The Great Pumpkin

I don’t know why we do it to ourselves. It seems like every other weekend we’re forcing Gatlin into the car and making the long 5 hour drive to Starkville. This particular trip was worse than usual because I was still recovering from a freak freeze tag accident from the weekend before. I’ll just say that it involved me flying through the air like I had just slipped on a banana split. But, at least this time, we could let the windows down while blaring Stranglehold without suffocating from the humid Mississippi air. As we pulled into Starkvegas (don’t act like you’ve never called it that) late Friday night, the car’s thermometer read a cool 45 degrees. Football weather had finally decided to show up in the South.

After a quick preview of this year’s basketball team at The Hump Saturday morning, it was time to get over to The Junction and take advantage of this autumn atmosphere.

Even though I was 300 miles from New Orleans, I felt like I was still in south Louisiana as I quickly disposed of jambalaya, shrimp and crab gumbo, and crawfish dip. I then followed a trail of candy like James Woods down to the heart of The Junction where I stumbled upon a makeshift SEC graveyard directly next to our seemingly reserved tailgating spot. With all the hype surrounding this season, we got to share our recent scary stories with a few more folks than usual. After a few are you afraid of the dark stories, the day quickly transitioned to Halloween Eve night. We exited the stadium to find that the combination of the Bulldogs’ 7th win and the toxic fog surrounding our tent had transformed tailgaters into Werewolves of Fever Swamp (including Dr. Beavis/Mr. Webster).

Halloween finally arrived and the biscuits and gravy at Huddle House before the ride back to New Orleans turned out to be more of a treat than a trick. We made it back just in time to prevent seat soiling and began to prepare for the arrival of the Great Pumpkin. In an attempt to entice him to our personal pumpkin patch, we left out a large bowl of acorn squash and tasso bisque, and a poboy stuffed with pulled pork that I brined in apple cider, Steen’s cane syrup BBQ sauce, Munster cheese, and thinly sliced granny smith apples. We made sure to be as “sincere” as we could while watching the Black and Gold take on, well, the Black and Mustard Yellow. Erin even created a runway of pumpkin spice candles to ease his finding of our house. But just like Linus, the anticipation of the Great Pumpkin’s arrival was too much for her. We awoke the next morning, and swiftly ran into the living room. No toys. No candy. Not even a rock. We couldn’t find any evidence of the Great Pumpkin except for a half empty bottle of homemade pumpkin pie vodka. I’m blaming the dog- I knew he doubted the Great Pumpkin’s existence. Just wait until next year, Charlie Brown. You'll see.

An Imminent Intervention

I have a problem. Football has taken over my life. On Wednesday, I skipped Kermit Ruffins’ free show at Lafayette Square, so I wouldn’t miss the beginning of the Central Florida- Marshall game. Really? UCF and Marshall. I was the only person outside of West Virginia and Splash Mountain watching this game. Our once temporary living room setup of two TVs has become a more permanent fixture on the weekends. Even as I’m writing this, I’m watching Chris Collinsworth and Al Michaels ramble on about Peyton on one TV, and watching Herbstreit rabble as Rece Davis reveals the meaningless Week 7 BCS standings on the other.

Sunday morning, I made sure to refresh the websites for the Coach’s Poll rankings and AP rankings every 30 seconds Sunday to see if the once frustrating Bulldogs were ranked after they wrapped another one in maroon and white in a win in Gainesville- the first since 1965.

I also kept my phone handy to check the Twitter alerts for last minute NFL injury reports and the MSU beat writers’ blogs updates. Clinton Portis was once again inactive, and Mississippi State barely squeaked into the polls (including the BCS poll) at 24- the first time in almost a decade. After enduring the end of the Sherrill years, the “right way” era of Sly Croom, and ridicule from The School Up North (you know, the Rebels, I mean Fighting Yogi’s), it was about time for Mississippi State to start heating up.


I then canceled plans to go to the free Crescent City Blues and BBQ Festival, and stayed home and watched the equally frustrating Saints dominate the Bucs in a stadium that has about as much character as the Clearview Mall parking lot. I also had the laptop running ESPN's FantasyCast while watching my miserable fantasy team pile on the points for the first time this year. Oh, what’s that? Oh yeah, I was on a bye this week.

I hoard remotes and useless pregame analyses like a crazy old lady hoards dogs, and like Bill Belichick hoards future draft picks. What once was confined to just Thursdays, Saturdays, Sundays, and Mondays, has now consumed the entire week. Tuesdays have now been overtaken by the MAC and Sunbelt, and Wednesdays are now reserved for Conference-USA and the WAC. What used to provoke only minor mental anguish now generates physical distress and degrades my social dexterity.

I have a serious problem. I am certain, that in the near future, I’m going to be ambushed in a strange hotel room by an A&E producer.

Auburn Fans, LSU Fans Do NOT Smell Like Corndogs

That’s right Auburn fans, LSU fans don’t smell like corn dogs. There, I said it. In fact, the stinch you claim to smell is actually the big dump that you dropped right in the middle of Death Valley- you know the measly 4 wins you have in Baton Rouge since 1901 (or Baton Rootch if you’re the guy that used to sit in the office next to me). Just because LSU fans wear Wal-Mart jerseys to the games doesn’t mean they work at the local tilt-a-whirl set up in the K-Mart parking lot. You are not Bill Nye, or Jaleel White, so stop wearing britches (yes, britches), a Polo Oxford, a bow tie, and suspenders when it’s 93 degrees in the shade. And LSU fans are trashy?

Yeah, because rockin’ the gold chain and sweet tats at 300+ is not trashy at all.

Since there are literally 300,000 people in Baton Rouge on game day, we had to aimlessly wonder a mile through a sea of endless purple and gold tents while trying to find some fellow State alums. Because of you Auburn fans, I cautiously took my first few steps into this uncharted territory like I was trying to float a chuck wagon down the Columbia River. Besides a few drunken Tiger Baits, the only serious heckling we received was a 3 year old trying to run over me on what seemed like a supercharged Power Wheels. No one threw feces or doused me with whiskey. Hell, we were even stopped at every other tent and were offered beers. I can’t even get that kind of hospitality in Starkville.

A few LSU faithful also stopped us and asked us if we had eaten some good food. I guess he assumed that we were from Mississippi and, for some reason, didn’t know what good food was. In his defense, he wasn’t aware that 24 hours later we would be back in New Orleans gorging ourselves on The Boudreaux (poached eggs over alligator sausage, jalapeno cornbread, and Crystal potatoes, smothered in a Creole hollandaise), a Louisiana crab omelet, and a make-your-own-bloody-mary-bar three blocks from our house at Atchafalaya. As we continued on our not-so-perilous journey, we consumed enough andouille and boudin to make Gord Brody envious. No corn dogs. No funnel cakes.

Speaking of envy, maybe you Auburn fans created this mythical corn dog phenomenon because you can’t share the spotlight with the SEC’s other Tigers. Just go ahead and join Ole Miss and officially pick another mascot. You already have 17 [17’ing] officially unofficial ones to choose from.

Auburn fans, because of you, I was also hesitant walking into the stadium, especially since I was holed up behind enemy lines in LSU’s season ticket holders section.

I even made sure to don my maroon because you said the urine that would be thrown on me by belligerent LSU fans wouldn’t stain. Yeah, there are 90,000+ rowdy fans in Death Valley, most of them drunk, but is there really any SEC stadium where the home crowd doesn’t mix Evan Williams in the stands and get a little obnoxious. Needless to say, the only stains suffered that day were caused by my reaction to 5 interceptions (I swore I saw Mike Henig on the field).

I know we’re the doormat of the SEC. I know Jemmye is trashy. We cant' read, and we don't wear shoes. Yes, we offer a PhD in Poultry Science. Cowbells this. Rednecks that.

But Auburn Fans, next time you think that you have concocted a clever insult, please make sure:
1) It makes enough sense where fellow SEC fans can laugh with you, and
2) It is original (see Oklahoma/Nebraska)

Death of a Cowbell

The drive was longer than usual and Erin’s barbecue nachos from the night before were giving me fits, but, as soon as I saw the Shuqualak sign I knew we were home free.

It was late, I had just gotten iced, we had been on the road for 5.5 hours, and we had a 300 pound TV to unload, but we knew that in less than 12 hours we would be in the greatest place on earth. I figured after the drive I would have slept soundly, but waiting for the first home game was like trying to sleep knowing that Santa Claus was trying to fit his jolly ass down my chimney. Dreams of hard hits, and even harder liquor were intermingled with the nightmares of seasons past.

Once I awoke and realized that the Croom Era wasn’t just a freakishly haunting nightmare, I went for the breakfast of both champions and morbidly obese rednecks, a Bojangles Cajun Chicken Biscuit and Hashbrowns. After scarfing down an extra biscuit, I fell right back into the gameday routine I had grown accustomed to since becoming an alumnus- pack the coolers while watching Kirk Herbstreit evolve into the ultimate douche bag, pick up the few survivors from Friday nights’ debauchery, swing by Abner’s for chicken strips, unload all of our junk as we try to evade the temple guards and ignore Shrek’s demands to not stop our vehicle next to the curb and, and begin the marathon formally known as tailgating in the Junction. Luckily, we didn’t have to carry our tables and random assortment of chairs far. Just as we have the past 4 years, our tents were set up in a prime spot during the land rush the day before.

With the smoke from the grills hovering over the Junction, and the smell of whiskey and charcoal now filling our noses, I realized as I looked around that the tailgate had turned into a reunion of sorts. The entire 2004 and 2005 pledge classes had decided to join our expansive and now overflowing mass of tailgaters dressed in their Saturday best. After a few Bud Lights from a Solo cup, some boudin, and a green onion sausage poboy, fellowship had to be temporarily cast aside for the Dawg Walk.

Since we finally had non-student section tickets, it was no longer necessary to enter the second oldest stadium in college football 2 hours before the game. As soon as the final get back coach made his way through the tunnel of fans, we got back to tailgating basics before walking into the game- chicken strips and flip cup. With our water bottles filled to the bream with rum and our cowbells in hand (legally), we made it into the stadium just in time to catch the resurrected Dawg Pound Rock before the kickoff of the 2010 season.

The Bulldogs must have known of my Christmas-Eve-like anticipation and anxiousness for the day’s game as they “wrapped it in maroon and white”. Unfortunately, some of those nightmares from the night before came to fruition as the long, but now cool, fall-like night was ending. The cowbell I have had since I was a freshman didn’t make it through the celebratory night. I’m not sure if he was stricken by a heart attack from the shock of actually having a productive Mississippi State quarterback, or overworked and exhausted from all the touchdowns, but I knew things were taking a turn for the worse when he couldn’t take another swig of that $7.00 bottle of rum. May you rest in peace Pike/Vote for Haley Barbour Cowbell (2004-2010).