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Your Weekly Hoodoo/ Sweetheart Thread

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After last week, all I can say is "dayum." Let's keep that Hoodoo train a'rollin', shall we?

HARK! The Hoodoo angels sing!

Now, after the events that transpired last weekend in that god-forsaken Chachere's-scented corndog festival, if there are any among you who do not believe in this here Hoodoo get-down, please raise your hands and excuse yourselves from this party henceforth...I'm waiting. Anyone? Anybody? Good, then rest easy fellow Hoodoo'ers, you are among friends.

If that game wasn't enough to make even the most doubtful among you believe, then I just don't know what else this poor boy can do to make believers out of the lot of you. We Hoodoo'd to a standard last week, and though for much of the game it appeared our Hoodoos were for naught, our beloved boys in crimson managed to pull out a win in the most exciting of fashions.

I'll be honest (since we're all friends here, and Football Loki follows me on Twitter anyway), I thought we were done for last week. I thought it was over, finished...the hope of the previous week imploded with that cotdang kick off the foot of that Acadian kicker. I actually tweeted "Ball game" when LSU hit that field goal to take the lead late with less than a minute remaining.

But I'll be damned if our boys didn't wake up and rise to the occasion. Thanks to some suddenly-precise passing from our guy Blake Sims, Dee White deciding it was okay to catch the ball rather than dropping it like Ebola-tainted med waste, and a sticky-fingered 300 pound gecko of a receiver, the flames of hope were fanned anew, rekindled into a firestorm that took over Death Valley and blackened the souls of the LSU faithful like so much Prudhomme'd redfish.

Yep, y'all, that was one of the ages...and we were fortunate enough to bear witness to it.

But we ain't done nothin' yet, y'all. To hear Our Dark Lord tell it, though proud of what the team accomplished and learned about themselves last Saturday, there is still much to be done, much improvement to be made. And that improvement will come behind tough sledding this week, as we host those cotdang cowbell ringin' Auburn-lite heathens from 90 miles back down the highway.

Now I don't bear a great deal of hatred towards the Cow College of Meessipeh. After all, they're virtually neighbors to our hallowed halls in Tuscaloosa, as the two schools are the closest in terms of geography of any of the SEC member institutions. Yes, they are bull inseminators, but the less obnoxious variety, unlike the animal husbanders to the east. You see, these Meessipians know their place, understand their perennial slot below the Crimson Tide on the annual football tote board.

Or so I always thought. This year has me wondering, though. Do these people actually think they deserve to beat our beloved Crimson Tide? I think that they consider it a viable option. And for that indignity, we must ensure the Football Gods smite them viciously around their respective penile regions.

This week's match-up conjured for me a seminal Hoodoo tale, one that just so happens to correspond in the vaults of time and importance to this particular match-up we will see played out this Saturday. For you see, this is not the first year the upstart crop-growers have attempted to derail our championship train. In fact, 22 years to this very day (November 14), the chicken-shepherds to the west rose up and attempted to knock the Crimson Tide off its 1992 championship stride.

And I, for one, was partially to blame.

For you see, for the only time in my life that I can remember, I actually chose to miss an Alabama football game. On purpose. Me, he of unwavering devotion. But please, before judging me too sternly, allow me to explain. For you see, I did it for the nookie.

Harken back to 1992, a banner year for Bama football and the final year of my high school career. We will remember it as the year that our Crimson Tide re-established the glory of the Bryant era under coaching great Gene Stallings. Now y'all know I love me some Coach Stallings. Love the man. Would take a bullet for him. I love him so much that even though my wife made me give our sweet daughter a "real" name, I have called her Bebes from the time she had ears to hear. You won't hear me call her by her given name to this day, but rather by the honorary title of "Bebes." That's my little personal tribute to the only Bama coach I ever met in the flesh (I say only because I refuse to count DuBose among this group, though I met him once, too.)

Much of my love for Coach Stallings was founded in the kiln of that 1992 season. Remember back to that year, and one will remember that Alabama had what many would consider the greatest defense in the modern era of college football. Everyone will remember the winning ways of Jay Barker, the scat-footedness of Derrick Lassic, the pure, magnificent athleticism of Antonio Langham. Those teams were great, indeed, but there were some close calls that year, one of which I take full credit for causing.

I've spoken many times of high school dalliances here on the pages of yon Hoodoo ledger. You all know my enthusiastic fanaticism of anything related to the female bosom, and my decided tilt towards hormone-addled lechery whenever the opportunity presented itself. You also know that during my senior year, I was hitched to a younger lady with whom I coupled often, flirting with the fringes of Alabama's statutory laws and the overbearing rule of her chair-pissing grandmatron (written out, that looks like the name of a Decepticon..."ALL HAIL GRANDMATRON!...but I digress.)

You may also remember that this female progeny of the chair-pisser was an Aub of the most devout affiliation. Whilst she maintained a steadfast adherence to the Auburn viewing schedule, she oftentimes expected me to waiver in my devotion to the Tide and recreate with her on Saturday evenings when the Tide was playing.

Despite my overdriven desire to place parts of me inside of parts of her on a regular basis, I never had to cave. I'd always figure out some excuse or another to keep myself in front of the television or radio on game day, despite her siren's call of carnal pleasure offered to distract me from my appointed duties. Like Odysseus, for much of the season, I stood firm and kept my eyes on the prize of the championship season that Coach Stallings and the boys were building in Tuscaloosa.

There was a spell, and mind you, two weeks without poo-nanny is considered a spell to a 17-year-old male child, but there was a spell in which our amorous embraces were precluded by other, less sexually satisfying activities. There was a week we were rehearsing for a marching festival, and there was the ensuing (chaperoned) bus trip that weekend. The following weekend, I had to join her family for a horrible, horrible Deliverance-esque decent into maelstrom of self-loathing that is Winston County for a grotesque reenactment of the "Republic of Winston's" secession from the Confederacy at Looney's Tavern (These people, my gal and her family, were Looneys, after all, in both the literal and figurative sense.)

After two weeks without any sexytime, I would have just about rolled down a broken-bottle hill into an alcohol pool just to get aholt of some of that prime inter-thigh real estate once again. I was a wolf waiting to slake his hunger for sheep, a thirsty man willing to cut throats for a glass of sweet tea. I just had to, HAD TO, find a way to come up on some of that sweet lovin' to which I had become so accustomed.

The available time slot for such activity was slim that weekend, as usual Saturday events left only a small window between the conclusion of said activities and the beginning of the Alabama-Mississippi State game that evening. While I knew that if I didn't "get any" that weekend that my manparts would likely drop off from lack of use, I also knew that Mississippi State, which came into the game ranked 19th, would be hosting Bama in Starkvegas with all those damn CLANGA bells just a rangin', harassing my fellas and possibly preventing Bama from reaching the championship Holy Land.

I had a real conundrum on my hands, people. Chase the poo-nanny and forgo the game? Or be there for my team when they needed me and miss another weekend's worth of sexytime? My 17 year old mind was sizzlin' from the overload.

Knowing that MSU didn't have much in the way of offense, and knowing that Bama hadn't allowed a team to score more than 11 points all year, I felt relatively comfortable with the forecasted outcome of the game. And after all, would Bama really miss me that much? Would Coach Stallings know that I wasn't watching the game that evening, in my duly appointed role as chief long-distance booster-in-absentia? I'm tellin' y'all, the lure of the honey-pot was awfully powerful and I did what any self-respecting 17-year-old male would do...I chose sex over football.

I know, this is shameful, people. I don't need your judging eyes, your tsk-tsks, your displeasure with the actions of my wanton youth. No, for you see, I repented of my own volition afterwards and have had my ass firmly in front of audio/ visual equipment for every Bama game since then, even when doing so put me in jeopardy of losing my employment, or at least the favor of my employer. I've skipped the weddings of family members for Bama football games, as no one who loves me and needs me at their special event would dare plan said event in the autumn months without first consulting a bye-week calendar. I've told friends and relatives to never plan a funeral during football season, as I will most definitely not be present to usher said loved one onto the Great Beyond. "You mean you value football above familial relationships?" you're probably asking yourselves...the answer is a resounding yes.

As a repentant man, I can look back at this with reconciliatory shame. I have forgiven myself, so you people have no choice but to do the same.

So instead of watching the game, I eloped with my honey, since both of our dwellings were occupied for the night, forcing us out to the wilderness of backseat automobile copulation. We took to the trusty shuttle of my teenage carnal journey, the '85 Chevy Nova, and set out for a dim spot where we could let our hands wander and our clothes fall away like so many skins of a peeled onion. Our usual haunts were occupied on this particular night, so we had to try another locale, a new one that was far more publicly-visible than I usually preferred. But if I was going to sin against Coach Bryant and the Football Gods, by cracky, I figured I just had to consummate my carnal needs, regardless of the locale.

We selected an empty parking lot that straddled a set of single-story office buildings adjacent to Mobile's Bel Air Mall. Now the mall on a Saturday night is fairly crowded, full of folks who apparently know neither the pleasures of the flesh nor of college football. We secluded ourselves back into a wooded pocket in the corner of the lot, my charcoal gray sedan blending in adequately enough to make me comfortable with the surroundings.

Once settled, I flicked on the radio, just to see how things were going. This was a television game, I believe, as I can remember the sacrifice I thought I was making by missing it. However, I figured that despite the taunting I'd likely receive from the Aub with whom I was coupling for the duration of the game, I'd just listen to the first part of the game in the car (out of loyalty and devotion) whilst we warmed up our naughty parts for the deeds to be done.

The game began as many Bama games that year began. The Tide ran out to an early lead, and by the half, we were in command of the game by a score of 20-3. The CLANGA had quieted, Bama had the game sealed away. After all, that Tide defense had not allowed more than 11 points to be scored in any of its previous games to that point, and with a 17 point lead and only two more quarters to play, I was confident that the cow-inseminators had been conquered.

Comfortable in the way the game was going, I flipped it off and focused on more...eh-hmm...important endeavors, namely the pair of sweater puppets that were jiggling just below the U-shaped neck of mi amour's poet shirt. She began rubbin' thangs through my jeans, I employed the quick little one-handed "unhitch" move I had learned in the early days of my carnal pursuits, the one that frees the willies and lets them hang loose in all their pendulous glory.

Before I knew it, we were progressing quickly down the path to full-blown intercourse, a path I had been wanting to explore once again for the last several weeks. At this point, I could count on both my hands the number of sexual incidents I had participated in willingly, and the windows of that little coupe were soon well-fogged. I won't go into all of the details, but just as we were on the brink of consummating our relationship, I decided it wise to crack the radio on for a second...you know, just to check the score.

It was well into the third quarter, and I was shocked to learn that the Fightin' Walkens (get it, more cowbell?) had indeed scrapped their way back into the cotdang game.

"What the...?" I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I surmised that Barker had been pick-6'd, and that the Bama defense had allowed MSU to drive the field for a TD. The Tide offense was stymied, spent more time going back'ards than forwards. The score was 20-18, and things weren't looking too good.

"Ha-ha, y'all are gonna lose," said the woman with whom I was about to fornicate.

"SHUT IT!" The Tide simply could NOT lose this game, not to Mississippi State of all teams. I felt responsible, as if my lack of attention had tilted the karmic balance against my sweet Tide. What an embarrassment, and what would become of our championship hopes?

Despite my aggravation, the call of this Aub woman was too great, she the Ingrit to my Jon Snow. Despite the goings-on in the game, I decided the score was an aberration, and that certainly, certainly my Tide would right the ship and restore order. The Aub flicked the radio back off and straddled me in the backseat, an act which for the moment, took my attention away from football and back to...well...you know.

We engaged in heated, furious activities for the next few minutes. Thank the Maker we were nekkid, as being clothed and cooped up in that coupe would have been too much to bear. After all, it rarely gets cold in Mobile in November, and the humidity is perpetually somewhere around 113%. This girl had obviously shared the same thirst for relations that I had endured the last two weeks, as she did things that, well, I shant discuss in detail for fear of offending the mild among you. (However, I will say this, and leave it alone...Alabama Crag-Dangle. Google it, or don't. But proceed at your own risk regardless.)

Despite the all-star performance this young woman was imposing upon your faithful narrator in the backseat of that old Nova, something just wasn't right. I couldn't...you know...concentrate. It was as if Coach Stallings was watching me through those fogged-up windows, and the look on his face was one of disapproval.

"Now son, I don't know what you think you're doin' to that ole Cow College girl in there, but don't you know we are tryin' to win a football game?"

I froze. Was that voice real?

"You hear that?" I asked my compadre.

"Umm, no, what?"

"Voices...Coach Stallings, heard a voice that sounded like Coach Stallings. I'm prolly just trippin.'"

I reached forward and twisted the radio knob to make sure that I had not just neglected to turn the volume all the way down. All the while, the Aub was lookin' at me, shootin' me the skunk-eye of suspicion.

I smudged the fog from a small corner of the window and peeped out, half-expecting to see the patriarch of Bama Nation staring back at me with his heavy glare of disappointment. Nope, in a Poe-like twist of my conscience, I had tricked my ears, apparently. My eyes did not reveal a thing outside of that muggy cabin, so I re-immersed my snout in the bosom of the young lady.

"Son, I said SON, we need you!"

"THERE!" I yelped. "You HAD to hear that, right?"

"Nope," she said. "You are losing your mind." She giggled and pulled me closer.

But I was disturbed, you see, knocked off of my momentum, if you will. Something was just not right, there was a disturbance in the Force. I flipped the radio volume up to find that my Tide was behind 21-20...for the first time in the fourth quarter all season!

I cast off the heathen wench and leaned forward, still nekkid as the day I was born. I decided I wasn't going to do anymore copulatin' until after the game was over, sexual pleasure be damned. She rolled her eyes and slumped back into the back seat dejected as I hunkered into the space between the two front seats, staring intently at the radio as if my glare would somehow miraculously will the boys in crimson to victory.

Whatever I did must have worked, because after a nifty pass to Prince Wimbley and a Michael Proctor field goal, the Tide retook the lead by a score of 23-21. The Tide defense returned to form and utterly stymied those hellhounds from the Mississippi backwoods, quieting the crowd and allowing the Tide to score once more to salt away the victory.

I was happy, overjoyed...and ready to complete the sweaty activities of the previous hour. I looked into the back seat to find the Aub, half dressed and getting dressed-er (is that a word?...no, that can't be a word).

"What? What are you doin? We ain't gonna finish?"

"Oh, we're finished alright," she said, obviously displeased with ya boy and his decision to postpone love-making for the conclusion of a football game.

But being the man of words that I am, a smoov-talkin' sumbitch to be sure, I was able to cajole her back into an amorous inclination. Keep in mind, I was still nekkid, and she was clothed from the waist-up at this point. I heard what sounded like gravel under foot outside the car, but convinced myself that like in the previous instances, I was hearing things.

As I laid upon this young lady like a walrus on a beach rock, my lily-white ass pumpin' up and down in a motion reminiscent of an oil derrick, I heard a rap at the window, sounded like something metal on glass.

She bolted up. "Did you hear that?"

I had. But I also knew I'd been hearing things all night. I joked, "Yeah, don't worry about it, it's just Coach Stallings."

Another, more forceful rap landed upon mine window glass. It was apparently NOT Coach Stallings, but some law enforcement type. Fogged as it was, I was quite sure that the current opacity of the window glass was not sufficient to conceal the activities going on inside.

"OPEN UP!" came a voice from outside, one that was decidedly different in tone and gravelly-ness from that of our Saint Stallings.

Eyes wide as ‘80's era Dodge truck hubcaps, she and I stared at one another for a moment before jumping to dress. That, my friends, is a difficult task in the backseat of a Nova, especially for one who is attempting to do so without tipping off intruders outside to the previous activities within.

She covered herself with a blanket, I got dressed enough to crack the window, thinking surely it was a police officer.

"Uh, yes?" I said through the narrowest of window gaps.

"You can't be over here doin' that shit, this is private property. Get on, nah, y'heeyah?"

"Yessir!" Glad that it was not a po-po, I leapt between the front seats into the driver's seat like a Duke boy, fired up the four-cylinder and slung rocks peelin' out. Didn't even give the Aub a chance to get up front, and hell, she was still as bottomless as an Olive Garden "Endless Soup and Salad" special at that point anyway.

So, after that brush with multiple disasters, I forever swore my allegiance to the Alabama Crimson Tide. I have not wandered, I have not wavered. Neither sex nor medical emergency nor threat of tropical weather system nor any-other-cotdang-thang has kept me from my appointed duties on Alabama football Saturdays. When the boys play, they have my full attention, and it's been that way through droughts of various forms of satisfaction low these 22 years.

Never again would I allow womanly wiles to lure me away from my first love, as Alabama football and Fate are jealous lovers. They will not share me. I am fortunate enough to have a found a woman who just so happens to want to get rid of my ass for about three hours a week anyway, so those types of conflicts no longer torture me. Funny how things work out.

At any rate, remember y'all, everything rides on this game. Hoodoo to a standard, and get your ass in front of a radio or television Saturday night. And, as always, GETCHO MINDS RIGHT!

Roll Tide, beat CLANGA down.