The Cup Countdown: NUMBER 8

by One Man To Beat on Aug 29, 2009 12:37 AM EDT

The Ole Miss-LSU game consisted of a sundry melange of spine-tingling moments. I peed in some bushes at an apartment complex thanks to our friend Jim Beam. I shouted insults at Tiger fans who snubbed their noses in my direction saying, "Where'd you go before the game - Brooks Brothers?" To which I replied, "Brooks Brothers is for poor people."

November 22, 2008 also was the night of Juco's bachelor party. We stayed at a seedy motel where hookers strutted their collective stuff on the sidewalks adjacent to our rubber mattress laden rooms.

Winning 31-13 and snapping a six game losing streak to the Bayou Bengals was extraordinary, while Peria Jerry wreaking havoc in the backfield was, for lack of a better term, Henry the Eighth-esque.

Anne Boleyn stood a better chance against her English monarch counterpart than the likes of Jordan Jefferson. At the time of our #8 moment, Ole Miss had a commanding 28-13 lead in the third quarter as Jefferson was trying to mount a patented LSU comeback. The ghosts of Doug Buckles' past could creep up at any moment. Every Ole Miss fan knew as night began to fall, something bad surely was going to happen...it almost always does. Except this time, it didn't.

Perry Jerry burst off his blocker(some goofy squatty looking white guy) and found Jefferson on his heels in the backfield. Jefferson had no where to run, so instead he made the move to try and crouch to dodge the oncoming freight train that is #98. To punish Jordan's stupidity and poor choice in football allegiance, Jerry ripped Jefferson's head off of his body, pooped into his skull and then force fed it to Billy Cannon(whose number was retired that same night). Later, he was seen impaling whatever was left of the skull onto a 15 foot spike overseeing Highway 6 in Oxford.

Maybe you remember it differently, but the complete domination that Jerry showed alongside the other Landsharks on that night is our #8 moment for the 2008 season. Jefferson's beheading and the ankle snapping of Jarrett Lee brought home a victory for Rebel fans to relish. While most of their fans are still unwilling to admit it, LSU was dominated that night by our large, merciless defensive front.

As I nuzzled into the insulation-filled pillows on our beds that night, I had dreams of cotton bolls dancing around my head mixed with nighmares of Peria Jerry eating my friends and family.

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That morning, Ivory Tower went to the Circle K…

…accompanied by Whiskey Wednesday, myself, and a varied assortment of other FotCs and good damn Rebels. It was an epic quest for coffee and alka-seltzer after an epic night of pre-game revelry. En route, a group of purple-and-yellow jersey clad, ragged-and-torn Hollister jean wearing hinchas of the bayou wandered up out of a nearby patch of swamp to harass us. “Tiger Bait!” etcetera ensued. The one with the bleached tips in his gel-spiked hair, apparently a symbol denoting his status as leader of the group, delved especially deep into his creative wellspring: “Hey, faggots! You know how I know you’re all faggots, faggots!?” A collective moan from our group to begrudgingly oblige him: “How?” The punch: “Cause you all go to Ole Miss, faggots!” Skeptical looks amongst ourselves, a few side glances cast to him, but the only overwhelming desire any of us felt in the moment was the head-pounding need for a little hair of the dog. We sauntered on.

Emboldened by our indifference, one of their females sporting a faded, moth-hole ridden "2003 National Champions" t-shirt chimed in: “You all dress like faggots, faggots!” I mean, we looked nice I guess, about as much as Ole Miss students usually do in slacks and oxfords, but I wouldn’t call any of us a regular Tim Gunn by any means. The loquacious Ivory Tower was at this point most disappointed in the narrow scope of the LSU English department’s vocabulary enrichment program, as well as in this girl’s lack of a sense of irony. He stops, turns, approaches her. He reaches for his back pocket—the one with the gel-tipped spikes bows up for a confrontation—but he only whips out his wallet. He opens it. He counts out a stack of crisp 20s and holds them out to the girl. "Sweetheart," he says, "I am so, so sorry. Did that mean ol’ hurricane blow all your nice clothes away? Here you go…"

I thought that was the fucking JAM.

by Rh0d3$t@r on Aug 29, 2009 10:32 AM EDT reply actions

Ivory Tower

I think I just fell in love with you.

by fat MSU cheerleader on Aug 29, 2009 1:10 PM EDT via mobile reply actions

awesome

This thread pisses excellence.

Great social commentary in OMTB’s original blog, and even better in Rhodestar’s comment.

by Knob Creek Reb on Aug 29, 2009 2:02 PM EDT reply actions

Considering that I was blessed enough to be there,

I figured I throw in my two cents about the encounter. So not only were we buying copious amounts of Wild Turkey 101, there was a great impromptu reception going on at the 7-11 as we ran into Rebels inside the store as well as in the parking lot. How’d we know they were from Ole Miss? Well the black Tahoe that pulled up and the 3 drop dead gorgeous blondes that got out were a good place to start.
The “oh did your shit get blown away in the hurricane” burn was used more than once that day as the repeated screams of “Gator Bait” became more and more prevalent. I opted to drop the Katrina bomb on a guy who, in front of his wife and two young children, yelled for me to perform lewd and tasteless acts to both myself and my mother. It worked.

Hyundai, it's the new motherfuckin Lexis

by Hoyt Brumley on Aug 29, 2009 2:50 PM EDT reply actions