FanPost

The Biography of Steve Robertson - Bad Highs and Badder Hires.

Chapter 3

The thing about bad highs is that their way more unforgiving than bad thighs.

Bad thighs will get you a trip to the Oktibbeha County Health Clinic, sure. Met me a lady who had the worst thighs in history. Like chicken from the B-Quik on Jackson Street bad. Cute little boy though. Not sure what kinda name Sub is, but I regress.

Bad highs will land you in a Crawford Billiard hall, doing BC Powder lines off the shaved ass of an eczemic bulldog. It’d be fair to blame my choices on the Bank that Brewer built. After all, it was he who fluctuated the ’85 Bulldog season with a 45-27 dare-I-say-criminally-negligent-beating of MSU, leading to the retirement of the only Mississippi coach to beat a #1 Alabama team while not employing defilers of the sanctitty of amateurism.

Badder hires is what happens when your rival would stoop to such a level as to force a coach out of office, and cause the search committee to turn to a familiar name. A name that had been to the land of milk, honey and Sun Bowls. A name that had felt the warm touch of a woman that wanted to sleep with you for you, instead of the money you were offering her outside of the makeshift shower at the Vaiden Truck Stop. A name almost poetic, Rocky Felker.

Life was great with Felker, at first. A 6-1 start to his career was kept under the radar before The Bank took notice. But then the phone rang, and an offense that had been scoring more than Van Halen at the Jackson Coliseum fell into an abyss that hasn’t been seen again to this day. The 6-1 start was followed by a 5-21 stretch that I only recall as "Oktibbeha’s Dark Ages." Times were hard. Gas buffooned to 91 cents. The brand new Ford Taurus I coveted so dearly cost nearly 10K. Blow had two meanings and I longed for both but could only afford one. We couldn’t even keep our spacecrafts from blowing up. I guess the notes I scribbled onto the Memphis, TN Danver’s napkin and gave to that lady with a NASA shirt on didn’t help. WHY DIDN’T THEY LISTEN?

The excitement of beating the uniformed lawyers in ’87 kept the party going for three more years. But, much like me after one-too-many trips to the Pony (well across the street while the restraining order was still active), limp was the operative word. He had to go. I was lost. Felker, that groupie-grabber I watched raise us to the heights of the Sun Bowl, was gone. The team I loved to cheer for through bloodshot eyes, was lost too.

(DISCLAIMER - THIS IS SATIRE! PLEASE DON'T SUE US!!!)

This post is a Red Cup Rebellion FanPost. Please don't sue us.