and will. Rodriguez will offer the pitcher to Selig, and as Bud's frail, terrifyingly spindly fingers reach for it, Rodriguez will dump it on his head. Then he will laugh. Oh, how will he laugh!

    He will be allowed to make out with Miss Betty during games. Alex Rodriguez's sidekick Miss Betty will be allowed to sit in his lap, chew gum loudly and wave to the crowd throughout the game. This will take place in his luxury suite, a tower mounted on a pillar above third base, accessible by elevator. The luxury suite will have a lap pool, sun deck and a full bar. The shower will accommodate four. Bud Selig will comically attempt to enter A-Rod's "treehouse" and be rebuffed by a feisty Miss Betty every time! Rodriguez has the right to sublet the "treehouse" to his boy James "P.D" D'Angeles, a producer, childhood friend of Rodriguez and unlicensed chiropractor.

    More from SB Nation:

    Longform: The death of a ballplayer

    Bryce Harper gets beaned, teams get in Twitter fight

    A-Rod hit by pitch, fans cheer

    Biogenesis: Agents speak out against ACES

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  • 08/09/13--08:11: THE CURIOUS INDEX, 9/9/2013

    Well, see what carryin' all them heavy ass books and mahogany bookshelves does to the engine? We coulda told you that, Delany, but a man who travels without a study full of World War Two history ain't a Big Ten Man, we guess, so get a reinforced suspension and drive train on that thing before you find yourself breakin' down in a real piece of nothing like West Lafayette. No tellin' what'll bust into that bus along that stretch a road. Or what'll do to all those Patton bios.

    SPIRIT, HONOR, TRADITION, AND TWELVE GUYS NAMED KYLE. BYU was going to have their players wear jerseys that read Spirit, Honor, or Tradition instead of their last names. Then they weren't, and now it's just on Homecoming, because even nice Mormons have hate in their heart for bullcrap uniform moves. (We'd normally refer to that as a bullshit uniform move, but we'll politely defer to our profanity-averse Mormon brethren for a minute. Also, "bullcrap" sounds so much worse in like four ways.)

    HOW FARES OUR BELOVED BEEEEEEEES? Probably the same as usual, which is to say a really interesting version of the usual Gailey Equilibrium at Tech.

    OH SO AGGIES GETTIN' FREE BEEFY-Ts NOW? Pepsi cannot share the secrets to Crystal Pepsi, nor make Coke-flavored Pepsi. But free t-shirts and the only Johnny Manziel video you will ever need.

    NO. No. No. No. No.

    ETC: NCAA Rivalry games are so much more stressful than real combat, verifies person who has actually been in combat. WOOOOOORRRRRLLLLLLLDSTAAAARRRR. The guide to winning any bourbon argument is flawless.

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    God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, 
    The courage to change the things I can,
    and the wisdom to know the difference 
    between the moments when he throws me into the stands on purpose
    and when he does not

    Lord, grant the understanding and strength
    to feel his fingers clutching me like a greasy cantaloupe 
    and the sympathy of knowing that I do not know my destination
    but neither does he,
    and that is unsettling for us both

    Grant me the peace that passeth understanding 
    For the instant I am wound in twirling circles
    from hip, to shoulder, and to hip and back again, 
    and wandering round the back and shoulders for a trice, 
    and to forgive whomever did trespass upon this throwing motion
    and make it as wandering as Moses in the desert 
    and as long as that sacred journey.

    May you grant me the grace to accept what may come
    Whether I tumble end over end, or wobble like a broken drillbit 
    Or hammer 'gainst the chest pads like an errant mortar 
    thrown from the mouth of a cracked, forgotten fountain of destruction. 
    Help me in that moment I am double-clutched. 
    Hear my cry as I am spun into perverse and accidental geometries 
    Of which no man can claim understanding.

    Make my interceptions soft, and brief as a summer rain
    And let my fumbles land on the softest, untrod earth. 
    Protect me from yon yard markers, which hurt like the pox when struck at high speed, 
    May the umpires stroke me with the cleanest of towels.
    May the fans who catch me be clean, even if they are from Philadelphia.

    Let my transfers be neat, from hand to hand
    Let the holy trinity of points of contact guide me safely. 
    Let my suffering be for a greater purpose
    Tim Tebow, PGA Tour member.

    Remember in me a hope 
    That in rare flight from his hand I may achieve perfection
    An unwavering parabola from point to point
    Traveling in the ether bidden to land
    In waiting hands, be they intentional or unintentional
    And that He should see this sight, and be glad, 
    For this is hard for both of us, and those in witness to it. 
    Let him understand a completion is a completion.

    Lord, grant me that grace of the skies
    That in flight from a fumble, or flying e'er higher into row 34
    Or rising like hope from the toe of a punter
    That I may look down on him, and your creation
    To behold its beauty, and his, and indeed the world's
    And know that with each kick and palsied pass
    I get closer to fourth down, and a boot skyward
    And for an instant that much closer to thee.

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  • 08/09/13--13:18: DR. BO IS IN THE HOUSE
  • We'd like to thank some people this week. First, we'd like to thank Run Home Jack and Bunkie for holding down the fort while we were in Washington, DC this week for SB Nation planning meetings. (That's where we are, and don't believe the bail bondsman and his lies.) Second, we'd like to thank Jason Kirk and Bud Elliott for playing us in NCAA 2014 on Wednesday night. Bud beat us in a classic Territorial Cup match between Arizona and Arizona State, with the Sun Devils throwing the winning TD dagger into an incredibly incompetent Wildcat secondary with eight seconds or so left on the clock. (Note: the game is REALISTIC.)

    We would especially like to thank Jason for letting us return the favor by tossing a similar dagger with Jonathan Wallace of Auburn in a spine-tingling thriller against Ole Miss. (Note: Jonathan Wallace threw for 350 yards, 4 TDs, and no INTs. The game is NOT REALISTIC.) The Rebels lost when Bo Wallace, who started 9-9 and was unstoppable, suddenly stopped...operating.

    And for some reason, Run Home Jack (also in the room) began to yell COME ONNNNNN DR. BO. DOCTOR BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHH. TIME TO OPERAAAAAAAATE. And after a while Dr. Bo began to give out prescriptions for things, which is not good because Dr Bo is not a licensed physician, and also because a stroke cannot be cured by being placed face down in a trough full of breeding tilapia. Like, that's not even close to something like medicine.

    And thus Matt Ufford made this, and we're calling Bo Wallace this for the rest of the season:


    In summary: we'll be back full time next week, Dr. Bo is open for practice, and we need football even more than you do, and need it immediately. Because we are all hallucinating.

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