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Your Weekly Hoodoo/ Sweetheart Thread

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We ain't Hoodoo-in' to a standard, y'all. Two words: Ole Miss.

This is at least a somewhat hot picture of our girl.
This is at least a somewhat hot picture of our girl.

Well folks, we are having a little changing of the Hoodoo guard this week, as Bammer has elected to pass the ole Hoodoo baton to none other than yours truly, your resident Hoodoo operator. In other words, there's a new sheriff in town in Hoodooville, and we're going to get this thing pointed in the right direction, by hook or by crook. For you see, the power of the Hoodoo is a beautiful thing, but its inherent danger matches that beauty on most counts. As we discovered last week, we have our Hoodoo work cut out for us, so let's get to it.

Above you will see an image of the half-attractive Hoodoo sweetheart you Stevie Wonders and Ronnie Milsaps have selected to represent us this year. The only comfort I derive from this particular young woman is that she appears in a commercial with Herbie, Chris and our beloved Big Al. I am of course purposely neglecting to mention the commercial also includes that God-forsaken buck nut character. What kind of people elect as their mascot an actual nut, the fruit of a nut-bearing tree? An apparently mute buck-nut at that, he can't even win us over with his wit and charm. But I digress....

So strap in for the Hoodoo ride of your lives, people. This ain't no discotheque, this ain't no sewin' circle. What we have come here to do is Hoodoo, and it's dirty work to be sure. Give it your best, y'all, as we'll most certainly need it for the remainder of the season.

Now, here go my Hoodoo...

Well...shit. Shit-ShIt-SHIT-Shit-shit. All the shits. That was awful. Just awful. Last week I supposed that the only thing worse than sitting on an old lady's piss throne would be losing to Ole Piss themselves. And I was right, as I am oft to be. I say again, that was awful, in damn near every way that it could have been awful.

Not only did our boys wither like daisies beneath the weight of the rather subdued Mississippi sun, but we lost several key role players, y'all, and those losses will resonate in the "what-could-have-been" tales we'll spin come season's end. For unfortunately, if not for some extremely powerful hoodoo working against Ole Miss and their slightly-more-inbred counterparts in Starkvegas, we are more than likely out of that SEC Championship hunt. At this point, it's a three game season: UT, the Corndogs and the Boogs. Hate that, but it's true.

I know, I know, ole OWB shouldn't be so pessimistic about Bama's chances of keeping their baying hounds in that playoff hunt. But friends, and I firmly reserve my right to stand corrected in a few weeks, but friends, I think we've seen the ebbing of the Tide's championship hopes for this season. Lots of things would need to fall in place for there to be a chance of such a glorious resurgence happening. But then again, our past hoodoo has been strong (2011, 2012), and we've manipulated the Football Gods sufficiently to reinject ourselves back into the big game at season's end.

We'll need luck, sure. The odds are long, that's much is correct. Alabama probably won't win the SEC West, let alone the conference. I don't disagree.  But there is that Gump glimmer of hope somewhere inside of me that knows there's a chance. And to bring that chance to fruition, we'll need the gentle hand of Fate upon our shoulders, preventing us from further serious injury this season. (Drake's injury was ugly enough for two seasons, poor fella. Keep KD in your prayers.) We will need Fortune's good favor to be sure, but to pull this off, we're also going to have to summon the Dark Side of the Force, y'all. As at this point, a Bama fan must do what we do so know what time it is, you know the task that remains ahead of us. So why don't we do that hoodoo that we do so well, shall we?

After all, we aren't the kind to recline into mediocrity quietly, watching our lessers continue the battle anew. No, we as Bama faithful must soldier on. We must do what we can to ensure that the rest of the schedule is far more friendly than last weekend's tilt. And maybe, if Football Loki should select to shed his supreme light of football favor upon us once again, we can tread that hallowed championship ground.

So hoodoo like you mean it, folks. I'm going to do my best...

We're going on to the way-back, the waaaay-back once again on the Hoodoo Express. Hop aboard and sit a spell if you have the time, for certainly, this tale won't be brief. But like a winding train ride through the Great Smoky Mountains (renowned both for the world's poorest teeth - non-British category - and highest per capita meth labs per square inch), you will find the view satisfying and entertaining.

There was a time before I was your beloved narrator, when I was but a boy in short-pants running the streets of my old neighborhood and its adjacent fields engulfed with kudzu. I was about as all-boy as I could be: I hunted, fished, had bb gun fights, explored gullies, played any sport that felt as if it was in season. Many of you probably enjoyed childhoods not dissimilar from mine. It was a pristine time, before I had discovered feminine wiles, a living wage, bills, etc.

Bear in mind, though the now ever-present videa game had been invented in the form of the Atari 2600 and later, the Nintendo, much of my early life was spent without the anchor of electronics chaining me to the television. Sure, we'd play from time to time at some of the wealthier kids' houses, and back when there were these things called "arcades," we'd journey to the local mall just to drop quarters in those slots for a few hours.

For the most part, however, we were left to our own devices. This meant we were pushed out of the house on Saturday morning so that momz could enjoy some personal time, which I now know involved cannabis to some degree or another. Maybe some brandy. Momz liked to get down like that from time to time. She had the very stressful life of a single mother, God bless her.

So we would fend for ourselves where entertainment was concerned. Some days we'd spend time in our neighbor Jack Cannon's trash pile, sifting through flake-rusted treasures from yesteryear. Sometimes we'd lug materials down to make a fort amongst the snaking verdant vines of kudzu. Sometimes we'd build "booby-traps" consisting of mayonnaise jars of water tied with fishing line and hefted over a low branch, complete with a tripwire trigger. How no one died remains a miracle of God's grace.

One of our constant partners in crime was a young man I've mentioned here low these Hoodoo accounts in the past, a sheltered neighbor boy who went by the name Jeffro Bodeine. Now Jeffro was an outlaw spirit trapped in the body and demeanor of a church mouse. He was lorded over by his mother (who later was revealed to be his grandmother...I'm tellin' y'all, William Faulkner would have been proud of this Whistler born outfit.) She was an elementary school secretary, and if you know anything about the elementary school secretaries of the day, it's that they were evil, horrible souls twisted into wretched old age by the gnarled hands of fate. Never smart nor ambitious enough to get a teaching certificate, but with the same desire to boss and condescend, the elementary school secretary of the era was a cruel old maid, generally speaking.

This one was most certainly to be counted amongst that group, save for she had indeed tricked a poor male (certainly through some act of witchcraft or santeria) to wed her. She was awful, a woman of 50-some-odd-years who wore the basketball-shaped coif of an 80-year-old. Seriously, that thing was as round as a globe, as if Our Maker had sculpted her jet-black ‘do in the image of good ole Terra Firma. She wore old lady glasses to complete the look, the kind with the owlishly-large eye-peepers and rolled plastic frames. Oh, and I have failed to mention, this woman, who for the purposes of this story we'll call Afro Bogey-Togey (don't ask, a lot of things happened that I don't understand or recall in the fog of old has something to do with the hair-do, but that's all I remember... just know that forever, this is what this woman will be called in my frontal lobe) was an ardent, Bible-thumpin' Baptist of the Southern persuasion. Rigid would be an understatement.

She had a consistently sour look upon her face at all times, the kind of woman who would cramp her face muscles to suppress even the hint of a smile. As if her smile would result in a victory for the Devil Himself, or some such foolishness. Just never in a good mood, never happy with anything or anybody who wasn't named Jeffro. My momz would refer to her as "prune-faced," as in "That is the most prune-faced woman I've ever met...always looks likes she smells something bad."

Did I mention that she drove a battleship-gray Olds 88? It was if she had borrowed the old lady manual and completed all of the activities. The checklist was checked off. She had the octogenarian couture on lock, y'all.

In her fervor for proper child-rearing, this Nurse Ratchet-ish matron of her clan was a relentless enforcer of discipline among those in her brood. Her weapon of choice: the green privet switch. Now you folk who hail from points north may not have known this childhood horror, so please, by all means, allow me to enlighten you. Amongst a certain generation of Southern parents, the ultimate in disciplinary corporal punishment methods was the switch beatin'. (For the record, this is not a prolonged Adrian Peterson joke...this is real, y'all...real.)

First, let's define "switch," as I know that term has many meanings, some of which have not traversed the Mason-Dixon Line. A switch is a thin, secondary or tertiary branch of a limber, flexible tree. The privet was always the prime renderer of switches in the South Alabama landscape, though I've heard some use crepe myrtle suckers or hawthorn shoots. The key to the switch is that it is green and flexible, which requires that it be rather thin. The purveyor would strip from it its foliage, sliding the hand from tip to base (that isn't meant to sound sexual) to strip off the single leaves in one seamless motion.

For those of you who have never experienced this kind of torture, I assure you, it is painful to say the least. Those narrow switches sting right through khaki and denim, burning like fire with repeated application. There's a whipping motion as well...I mean seriously, the Singaporeans couldn't have devised a more brutal form of discipline. This is some North Korea typa bullcorn right here.

Well, this woman, Afro Bogey-Togey, she had a veritable switch mine...a hedgerow of nothing but privet from which to snap those nubile twigs for her dastardly appropriation. On the rare occasion that she'd let Jeffro come to our yard to play, she'd call him home, generally in the middle of a football game or some other critical endeavor. When he told her "Hold on, I gotta do one more play," she immediately went to that hedge line and started to break a switch. His prompt cooperation was both garnered and appreciated.

Anyway, despite her strict discipline, this woman doted-on and hemmed-up young Jeffro for much of his young life in a display of helicopter parenting the likes of which the world has never seen. She'd let him ride bikes with us, but only in his driveway. She'd occasionally let him come to our backyard (which was just next door, by the way), but she'd watch him through those owl-glasses the entire time, as if a danged ole Thunderbird was going to swoop down and carry ‘is ass off at any moment. (For the rubes among you, bless your hearts, I'm not talkin' about the car, I'm talkin' Native American lore here, people. Please do a little research, it's quite intriguing.)

She was conversely cruel to anyone not named Jeffro, which included her husband, PJ. He was a nice enough old feller, but something about him was always a little unsettling. He was a doppelganger for the old pervert many will recognize from the Family Guy series, both in appearance and demeanor. I don't believe him to have been a pedophile, he was just an old feller stuck in a horrible marriage to Medusa's second cousin. Tended to stay to himself, unless any of us showed an interest in his true love: woodworking. He had an old barn that had been converted to a woodshop, and I learned some of my first lessons in woodworking in there. Watched him split his thumb up to the first knuckle on a table saw there too, so that was pretty cool. Blood all over the sawdust floor and everything, remember it like it was yesterday.

(Side story: Have any of y'all ever eaten possum? Holy-Black-Jesus, I shit you not, that is the most horrible thing I've ever laid mine eyes upon, let alone introduced to my olfactory. "Why in the hell is he telling us this story right now?" Well I'll tell you why. It was PJ who first exposed me to this "delicacy," God rest his soul. I remember he called us over from the screen porch one evening and offered us some of the gray, oily looking meat, cooked alongside sweet potatoes in a gravy that I can only describe as orange. That should be reason enough to distrust said cuisine. The smell was something akin to a well-seared bicycle tire mated with a wet goat. Fortunately, someone let me out of my Southern obligation to accept some of whatever is offered me as a guest. In fact, it was Afro Bogey-Togey herself who freed me from this dire circumstance, but I digress.)

Why, you may ask, did I and my merry band associate with this Jeffro under such constricting circumstances? Well, there are two primary reasons. He had the first Sega Genesis in the neighborhood, and quite honestly, he had the best snacks. He had a freezer of his own, an MSG-laden treasure chest of pre-cooked stuffed potato skins, pizza rolls, fried mozzarella sticks. We knew that anytime we were at Jeffro's house, all we had to do was mention to him that we were hungry. A request to his doting mama/grandma later, we'd smell the delicious (yet diarrhea-inducing) scent of Hot Pockets (Deeeaaath Pockets) wafting through the central heating and air. It was a sure thing every time, such an easy ruse to execute. Dolla-dolla bill, y'all.

So we endured the hardship of this friendship for the snacks and video games, and everything was great. A symbiosis of sorts: he needed companionship, we needed salty snacks and entertainment. He quickly assumed the role of whipping boy, as we'd lash into him from time to time, you know, so he wouldn't get too comfortable in our association and shut down the gravy train. Also, as a big, physical kid, I was oft in need of a punching bag, and Jeffro sufficed quietly.

Then everything changed. By a quirk of some Oedipal tendency or another, ABT also doted on her eldest son (who we later found out was not Jeffro's brother, but rather his uncle...try to keep up y'all). PJ Jr. was a good bit older than us, a grown man. After all, his sister was Jeffro's mother (convoluted, ain't it?)

Suffering previously from the same smothering affection that had been heaped upon Jeffro, he didn't wed early in life. He was a single man over the age of 30, which for the age, was peculiar for any man who didn't fancy himself an ole alley cat, if you know what I mean. However, Jeffro informed me that his brother (he didn't find out about the Faulknerian nature of his family tree until the age of 14) had proposed to a once-married maiden who worked as a bank teller at the local AmSouth branch, and that she had surprisingly accepted his offer of matrimony.

It sounds harmless enough, sure. But the undercurrent is far more sinister...for you see, along with said bank teller came two children. A male roughly the same age as Jeffro (who was a year my junior) and a younger girl. We knew right away the girl would be of no use to us, but adding another boy to the equation could be a good thing. After all, three-man one-on-one football with an "all-time quarterback" can only be so entertaining for so long. Having a fourth would round out our sporting life, or so we thought.

The kid, who we'll call Jeer, was athletic enough, despite his somewhat rotund girth. He wasn't a terrible guy, but he was mouthy. And if there was anything we alpha dogs didn't want to deal with in this particular pack, it was a mouthy outsider. This, alongside the obvious disadvantage of having to share both snack tonnage and video game rotations, confounded B-Rad and I from the start.

He'd only come over every other weekend, presumably spending the balance of his time at home or at his father's house. But over time, Jeer had emerged as my rival. He was the only one who could beat me in Street Fighter (fkn cheat codes) and he didn't have to get Jeffro to ask for snacks, he could request them himself! Something had to be done, as I simply couldn't tolerate such grave territorial invasions.

Therefore, given the gravity of the situation, I had to act decisively. I decided I'd challenge him to a feat of courage. You see, such a contest would allow me to demonstrate my unflinching nerve while at the same time revealing Jeer as a coward for all to see. Certainly, this manipulation would deal its hand in my favor.

As a game of three-man football (B-Rad was chasing some girl or another...yes, he was pimpish even as a young man) dissolved into completion with the score heavily in my favor, I decided the time was right to propose said feat of courage. I had previously observed PJ's dart board affixed to the barn's exterior wall. I knew what I had to do.

"Hey Jeer, I bet you won't have a dart throwing contest with me..."

He looked at Jeffro, shrugged and said "Sure, why not?"

But this was to be no regular, throwing-the-dart-with-a-safe-backdrop typa get-down, no. Your narrator wouldn't fold into such a mundane endeavor, now would he? I thought you people knew me better than's as if I've been speaking to the pines.

No, I had something far more sinister planned. I plucked the darts from the board, and took the target down from the nail upon which it had been hanging on yon barn. There were puzzled looks.

"Where are you going with that?" Jeffro inquired.

"Shut up, I'm runnin' this here outfit, you Corn-nut."

I handed the dart board to Jeer. "You first, pick your target, it's gonna be like 21." (The basketball game, people. I know we're in football country and all, but I really expect you to be able to keep up.)

You see, I had a trick up my sleeve. I figured he'd select some regular-old target, maybe even some trick shot or another to confound my true aim and perplex my fertile mind. But I was one step ahead you see, I had already selected my target.

Jeer made his move, hung the dart board on a low-hanging limb of a live oak in the corner. Pansy. Gutless. He hit his mark, but so did I. That's when I upped the ante.

With the choice of placement now mine, I hung the dart board from the Bimini top of Jeer's new step-dad's ProLine, which was sitting trailered in the yard.

I saw the look of terror drift about Jeer's face. "Uh, we can't put that there. What if we miss?"

"Easy...don't miss," I said. I had the coward now, surely the thought of scratching that gloriously-applied and prodigiously-waxed clear coat on the hull of that beautiful boat would have him in full retreat.

"Okay, but you first." Ah, touche, Jeer, touche. I accepted the challenge, stepped back a foot from Jeer's mark, and shot the dart true through the thick Alabama air.

Jeer toed the line, his freckled hand gripping the dart, his hand quaking beneath the mounting pressure. However, much to my surprise, he made the throw and sunk the dart into the board.

I was in for a challenge, had underestimated my opponent, you see (sound familiar? cough-Ole Miss-cough). He had the next selection, and he placed the dart board on the roof of the house, just above the eave. Ballsy, I had not anticipated the brass cahones factor of his selection. He flicked the dart skyward, and with depth perception that would make Dr. J blush, Jeer once again sank the dart true.

Not one to wilt beneath the weight of competition, I executed the task flawlessly, striking back like the cotdang Empire at this upstart Rebel sumbitch. Next choice was mine. The stakes were high, as was the pressure. I was in for a fight against a wily adversary, and my next choice would be crucial.

"I want you to hold the dart board, you're the target."

A look of dread flashed over Jeer's face, as one would imagine. I mean, who wanted a dart, and the accompanying tetanus shot, stuck in one's fleshy parts? No sir, surely, I thought, he would back down from the challenge. I figured I had all but won.

"Okay, I'll do it. But only if you hold the board on my shot."

Now I was the one who was shocked by the shifting momentum of this particular contest. This was not at all how I'd drawn up this particular situation: no, it was all quite wrong. He was supposed to back down.

Then again, the bet was hedged in his favor. You see, he'd watched me execute difficult throws and was comfortable with my accuracy. So he indeed held the board in front of his torso. I had no choice but to do the sporting thing...I aimed for his chest.

Anticipating my tomfoolery, Jeer was prepared to dodge to avoid my betrayal of the tenets of good sportsmanship. He shifted right, my dart just missing the target as it sped by.

"HA! You missed! I win!"

I could feel the red heat of embarrassment flushing into my face, my cleverness had contorted around and bitten me on my hindparts. What a turn of events...this adversary had used my own wily nature against me.

I quickly recovered. "You haven't won anything still have to make your shot."

I grabbed the dart board without provocation and put it over my mid-section boldly. If I was to go down, I would go down like a warrior. I puffed out my chest...should have had a hand-rolled, filter-less cigarette clinched between my teeth as Jeffro applied a blind-fold. You know, to complete the scene and shit.

I awaited my fate.  Jeer drew back his throwing hand, dart locked and loaded. Then he put it down. Drew it up again, put it down again. I couldn't tell if he was doubting his accuracy, having second thoughts, or maybe just "icing the kicker." I, however, was unprepared for what would come.

The little bastard pump faked me, then promptly threw the dart into me good ole quadriceps muscle. Sunk it in deep too, stabbed like a nail and stung like a damn red wasp. I hooted and howled, partly from the pain but partly from the image of the DART HANGING OUT OF MY LEG right above the knee, dangling there as if tossed into some rump roast or other meaty cut from the butcher's block.

I ran in a little circle, screaming out in pain. "You bastard, you bastard, you weren't even trying to hit the target."

"Nope," Jeer replied. "I guess I wasn't. Reckon that means you win." He snickered and elbow-nudged Jeffro, both of them grinning like cotdang Chezzycats while I suffered.

I'm not really proud of what I did next, but what can I say...I'm just so fkn hood. My vision clouded crimson, I was enraged. Forgetting about the still-implanted dart dangling from my leg-meat, I went after Jeer. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear I turned green and burst through my insufficient purple britches in a Banner-esque display of furious metamorphosis.

There wasn't a bludgeon in sight, so I grabbed the nearest thing to me...a metal garbage can. Emptying its soiled contents onto the lawn, I punched Jeer square in the solar plexus. When he bent forward, I caught him with a forearm shiver to the cheek. I then slammed the garbage can down over his head, enclosing him in a slimy-stank sarcophagus of household refuse. Discombobulated, Jeer began to teeter like an imploded building, and I took that opportunity to knock him off his center and to the ground.

Now I'd like to take this opportunity to give you folk the lay of the land. You see, there ain't many hills in Mobile, least none that you folks from more elevated regions wouldn't scorn as mere anthills. But we lived on a gentle grade, a slope that led to Hwy. 98 at its foot. I'll be damned if I didn't get the bright idea to roll that portly lil' bastard all the way down that hill in the racket of the trash can, the only thing drowning out the metallic din of the rolling tin was his persistent cry for mercy.

But I was having none of it. I must have rolled his ass a half mile before I saw that damned battle ax of a woman rounding the corner. The cacophony of combat had alerted Afro Bogey-Togey to the goings-on (in her own yard, no less, her perceived bastion of sanctity and safety.) Upon investigating, He of Milquetoast Constitution reported to her the events that had immediately preceded. She was upon me like a bed of yella jackets on a day-old pork chop, I tell you what. Didn't think the elderly (or people who dress like they're elderly) could move that aggressively.

But this mama/ grandmama bear sure rolled up on me like a set of Crips at a Blood barbecue. I thought old people had arthritic hands and shit, but this woman had a pinch on my ear like a dang ole Vise-Grip, a bear-trap, even. And that shit hurt, ‘specially the way she was towing me around by the lobe, hollering' about my "heathen nature" and stating that, "if there was a boy more in need of a daddy's switch-beatin' (Adrian Peterson, y'all) she sure hadn't crossed paths with him."

She pulled me up into her yard, towards the infamous switch tree. I knew what was coming, that was, unless momz saw what was happening and intervened. You see, she was an ardent opponent of switches and such, choosing the more docile approach, a gentler form of corrective other words, she generally beat us with a kitchen spoon or the traditional disciplinary implement of the day, the leather belt. However, using a switch was barbaric, she had said on one of her many dissertations on the proper rearing of young'uns. Tore the flesh and left nasty wounds, just unsavory to her moral palette.

ABT broke a whuppin' switch off near about as big ‘round as your pinkie finger, and as lithe as a gymnast wrought from rubber. She was madder'n a bitin' sow that's missing one of her lil' squealers on butcherin' day. With a deft flick of the wrist, she shaved off the foliage as though she was unzipping an herbaceous zipper, a true Shaolin master of Switch-Fu, totally professional move. She didn't even wait to snatch my britches down, but instead went to work on me like she was operatin' a dang ole rendition session (just kiddin' NSA...settle down, everybody be cool...) She lit into me with the undulating whip of her wrist, so hard that I'd swear I heard a bullwhip's crack. She damn near broke the sound barrier with those quick wrists of her...could have at least been a .350 minor leaguer with wrist roll like that. I yelped and howled, while my "friends" laughed. Not one of the cowards was man enough to come to my aid. In retrospect, I don't know if it was evidence of any particular lack of loyalty to me. Rather, could've been the fact that no one wanted to get on the wrong side of the snack gravy train... no one.

I was liberated from the clutches of this savage Gorgon by me dear old mother. Momz had heard the noise and emerged into the backyard, just across the fence line. ABT never broke that stroke, just turnin' my blessed ass cheeks a deep purplish shade of red (even through my jeans...vicious, I tell you...a lesser young man would have surely succumbed to the sheer misery of it all.)

"What is going on?"

"YOUR son OWB put Jeer in a garbage can and rolled him down the hill. Now his clothes are ruined and he's all bruised up. How am I going to explain this to his mother?"

Momz laughed, her birdlike, explosive high-pitched laugh. She was tickled to say the least. She looked at me as if to discover some explanation for the words that had just undulated over her ears, but all I could do was point to my leg, which still, through all of the action, had a damned dart hanging out of it.

"Well Good Lord Afro Bogey-Togey, the boy's got a dart in his leg, how did that happen in YOUR yard? Weren't you watching them?"

Good ole Momz...that blow struck deep into the armor of maternal pride that ABT wore about her at all times. Momz knew how to cut her. BTW, I got most of my smart-ass skills from her side of the family.

ABT immediately released her raptor-like grip, and I scooted over the chain-link into my home territory like a red fox with ‘is tail aflame. I had escaped the harpy's grip and all but about 15 lashes with the green privet stick. Smarted though, Lord have mercy.

But the cost (later discovered) was much greater than a few blistered hindparts. I was banned for a time from the premises of the ABT more Genesis, no more Hot Pockets.

Tangentially, they really should have named them Lava Pockets, because I don't think I have ever bitten into one of those thermonuclear devices that I didn't end up with the molten magma of liquid cheesefood coating the inside of my mouth and chin like napalm. What a dastardly culinary creation. Not only does the Hot Pocket assault the mouth, but the colon as well. I'm sure we all have hoodoo stories we could recount that, at their core and catalyst, feature this god-awful cholera-inducing fixture of the frozen food microwave-ables aisle. The mere existence of Hot Pockets provides proof that God finds spit takes and bathroom humor funny.

At any rate, for the love of God, let us beat these cotdang Razorhogs this weekend (as savagely as this old lady imposter beat your narrator) and regain at least some modicum of our previously well-festooned dignity. I mean, we lost to Ole Miss, y'all...fkn Ole Miss. Somebody, not calling names, but somebody just ain't hoodoo-ing to a standard. Getcho cotdang minds right, a'ight?

Roll Tide.