50-48 #36: HE WHO DOES NOT PUNISH EVIL COMMANDS IT TO BE DONE

50-48 #36: HE WHO DOES NOT PUNISH EVIL COMMANDS IT TO BE DONE

“He who passively accepts evil is as much involved in it as he who helps to perpetrate it,” said Martin Luther King, knee-deep as he was in the struggle for Civil Rights. “He who accepts evil without protesting against it is really cooperating with it.” But practicing a careful deconstruction (Isn’t it glorious how we’ve made that word so pliable, even though we use it improperly 99% of the time? For example, I’m using it improperly right there.), we can exculpate through mimetic exegesis the true meaning of King’s statement. “Texas,” he argues, “will always exist. We define functional goods in relation to oppositional bads. Therefore, no Texas, no Make-A-Wish Foundation. That being the case, though we hope and pray for a nuclear strike in the center of the Austin campus, we can never actually expect it to come. This baseline truth, however, does not give us the right to ‘passively accept’ it. Passive acceptance—the dreaded sin of omission—makes us no better than the perpetrators of the original evil in the first place. We ignore Texas, we are become Texas. This simple fact lies somewhere along the comparative sliding scale next to the doctrines of Original Sin and Human Depravity. Sure, say Moses, Jesus, and Paul—the three amigos, as it were, of that great semi-literary monolith often referred to as the protestant bible—we carry with us an innate depravity (‘Thanks, Eve.’) but just because perfection is far out of reach, it does not excuse each one of us from trying to attain it. Such is the nature of discipline as lived through a life of faith.”

By deconstructing my original deconstruction, I come to the following conclusions:

• If you don’t actively hate Texas, then you actively hate Martin Luther King.
• Since Martin Luther King was the representative godhead of first-wave Civil Rights after Brown v. Board of Education, then if you actively hate Martin Luther King, you actively hate Civil Rights.
• If you actively hate Civil Rights, then you actively hate (1) equality and/or (2) black people and/or (3) other minority groups.
• (1) If you actively hate equality, then you actively the liberal republican ideal.
• If you actively hate the liberal republican ideal, then you therefore support one of a number of forms of despotism.
• If you support a form of despotism, then you most likely support a military dictatorship, since that is the form of despotism most common in the world.
• (2) If you actively hate black people, then you actively hate every American civic institution, because every American civic institution includes black people.
• (3) If you actively hate minority groups, then you actively support the regeneration of a genetically superior white race, be that regeneration from science or good, old-fashioned, unprotected sex.

Ergo: If you don’t actively hate Texas, you support military dictatorship, you hate every American civic institution, and you believe in the viability of a genetically superior white race. You are, for lack of a better term, a fascist. (Isn’t it glorious how we’ve made that word so pliable, even though we use it improperly 99% of the time? For example, I’m using it improperly right there.)

These facts being what they are, then the Razorbacks’ third game of the season against the Texas Longhorns is nothing less than a fight against the rise of another Nazi Menace. I have no funny hyperlinks for you this week. I have no flippant statements about the nature of football and its relation to the human condition, cosmic or otherwise. Our third game of the season will be the most important date in the history of the world as lived to that point. It will be a battle between good (No, Martin, not perfect good. We all have sinned and fallen short in the eyes of god.) and evil. And it doesn’t matter whether it’s the great semi-literary monolith often referred to as the protestant bible or the great actually-literary monolith often referred to as the dramatic oeuvre of Shakespeare: EVIL ALWAYS OUTS.

The Razorbacks will win this game because they are better people than the Longhorns. Because they do not passively accept evil. Because, though they willingly acknowledge that he plagiarized his doctoral dissertation and that some of his personal proclivities were less than morally ideal, they still like Martin Luther King.

The Razorbacks will win this game because unlike the Longhorns, they are not Nazis.

Quod erat demonstrandum, you dirty burnt orange motherfuckers. I hope to see you all in hell.

50-48
Fuck Texas
WPS

PS: Against my better judgment, please allow me to briefly provide one analogous hyperlink, wherein the Razorbacks are represented by Mr. Alfonse Capone, and the Longhorns Mr. Eliot Ness.

50-48 #35: NOBODY SAVES AMERICA BY SNIFFING COCAINE. JIGGLING YOUR KNEES BLANKEYED IN THE RAIN, WHEN IT SNOWS IN YOUR NOSE YOU CATCH COLD IN YOUR BRAI

50-48 #35: NOBODY SAVES AMERICA BY SNIFFING COCAINE. JIGGLING YOUR KNEES BLANKEYED IN THE RAIN, WHEN IT SNOWS IN YOUR NOSE YOU CATCH COLD IN YOUR BRAIN. (so says Allen Ginsberg, and he would know)

Stay strong, you few, you happy few. You band of brothers. We now have less than 50 days until the Razorbacks take the field. And he that day that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother.

No. You know what? I’m just going to cut and paste the whole goddamned speech right here into the text:

If we are mark'd to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires.
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.
God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more methinks would share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse;
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is call'd the feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.'
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day.'
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words-
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester-
Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered-
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

Just thinking about Henry V makes me want to mass on the Texas border and attack. That speech is the grounding element of the BEST Act 4, Scene 3 in the history of theater. But as preschool teachers continually tell us, some of you are visual (a convenient ploy for outing children too stupid to read). Well, the St. Crispin’s Day speech is by far the greatest football preparation speech of all time, and I would hate for you to miss it because of poor training. Here’s Lawrence Olivier’s version. CLICK. Here’s a better version (blasphemy!) by Kenneth Branagh. CLICK. Feel free to watch over and over and over again. We’d probably all do well to have it memorized in 49 days.

And welcome to any new readers who are checking us out in our new blog format! Struggling to understand just what 50-48 is? Try this:

50 – 48

or maybe this:

50 – 48

no, no, no. definitely this:

50 – 48

Goddamnit, anyway. That never gets old. Click that last one again. I’ve clicked it four times and I’m going to keep clicking it all day. It’s like vitamins. Still feel as though the footage isn’t quite personal enough? That perhaps it doesn’t provide the visual cues that connect you specifically to your individual experience of the victory and its emotional/moral/ontological consequences? Well, here’s a vaguely homoerotic reaction to that victory, a living embodiment, perhaps, of 50-48 itself (please ignore the obvious grammar faux pas on the title card; perfect tense being what it is, the “have” of line two makes an “en” at the end of “beat” a requirement. Not that I would nitpick about such things.) CLICK.

WAIT! OH MY GOD! BREAKING NEWS! PICTURE FANCY CNNESQUE GRAPHIC HERE! In a major scoop of all the Arkansas media outlets, 50-48 has discovered footage of a certain former quarterback’s drug use! (Take that, Donna Bragg!) Of course, we speak of none other than Matty Ice, who was arrested this week on charges of criminal possession of a controlled substance. For more, see HERE. And HERE.

Like noted cokehead Judy Garland before him, Matty has gone over the rainbow. Tis sad. Tis true. But we would all do well to remember the words of Shirley Chisolm, the first black woman to serve in Congress and the first to make a substantial run for president of the United States in 1972. “It is not heroin or cocaine that makes one an addict,” she noted. “It is the need to escape from a harsh reality. There are more television addicts, more baseball and football addicts, more movie addicts, and certainly more alcohol addicts in this country than there are narcotics addicts.”

Touche, Shirl. Besides, it isn’t like he stole the head of a wax Adolf Hitler statue.

And on the topic of excusing Matty’s actions, what self-respecting Fayetteville police officer would ARREST MATT JONES?!?!?!?!? He should be fired. He should be run out of town and left (ostensibly for dead) in the barren Arizona desert. For all that Matt has given us over the years, he deserves to have a little blow from time to time. Hell, that one long touchdown run against Ole Miss (“university”) a few years ago (ending in a hellacious goalpost dunk) was worth AT LEAST 3 eight-balls. And seven overtimes should go for seven sweet powdery bricks, encased as they surely would be in the coffee grounds of their native Colombia. BEING SUPERHUMAN IS HARD, FAYETTEVILLE POLICE DEPARTMENT! EVER HEARD OF HANCOCK!?!?!? LIGHTEN UP!

Now, on with the preview. This week’s opponent is the University of Louisiana at Monroe (nee Northeast Louisiana University). NLU began in 1931 as Ouachita Parish Junior College, before becoming an extension of LSU later that decade. It became a full, degree-granting, four-year institution in 1950, and has been trucking along ever since. The campus is built on beautiful Bayou Desiard, which it uses as its grounding common. And so there is no quadrangle at NLU. Any Hog fan driving through campus would also notice new buildings everywhere, as the school has completely transformed itself over the last 10 years. Unfortunately, they have yet to purchase a new book for the library in that time.

In sports, NLU is known principally for a brutal mascot fight between their former Chief Brave Spirit and Vic, the Northwestern State University Demon in 1992. But since I couldn’t find footage of it on the internet, here’s a representation—a mediating text, perhaps—that provides the general gist of the thing. It’s a death match between Barney the Purple Dinosaur and Winnie the Pooh.

Anyway: Monroe, the glorious city on the Ouachita that houses NLU, is notable not only for being the original site of the French Fort Miro, not only for housing (at one point) the largest natural gas field in the world, but also for being the hometown of your gutless 50-48 author! His first job as a lad of 13 was hawking sodas up and down the steps of Malone Stadium. His high school graduation was in one of the university’s auditoriums. So there will always be a soft spot in his football heart for the Indians. (The University recently changed mascots in 2006 from the racist “Indians” to the more nebulous “Warhawks.” Well, I say nebulous. Claire Chennault’s World War II Air Force unit flew Warhawk planes, and Monroe worships Claire Chennault—see Chennault Park, for example. But “Warhawk” also sounds suspiciously like an Indian tribe, doesn’t it? Maybe I just see conspiracy where none exists. It wouldn’t be the first time.)

And so, soft spot be damned, it’s time for the official 50-48 prediction: Hogs 7,000, Indians 0. The Indians are supposed to be good next year. I watched them demolish the Cajuns just a few short months ago, and they’re returning almost everyone. They aren’t the class of the Sunbelt (that honor going to Florida Atlantic and Troy), but they’re good. Still, building off the 427-point victory in the season’s first week, the Hogs are welcomed into Little Rock’s War Memorial Stadium with such ferocity that seismographs measuring the potential rumblings of the various fault lines running throughout the state go absolutely haywire. In fact, the force of the screaming actually disrupts one of the faults, and the resulting quake adds two zeros on the scoreboard to our already impressive 10-touchdown performance. It is the first 7,000-point victory in the history of college football. The president gives Coach Petrino a plaque. But Coach Petrino rejects it, because he thinks that guy is a total fuck.

Oh, and in an entirely unrelated story, scientists have finally responded to public pressure and created a faucet for cats! Thanks, science! It’s amazing what feats we can accomplish when we lay off the coke.

And what feats we will accomplish in these coming days. Thus shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words-
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester-

(wait a second, those aren’t our names)

But we shall be remembered-
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in Arkansas now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day!

50-48
Fuck Texas
WPS

50-48 #34: SUCK IT, LEATHERNECKS

(Originally published 7/7/08)

50-48 #34: SUCK IT, LEATHERNECKS

So the Razorbacks kick off their "shock-the-world" season in less than 55 days, and we here at 50-48 are doing our best to see the light at the end of that long, long tunnel. We have already played our Rammer Jammer Yellow Hammer audiobook. We have collected no less than three SEC preview magazines and have begun scouring them for details. We have chosen a face-melting metal anthem to pump us up for the upcoming season. We have purchased maraschino cherries and TRIED to purchase some PGA in which to marinate them, but in this alcoholic cesspool of a place we could find NONE!

(How is that? Pure ineptitude on the part of your beleaguered author. Never fear. We will have a flagon of pure grain alcohol within the week. And we will have delicious Hog Bombs soon afterward. We at 50-48 encourage all list members to marinate maraschino cherries in pure grain alcohol before the start of the season, as we are obsessive compulsive and believe these rituals to actually help us win. We don't apologize for this. We fucking revel in it.)

Okay. Enough third person plural. We here at 50-48 hate third person plural. We really do. (Fill up the tub.)

Any route: Our new plan (damn!) is to provide a short series of team-by-team previews of Razorback opponents this season—something to pass the long hot American summer. Wait, wait. Let me do that again: long hot American summer. Long hot American summer. Mmmmm, summer. Wait, that turned out to be creepy there at the end.

First up: The Western Illinois University Leathernecks.

Sure, WIU is ranked 15 in the 1-AA poll. Sure, linebacker Jason Williams is picked as the preseason Missouri Valley Conference defensive player of the year, as well as a preseason 1-AA All-American. Running back Herb Donaldson was third in All-American voting, just missing the cut. The Leathernecks return ten all-conference selections and nine starters each on offense and defense.

But what, you're probably asking, is the REAL story? Good question. Western Illinois is the only public school in the U.S. that has Navy permission to use the US Marine Corps official seal, mascot, and nickname. It has an enrollment above 13,000 on 1,050 rolling acres in the quaint town of Macomb, Illinois. Here's an INFORMATIONAL VIDEO. As for Macomb, it's the county seat of McDonough County, founded in 1830. Named for General Alexander Macomb (of the War of 1812), the town was a hotbed of Lincolnian support in the elections of 1860 and 64. It was a favorite jaunt of Ulysses S. Grant, as well.

So I think you all know what I'm getting at. This first football contest on August 30 is nothing short of a defense of our Southern Honor! It's been a while since I've used this hyperlink, but I think you're ready: CLICK GODDAMIT, CLICK. (Actually, that might be a different one than I linked too a long time ago. Rest assured that I don't care.)

But that said, this group of ne'er-do-wells don't seem the type to give us shit over 150-year-old grudges. Here's their Student Creed:

We, the students of Western Illinois University, having learned from the past 100 years, reaffirm the values of excellence in higher education as established by our founders.

As a member of this community…I will challenge myself to uphold the highest standards of scholarship and integrity in my learning. I will strive to create understanding, respect, and openness to difference among all members of my community. I will strengthen my community and its members by actively advancing the goals that better Western Illinois University. We recognize these values as evidence of a successful past and as keys to a promising future.

I know what you're thinking: GAY. Right you are. Not the kind of statement that strikes fear in the heart of opponents, it instead evokes the image of a giant cunt parade floating its way down the Macomb town square.

Oh, and speaking of cunt. (We here at 50-48 have ALWAYS wanted to say, "Oh, and speaking of cunt," in a venue approximating "public.") There's a large bus that drives around Miami offering pussy and blow jobs to interested customers—a sort of roving whorehouse run by enterprising young Christine Morteh. The timid Leathernecks (their women's athletic teams are known as the Westerwinds) would never—could never—see value in such a bus. The sanctity of a moveable whorehouse is completely lost on them, and therefore they must be crushed.

So our first opponent is a band of Yankee prudes. 50-48 prediction: Hogs 400, Creed-holding Cunts, -27. In a surprise move, the Leathernecks respond to Petrino's offensive genius by questioning their place in the universe. As an act of contrition designed to make recompense for abandoning their Student Creed, the team begs officials to deduct points for their sins. The officials oblige. Then a group of naked space robots hop off a giant brothel bus waiting in the Donald W. Reynolds Razorback Stadium parking lot, and everybody has a dance party.

Will the Democrat Gazette provide such analysis? I think not. The Morning News? Nope. They can suck it, too. Long live 50-48! Long live naked space robot dance parties!

Oh, and speaking of cunt:

50-48
Fuck Texas
WPS

PS: In response to reader interest, 50-48 is considering the creation of a blog prior to football season. If the venue changes, rest assured that the format will not. If graduate students teach me how to do it, and if they can create a suitably awesome logo featuring the scoreboard at last year's LSU game, these weekly rants will move into the public sphere. If that happens, each of you will still receive an email every week reminding you to read it. AND YOU BETTER FUCKING READ IT! If you have any (substantive) suggestions, please let me know.

PPS: Our second opponent is the University of Louisiana Monroe. We'll have a ULM preview, as well. But that shitty little university is in my hometown, so I won't be making fun of it. (Except, perhaps, to say that it's a shitty little university. I'm so disgustingly duplicitous sometimes. Man. I'd really like to kill the guilt that's causing me by downing some Hog Bombs right now. But I can't. BECAUSE THERE'S NO GODDAMN PGA!)

PPPS: There's no goddamn PGA.

50-48 #33: BIDING TIME WITH MY FINGERS, HOPING TO DISTRACT THEM FROM PLOTTING MY DEATH. OR, PROLEGOMENA TO A DISQUISITION ON OUR INEVITABLE PROCLIVITY

(Originally published 6/30/08)

50-48 #33: BIDING TIME WITH MY FINGERS, HOPING TO DISTRACT THEM FROM PLOTTING MY DEATH. OR, PROLEGOMENA TO A DISQUISITION ON OUR INEVITABLE PROCLIVITY TOWARD GRIDIRON SUCCESS.

The majority of swine breeds extant in the great big world descend, as surely you've already guessed, from Sus scrofa, the Eurasian wild boar. Groundbreaking archeological evidence places domesticated pigs in the Middle East around 9,000 BCE. It might be as early as 10,000 BCE in China. No wonder the Middle East is kicking our ass in a silly war and the Chinese are rapidly becoming our economic masters! Let this be a lesson: Those who choose to keep themselves close to pigs will prosper. The Israelites, for example, chose to shun pigs as unclean animals. The next day Egypt enslaved them.

That's right, 50-48ians: I'm not dead yet! So brush up on your obscure literary references and bizarre non-sequiter digressions into oddities-all-kinds. 50-48 is back! (Though we here at 50-48 headquarters will be operating on a periodical basis until closer to football season.) I know that in 50-48's absence you've been practicing a careful exegesis on former installments, hoping to find a kind of wisdom reserved only for those who communicate with imaginary friends. I'm glad to know it. The editorial department at 50-48 encourages readers to construct well-reasoned analyses of the author's deranged mind based on his Razorback commentary.

(And on that topic, why hasn't University of Arkansas Press called about a 50-48 anthology? It can only be a conspiracy by those in power. Dissenting voices being what they are, and hyperlink technology still baffling dead trees everywhere, it may never happen. But just in case, 50-48 encourages readers in Fayetteville to picket the McIlroy House on campus until talks are underway. Those wishing to e-protest can send the fruits of their rage to uapress@uark.edu. Or, they can just travel on over to the press's website, where they will discover a new history of Dickson Street and a new Arkansas History textbook, corralled by none other than 50-48ian and newlywed Brent Riffel.)

The pig bit seared into your brains just three short paragraphs ago was designed to illustrate a painful truth: I am hanging by a fucking thread over here. I have separated myself from pigs (NINE plodding hours to Lafayette, Louisiana), and I am suffering. Pretty soon, University of Louisiana at Lafayette officials will probably be knocking on my door, demanding that I help them build a pyramid. Unfortunately, my crappy-ass apartment building has no white-bearded, self-doubting snakeoil salesman willing to turn all of my sticks into asps. No matter. I have separated myself from pigs, and now I am suffering the consequences. For now I will stem the burgeoning urge to blow my fucking brains out by remaining focused on two abiding reminders that there is decency in the world: 1) The good folks at Post have just upped the "Honey Bunches of Oats" ante by creating "Just Bunches"—"Honey Bunches of Oats" without the flakes! If I weren't so devoted to global pattern theory, and if the Hogs had managed to win just ONE of their bowl games the past two seasons, such a creation might make me regret making fun of people who believe in god. 2) The Razorback football team invades that cesspool of degeneracy, Austin, Texas, in less than 75 days! (Again I regret the lack of any available Moses, as that town is aching for a plague of locusts or frogs or Ebola or AIDS.)

This most recent 50-48 hiatus was prompted by your author being incredibly busy and relatively unhappy. He is now relatively busier and incredibly unhappier. So be it. It is in speaking with you 50-48ians that his lightness of being becomes bearable.

Besides, today is a monumental day in Razorback history, one of those pivotal moments that serve as a fulcrum for everything to follow. Today Nolan Richardson's contract officially expires, and—in an O'Henrican twist—John White officially stepped down as Chancellor. Now our healing can officially begin. We can begin inviting Nolan to ballgames, and we can go toilet paper White's absurd mansion. But for all of my hatred for our now-former chancellor, White did have some surprisingly decent things to say in his AP interview, the most refreshing being, "It might require my no longer being there for Nolan to feel comfortable coming back. He has done a lot for the University of Arkansas. There shouldn't be that kind of division."

Right on, you arrogant butthole. How John White lasted as long as he did is still a mystery to me. It's almost as compelling a whodunit as the current disembodied foot invasion of British Columbia. Hungry for more? Here's a map of where the feet have washed up. Whew. Creepy. For those of you planning a beach vacation this summer, swim carefully.

Did you know that pigs have four toes on each hoof, but only walk on two of them? The phenomenon gives them the appearance of tiptoeing through life—of cautiously moving through the muck of their pens, hoping at some point for food, friends, and a chance to stab the longhorn next door in the balls. But pigs, too, know pain. A jet engine during takeoff measures 113 decibels. The scream of a frightened pig has registered 115.

Here I stand before you, my fellow 50-48ians, screaming the jet-engine yell of our favorite animal, tiptoeing through the muck of my pen, wanting nothing more than to stab a longhorn in the balls. This is a comparatively brief message to let you all know that I haven't forgotten. Soon I will be receiving a copy of Hooten's Arkansas Football, courtesy of one of the lovely young ladies of 50-48. After practicing my own deconstructive analysis of the text, I will return in a few weeks to provide 50-48's Official Football Preview.

Until then, let me leave you with one more random fact: Pigs are the only other animals besides humans to get sunburns. For those of you planning a beach vacation this summer, tan carefully.

50-48
Fuck Texas
WPS

50-48 #32: EMERGENCY SCIENCE UPDATE!

(Originally published 5/20/08)

50-48 #32: EMERGENCY SCIENCE UPDATE!

Dearest beloved 50-48ians,

The Hog baseball team is holding onto the slim hope that the NCAA will allow it into the 64-team College World Series field. The Hogette softballers made it to the NCAA tournament, only to be ousted on opening weekend. And Hog alum Jenero Pargo almost single-handedly destroyed the hopes of the entire state of Louisiana with his ill-timed, way-off-the-mark three-point shots. (Thanks, butthole!)

But all is not lost! The Hogs are now making inroads into northeast India! Thanks to the Durrell Wildlife Conservation Trust, the Pygmy Hog Conservation Programme, and the British's government's science dole, known as the Darwin Initiative, SIXTEEN NEW HOGS are going strong, kicking hell out of Assam Province! (Thanks, England!)

Vivat Porcula salvania!

Here's another dose of the cuteness: CLICK HERE. And yet another: CLICK HERE. Here's the ungulate fact sheet: CLICK HERE. Here's a devoted native of the Punjab about to make out with one: CLICK HERE.

Sweet little baby hogs. No doubt the Injuns made sure they saw their Baby Razorback developmental video before leaving for the wild. Sweet little baby hogs watching their Baby Razorback developmental videos. And then maybe they get cold, so the Injuns give them some Baby Razorback infant booties to keep them warm. Sweet little baby hogs watching their Baby Razorback developmental videos in their warm little Baby Razorback infant booties.

That's so sweet it almost makes me forget the diabetic shock I almost induced 30 minutes ago after eating 8 boxes of the new Chewy Atomic Fireball. Yes, that's right. I said chewy. (For more on the historical evolution of the fireball, CLICK HERE.)

And so that's really TWO science updates. You're freaking welcome. And so now I have a dilemma. Would it be too corny to end with:

Woo Pygmy Sooie!

Probably. Yes, you're right. I won't do it. I won't write:

Woo Pygmy Sooie!

anymore. Of course, one's natural inclination would be to write it a third time, finishing the cheer. Such as:

Woo Pygmy Sooie!
Baby Razorbacks!

But I really think that I'm going to resist the temptation. I simply won't do it. So for that, you're freaking welcome, too.

Carry on, 50-48ians, and rest soundly in the knowledge that the Hogs are on the ground in India.

50-48
Fuck Texas
WPS

50-48 #31: HOOTIE IS TO THE DEVIL WHAT THE DEVIL IS TO THE DEVIL; ERGO, HOOTIE IS THE DEVIL

(Originally published 5/11/08)

50-48 #31: HOOTIE IS TO THE DEVIL WHAT THE DEVIL IS TO THE DEVIL; ERGO, HOOTIE IS THE DEVIL

Whuddup, yo! 50-48 back in effect, rockin the mike one more time! Dropping science! (Ah! Any excuse for a 2-Live Crew video will do. But did it offend your moral sensibilities? Is THIS as close as you're ever going to get to rap-coolness legitimacy? Never fear. The dancing in THIS VIDEO is far more tame.)

The abbreviatedness of this abbreviated 50-48 is prompted by finals, myriad other teacherly responsibilities, and other writing projects that are currently sapping the strength of my already weak brain and taking up all of my god damned time. For example, when I leave you at the end of this email, I will return to eeking out semi-pithy phrases about the devil (the one who lives in Hell, not the one who lives in Oxford), then staring blankly at a stack of papers I will inevitably not grade. Such is the nature of things. I'm not exactly Jack Bauer, and sometimes things can get a little surreal.

But the 50-48edness of this abbreviated 50-48 is prompted by Hootie. (Ha!) When Peyton Hillis dropped to the seventh round, though he was clearly the best fullback in the draft, did it make you want to scream, "NO!" When you saw that Jacob Hester (of all people) went higher in the draft than White Jesus, did you get really confused? Of course you did. Who wouldn't? Well, now we know WHY. Because Hootie badmouthed him to all of the NFL scouts, calling him a cancer in the locker room. All of this, of course, is because Peyton was one of the only players on the team to call out Hootie for being the conniving piece of shit that he is. Not only that, but it turns out that he has a HISTORY of sabotaging our draft-eligible players. Hootie is to college football what this psychotic Christian is to women's rights. I hope he ignores every street sign in Oxford and gets run over by a fucking bus. And then I hope his dirty 2x4-weilding cunt of a wife gets a really crappy memorial after his death. (Oh, and I also hope that a mad scientist creates an airborne virus that goes around the world annihilating all 300-lb bull dykes.)

But luckily, we aren't the only football team suffering. The three schools in the SEC that most closely resemble juvenile halls / adult literacy programs / venereal disease clinics are LSU, Florida, and Tennessee. None have moral, academic, or hygiene standards and all have parlayed that lack of scruples into illegal football success at some point or another. And now, glory be, 2 of them are getting a small modicum of comeuppance. LSU's Ryan Perilloux has been kicked off the team for failing a drug test (along with myriad other crimes that were overlooked by Les Miles, because he's a corrupt shithead). And then there's Florida's Jamar Hornsby, who decided to mourn the death of a friend by stealing her credit cards and racking up hundreds of dollars in debt. If he had done it while snorting crystal methamphetamine and wearing jorts, Gator fans would probably have already built him a fucking statue. (In an interview with the Daily Mississippian, Hootie was quoted as saying he likes the cut of Hornsby's jib, and would be willing to let him transfer…)

Whoa. Man. That email was nothing but piss and vinegar. Surely if we Razorback fans are going to see the success we're hoping for in 2008, we have to keep our thoughts a little more positive than that. Here's a SUREFIRE WAY TO GET THAT DONE.

Everybody loves pandas. Even 2-Live Crew. Even psychotic Christians. But not Hootie. Hootie hates pandas.

50-48
Fuck Texas
WPS

PS—The baseball team has been up and down lately, but they are clearly getting better. The freshman in particular are finding their legs, and so even though we still appear doomed this season. The future looks bright.

Oh, and PPS!—I found Chet's illegitimate daughter! She's ADORABLE! Congratulations, Chet!

50-48 #30: GOD (john mcdonell) IS DEAD (retiring)

(Originally published 4/27/08)

50-48 #30: GOD (john mcdonell) IS DEAD (retiring)

Saddle up, sluts. Another hard-hitting edition of 50-48 is coming at you with the power of love, baby. (With the notable exception of those 50-48 members who were text-messaging me from the friendly confines of Beautiful Baum Stadium this week, rubbing it in that they were enjoying a Razorback baseball game in the warm Northwest Arkansas sunshine while I was huddled and alone in my dark, cavernous apartment as a rain storm poured down outside. You guys totally suck.)

But, fitting a life such as mine—a life where the protagonist crouches in a corner and gently weeps into a sofa cushion while his friends are living it up with the Diamond Hogs (question: where were you last night around 3 am, when I was watching Steel Magnolias and crying my eyes out?)—we must begin this week with tragedy. John McDonnell announced his retirement this week, bringing to a close the greatest coaching dynasty in the history of organized sports. His move comes as an even greater blow to those 50-48ers from southwestern Louisiana, as McDonnell was not only a Hog, but a proud Ragin Cajun alum. He is not mortal. He is a god. No, no, no. I take that back. He's much better than God. I defy you to go look in that monstrous mish-mash of morality tales, genealogy charts, and fairy stories that most call the bible, and try to find me 42 national championships. Won't happen. In fact, now that I think about it, God is probably quaking in his holy glowing boots about John McDonnell's retirement, because that just means he's that much closer to death. And when John McDonnell dies, he's going to go up to heaven, start a track team, and dominate the celestial racing world with a dominance not seen since the Archangel Gabriel tore his Achilles tendon in that big meet against Mount Olympus. There was great weeping amongst the heavenly hosts that day, I can tell you. (That was, incidentally, the same track meet where God tried to get Lucifer to run the 200 meter hurdles, but Lucifer bowed out, arguing that he was a "musician," and thus found athletics passé. Later, two of the trumpeters in God's Marching Band found him making out with that whore Aphrodite behind the bleachers of eternal light. "It's not the musician thing," God told him. "It's the Aphrodite thing. Don't get me wrong. When you described yourself as a musician, I just assumed you were a homo. So the making-out I like. But you never sleep with the enemy." According to some biblical scholars, this incident caused the original rift that would ultimately lead to Lucifer's expulsion from heaven.)

And so John McDonnell leaves us better for the experience. You can see a transcript of his press conference HERE. For more McDonnellalia, see here, here, and here. He will be staying in Fayetteville, so if any of you in Northwest Arkansas see him around town, thank him. Buy him a beer, then send me the bill. No one will ever duplicate what he has done. He is the most successful coach in the history of sports, statistically, and we are all better for having lived at least for a time in the shadow of his dynasty.

Of course, there are certain people on this list who, if they DID see John McDonnell at their local convenience store or Wal-Mart, would instead begin immediately sending braggadocious text messages in an effort to spur my jealousy. And it would work. It would be almost as if I were a human piñata, and my coworkers took to beating me in the hopes that delicious chocolaty candies would explode from my guts with the proper blow. Hmm…

But now on to more pleasant news! The Hogs had two first round picks in the NFL draft yesterday! Darren McFadden went to the Oakland Raiders and Felix Jones went to the Dallas Cowboys, and though both of those teams make me want to puke, there are aggregate ancillary benefits that will ultimately affect the situation on Frank Broyles Field at Donald W. Reynolds Razorback Stadium. (Good lord, that's a mouthful.) Oakland is a place where talent goes to die, and Darren's trip to the Bay Area makes me very afraid that he will fall into the black hole that is San Francisco's ugly, gonorrheal, little cousin. BUT! He did go at pick 4. He was widely considered the best talent in the draft. And those facts can only help recruiting down the road. Meanwhile, Felix was taken by Hog alum Jerry Jones and his Dallas Cowboys. Again, Dallas is the asshole of the North American continent. It is the second-worst place on earth, just behind the Austin campus of the University of Texas and just ahead of Osama Bin Laden's cave. BUT! It is close to Arkansas and Louisiana, and thus we as fans have a great opportunity to see him play live. (And frankly, his pick helps recruiting, as well. Not only will potential Hogs know that even as a backup running back they can go in the first round if they come to Arkansas, but they will also have it seared into their skulls that the crazy redneck who owns the Cowboys is a Uark grad, and therefore predisposed to give them an inordinately reasonable shot at making a professional roster after their college careers are complete.)

Today, more players will be drafted. Marcus Harrison should be a third round lock. Robert Felton shouldn't last much longer. In the later rounds, we can only hope that some visionary general manager will give Peyton Hillis and Marcus Monk a chance. You can keep up with the Hogs' draft-eligible players HERE.

And so all that is totally rad. But the radness was ratcheted up a few notches after Darren and Felix fled for the NFL. The Arkansas Spring Game was last night! And the game was televised in Lafayette! And so, since I was able to watch the scrimmage in stunning high definition, I now have expert analysis for you: WE ARE GOING TO FREAKING RULE (as soon as Casey Dick graduates). The new offense looked great last night, as passing (surprise, surprise) was used to set up the run. And that, despite the proclamations of Hootie and his minions, only made the running game that much more effective. Michael Smith averaged more than six yards per carry in his forty some-odd carries last year, and he looks every bit capable of becoming a 20-carry back in the fall. Also, Brandon Barnett looked incredibly promising.

(Parenthetically, let me just add that a few years ago, I watched Brandon Barnett play in the Arkansas High School All-Star Game with another 50-48 member. He was the running back for one team, Darren McFadden was the running back for the other. Both of us left that game more impressed with Barnett than with McFadden. He won the game's MVP award and made all those other players look like children. He will start the season behind Michael Smith on the depth chart, and rightly so, but Felix was behind Darren on the depth chart, too. Barnett and Smith will thrive in an offense where there is actually a pass threat. Our running back situation will necessarily drop off some—it isn't every day that you lose two backs to the NFL draft's first round—but Smith and Barnett will keep us in capable hands.)

Unfortunately, Casey Dick is still Casey Dick, and his brother doesn't look much better. (Also unfortunately, London Crawford still catches like Featherstone from Necessary Roughness.) Still, even with Casey's problems, he still went 33 for 49 with 404 yards. If that isn't the best advertisement for Coach Petrino's offense, I don't know what is. We are in incredibly capable hands. Watching the boys go at it last night should remind us all that is really is a beautiful life. (Also, while I'm at it, let me just say that all that she wants is another baby. And I saw the sign.)

Why Ace of Base? Here's a better question: Why not Ace of Base? The Berggren girls, straight of Gothenburg, Sweden, were lovely creatures. Though coming from Sweden, they gave us a truly American message: Manifest Destiny, progress, development. Was it not they who told us, "Don't turn around?"

We will heed your advice, dear Ace of Base. We will move forward, and we will not turn around. We will seize upon your message to find our own manifest destiny. Our football team won't turn around to see the wake of Hootie's disaster. Our draft picks won't turn around to see the womanly, incapable NFL defenders they leave in the dust. John McDonnell won't turn around in his quest to overthrow God and take over heaven using nothing but track knowledge. Eventually the contest will devolve into John McDonnell and God giving up their teams and just running races against each other. God will excel in the shotput and javelin throws, naturally. But John McDonnell (ever the fan of pretty Swedish singers) won't turn around to see the point discrepancy in field events. He will remain confident, make up points in the middle distance races, then take the overall title to the cheers of a crowd who has been won over by the Razorback emblem he wears on his mythical, shining uniform. "God is dead," they will say. "Long live God."

Long live God, indeed. Coach McDonnell, Darren, and Felix have all done wonderful things for us. And we are greatly appreciative. But we won't turn around. Coach Petrino and Jeff Long will remind us that there are other things to look forward to.

50-48

Fuck Texas

WPS

[PS—The basketball team lost Coffeyville recruit Daniel Payne. And the Diamond Hogs won both ends of a doubleheader against Ole Miss on Saturday, giving them a series victory against the Fighting Hooties for the first time in 5 years. Let's all hope that Hootie was there, and Dave Van Horn gave him the finger, or punched him in the gut, or fucked his wife.]

50-48 #29: ONTOGENY RECAPITULATES PHYLOGENY

(Originally published 4/20/08)

50-48 #29: ONTOGENY RECAPITULATES PHYLOGENY, OR, FIFTEEN THINGS I KNOW FOR CERTAIN

Here's some things I know for certain:

1) Any pope with a German accent is inexorably creepy to historians of the twentieth century.
2) f(x)wx + g(y)wy = h1(x) + h2(y).
3) Marriage isn't for everyone.
4) Hootie is a bad parent.
5) My baby takes the morning train.
6) She seems to have an invisible touch.
7) My narrative thread is breaking down.

Jeez, Louise! Even simple lists are slippery slopes for the addled and those without championships. It has been a sometimes maddening, sometimes gloriously fulfilling journey since lo those many years ago I watched our indoor track-and-field team hoist the national championship trophy. But even though time machines do exist, we cannot return to those glory days. It is up to us, as fans, to bring them back. We are the answer to the chicken-and-egg riddle. Success starts and stops with our unerring devotion. Our diligence removed Hootie and Heath. Our diligence provided The Hill with Jeff Long and Coach Petrino. Our diligence can do more, if only we remain hyper-aware of the pending dangers lurking around every corner. And danger is always afoot.

What is that you say? You want an example? How's about this: Yesterday, with the score tied 4-4 in the bottom of the tenth inning, the Diamond Hogs' Bret Eibner hit a two-out popup to the opposing shortstop. Meanwhile, Fayetteville High's own Ben Tschepikow began running from first base, and by the time the Tennessee Volunteer shortstop dropped the relatively routine ball (blinded, most probably, by the prisoner-orange his mother was wearing in the stands, or perhaps the dark memories of his probably-criminal past), Tschepikow had scored to win the game. Diligence, motherfuckers, diligence.

8) And speaking of diligence, here's something else I know for certain:

Despite the Victorian braggadocio of biologist of Ernst Haeckel, ontogeny DOES NOT recapitulate phylogeny. I know, I know. It came as a shock to me, too. Under Haeckel's embryological parallelism, every stage in the individual development of specific organisms serves as a representation of one of the previous forms that appeared at one time or another in its evolutionary history. But here in the cold light of the 21st century, we've tossed off the idea. Biologists today will tell you that though, sure, we were at one time tadpoles and fish or lizards or birds or monkeys, the embryonic development of human zygotes does not mimic the various evolutionary stages of the great sapiens journey from the primordial ooze to the information superhighway. "That might sound convenient," they will say, "but convenient doesn't make it true. That's what you get for trusting Germans. Whether it's science or religion, Germanness is a de facto state of creepyocity." [That's G = (df)c.]

And, of course, sports too has its version of ontogeny recapitulates phyogeny. Luther Halsey Gulick, Jr., was one of the principal leaders of the YMCA movement. He was an advocate of the "strenuous life" who argued for what he called "muscular Christianity": Spiritual life, he argued, rests on the equal development of the mind and the body. Gulick was a leader in the Boy Scouts movement (yes, they still hated homos back then), and, along with his wife, he cofounded the American Campfire Girls (ironically, a venerable bastion of female "experimentation").

In the 1890s, Gulick teamed with the psychologist G. Stanley Hall to develop an evolutionary theory of play. Humans, they argued, had developed an impulse to play during evolution. Everyone mimicked the broader stages of human evolution in every phase of their lives. In early childhood, play activities were kicking and squirming for infants—running and throwing when the child got a bit older. These actions corresponded to the play of our primal ancestors. Between ages 7-12, the track, field, and tag games of children corresponded to the hunting instinct and individualistic actions acquired during the pre-savage stage of human development. Then, older boys develop complex group games like baseball, basketball, and football, which essentially act as a combination of that earlier hunting instinct and a new instinct of cooperation, corresponding to the savage development where natives hunted in groups and subordinated their will to the leadership of a chief. And so, they argued, each person is recapitulating the history of humanity through sports, and thus organized sports is essential to proper physical, moral, and neural growth. Since team sports required teamwork, self-sacrifice, obedience to a leader, and loyalty, they were an unparalleled opportunity for human development—for shaping our own amero-christian evolution. "These qualities appear to me," said Gulick, "to be a great pulse of beginning altruism, of self-sacrifice, of that capacity upon which Christianity is based."

All of this is to say that our own evolution as Razorbacks need not recapitulate our past evolutionary progression. We have broken the bonds of biogenetic law and we have effectively pissed on the graves of Gulick and Hall. There is no reason to believe that we will see the seeds of our infancy in the development of a brighter future. The basketball team has lost many seniors and will be gaining many better players in their place. The football team has lost the greatest cancer ever to infect human sportdom, parallel only to AIDS in South Africa or gun-rape in Darfur—Hootie and his dirty bitch wife—and we have gained Coach Petrino in his place. We recapitulate nothing. We are born anew.

And the newness of our birth is being demonstrated daily on the practice fields outside of Donald W. Reynolds Razorback Stadium, as Coach Petrino is working the ever-living shit out of our players in an effort to sweat the remaining Hootie right out of them. Next Saturday, April 26, the results of that work will be on display in the aforementioned Razorback Stadium. I write today hoping to convince all of you to attend. Nebraska settled for the inordinately inept Bo Pelini as their new head coach, and they have sold out their stadium for the team's Spring Game. Similar schools have done the same. We don't need to fill every seat, but we need to fill the entire lower level. We need massive attendance, because massive attendance will be a towering middle finger to the wags at Disneysport who still abide by the outdated ontogeny/phylogeny paradigm in sports. So attend, goddamnit, attend! I will be watching from Razorzone and will have a full report next week.

Oh, and before I go, here's a few other things I know for certain:

9) Italians have the potential to shoot laser beams from their eyes.
10) ab2x4 + bx3 + cx2 + dx + ad2 = 0
11) 300-lb Little Rock bull dykes still haunt your dreams, even after you have moved to south Louisiana.
12) Mary is buggin.

13) 50-48
14) Fuck Texas
15) WPS

50-48 #28: A BRIEF RESPONSE TO MESSR JENSEN, FULL AS HE IS OF THE COCKSURE GRACE OF YOUTH

(Originally published 4/6/08, in response to this email from Geoffrey Jensen:

It's true. I don't have a Ferrari. I do have a Ford Mustang tho--you know, from a company that was fond of turning water hoses, and god knows what else, lose on hungry, out of work, laborers; yeah that company. It is also true that I, like most of you, have no idea what Thomas is really saying. Much like Woody Harrelson's character from White men can't Jump, I only listen to Thomas, very rarely, if ever, can I hear him. I'm assured by those in the "know" (Thomas himself) that what he says is prophetic, and therefore, I listen on.

So here (sigh), on this digital piece of paper, I admit the obvious, Thomas was lucky as hell. Lucky that Notre Dame Basketball did its best Notre Dame Football impersonation and choked away a golden (nice play on words, eh?) chance to thrash WSU, IU (stop laughing, it could happen. I'll put it like this, did you know that Knight Rider is back? If they can bring this show back, again; then yes, Virginia, Notre Dame could have won the National Championship in Basketball), and ultimately "BBQ" (my nickname for the Memphis Tigers).

So glory and this year's Bracket Challenge Trophy goes to Thomas (We need some sort of Trophy; maybe an upside down "hook 'em horns" hat?).

And yes, I am mad as hell that he has a Ferrari.

GJ)

50-48 #28: A BRIEF RESPONSE TO MESSR JENSEN, FULL AS HE IS OF THE COCKSURE GRACE OF YOUTH

You see folks? That's what I'm talking about. In the now-immortal words of Saul of Tarsus, beset as he was by the blinding light of God on the dusty road to Damascus, "It takes a big man to admit he's a small man."

In keeping with the full brunt of this metaphor, I will now declare myself God. Jensen gets to be Saul, which isn't a bad runner-up prize, since Saul, nee Paul, gets WAY more action in that New Testament than God could ever hope for. (Yes, I know I dangled a participle. Shut it.)

Though I must say I'm a bit discouraged that the divine message isn't getting through. While I appreciate that my apostles are taking the prophecy on faith, I--like those prophets who have come before me (David Koresh, Charles Manson, Doris Day, et al.)--wish it was sinking in a bit better. Pretty soon I'm going to have to burn down my compound, or kill a houseful of beautiful people, or star in a series of light-hearted, romantic comedy romps.

So brace yourselves. If we aren't careful, we all might be in for a hegira of one form or another.

50-48
Fuck Texas
WPS

[AUTHOR'S NOTE, PARTICULARLY AIMED AT THOSE WHO DO NOT LIVE IN LAFAYETTE, LOUISIANA: No, I did not really get a Ferrari. That was part of what the art department would call the "picture plane." It was a contrivance to advance the magical fairy story that I concocted to demonstrate my dominance of Jensen. I did, however, manage to rent a choice Hyundai Elantra this weekend. Like a Ferrari, it has four wheels, a combustion engine, and a variety of doo-dads to keep a driver satisfactorily occupied. And chicks dig it. If you take nothing else away from this weekend's 50-48s, let it be this: Ladies love the Hyundai Elantra. It's like Old Spice and Oprah Winfrey all rolled into one.]

Good lord. How did I get from taunting Jensen to Oprah Winfrey? What route could I have possibly taken that would get me from THAT point A to THAT point B? Oh, wait. It was this one:

The Road Not Taken (Robert Frost, 1920)

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

50-48 #27: HOW CANDIDE WAS BROUGHT UP IN A MAGNIFICENT CASTLE AND HOW HE WAS DRIVEN THENCE

(Originally published 4/6/08)

50-48 #27: HOW CANDIDE WAS BROUGHT UP IN A MAGNIFICENT CASTLE AND HOW HE WAS DRIVEN THENCE

It is times like these when our awareness falters. When the cool spring afternoons breed lethargy in far nobler men than myself. That is why we must stay alert. Continue to test our awareness whenever possible. Since Razorback sports clearly won't save us, perhaps catlike reflexes can.

Hogball's game against North Carolina, which I so dutifully tried to affect with a brief dose of reverse psychology, didn't go so well. That, quite possibly, was to be expected. But all is not lost on the basketball front! Your faithful chronicler guessed (predicted) 3 of the Final Four teams in the NCAA tournament, and also was perhaps the only person in the country to correctly pick the final 2. My bracket was (and is) freaking immaculate, and if Tiger High comes through tomorrow night, it will be even more so. So forget the culture of moral leniency fostered by head coach John Calipari, forget the girlfriend beatings, and root, root, root for the Tigers! (Also, for those of you in Fayetteville: If it isn't too much trouble, please go find Geoff Jensen and remind him about the folly of his NCAA tournament picks, and the genius of mine. Say something snotty about Notre Dame. Mention that I'm handsome and debonair. Tell him I drive a Ferrari. He'll totally hate that.)

And so we wait for another season, hoping that Roetni Clark and the incoming freshmen can find the swagger that this bunch never could. Yes. I said swagger.

Man! Those All Blacks videos were awesome. But you know what might make them better? If a magical fairy came floating through the sky inside of a pink bubble, went down to New Zealand, and put a spell on them. She would give a brief discourse on the nature of goodness and badness in witches. She would probably talk briefly on the subject of introjection—a shift in identity based on a perceived need. Introjectors, she would dutifully note, take on the personality of friends, icons, or sports teams in order to recover from a suspected lack in themselves. She would cite Freud: (See "Mourning and Melancholia," in The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, vol. XIV (1914-1916), On the History of the Psycho-Analytic Movement, Papers on Metapsychology, and Other Works, ed. James Strachey (London: The Hogarth Press, 1957), 236-258.) I would probably make some comment about Freud being totally irrelevant in this the age of advanced neuro and cognitive sciences, at which point she would become totally nonplussed. She probably had a few belts before she even jumped in the fucking pink bubble to begin with, the lush. I would remind her of that time back in college when she slept with two (count them, Glenda! TWO!) guys in the same night, just because she got drunk after receiving a D+ on her term paper and she wanted to boost her self esteem. But did it, Glenda? Did it boost your self esteem? Or did it make everyone think you were a whore? You should have heard what Cindy said about you at the rave that next weekend, as we sat naked under the blacklight, watching a glowstick go back and forth, back and forth. What did she say? I'm not going to tell you what she said, Glenda. Because it would hurt your feelings. And I didn't tell you THEN because I knew it would hurt your feelings. So even though I saw you in the corner of the room, making out with the lightswitch, I didn't go over and relay the message. I wouldn't do that because I'm your FRIEND. And that's what friends do. You know, you've always been such a fucking fraud, Glenda. You ride over here in your pink bubble, making all sorts of I'm Better Than You eyes at my Ferrari. (Yes, yes. I know, Glenda. My Ferrari is still way better than Geoff Jensen's car. Did you hear about his bracket? He had Notre Dame in the fucking Final Four! Yeah…yeah. You're right. He's totally my bitch.) At that point, Glenda would cut me off. She would start crying a little bit. Would apologize, as she always does after she's had a few belts in her and we get into an argument. Then we would hug, and maybe make out a little. We'd say it was just for old time's sake, but we'd know that wasn't true. There wouldn't be any ecstasy, oxycontin, crystal meth-amphetamine, or cocaine. There wouldn't be a giant canister of nitrus that we stole that one time from the dentist's office. She had long ago traded in that life for a pink bubble and a magic wand. I had long ago traded it in for mind-numbing brilliance in NCAA tournament prediction. We would pause, gather ourselves, and then she would do what she came to do in the first place: transform the All Blacks from a group of surely-chemically-enhanced group of malcontents into a plate of freaking cookies.

Ah, Glenda. She's a good witch. But she always did have a thing for animating food. If she stuck around long enough, I would ask her to try to use that wand to breathe a little life into the Diamond Hogs. At that point, however, she would just laugh. She would tell me that she had a better chance of de-gayifying homo unicorns. That she had a better chance of de-cuteifying pet mooses. (She always says "mooses" instead of "moose." It's one of those obvious affectations that only solipsistic good witches use. But I forgive her for it. One time, during our History of the Uselessness of Texas midterm, she looked over my shoulder to see my answer. I forgave her for that, too.) The sad fact of the matter is that the Diamond Hogs suck. After dropping the LSU series in front of my very eyes, the boys dropped a series to Vanderbilt, split with Centenary (Centenary!), and now will be struggling this afternoon to salvage a series win against lowly Auburn. They are the anti-crocodiles in the broader Paul Hogan paradigm. They are scared yellow circles, forever doomed to roam the earth, desperate to escape the clutches of a series of enemies.

And our enemies are out there, growing stronger. That is why awareness is so important, vigilance so necessary. Dare I say it? Perhaps FOOTBALL can save us? It feels weird to say that. Almost like the time that Glenda and I crushed up her brother's Rittlin and cut it with that No-Doz she stole from the truck stop…(Actually, I'm not going to tell that story.) Football took its first step toward saving us Saturday, when the boys practiced in full pads for the first time this spring. Coach Petrino is saying and doing all the right things. And I am growing to love him unconditionally.

I am a white person. And he is something I like.

As is Glenda. As are all of you.

(Even Jensen.)

50-48
Fuck Texas
WPS

PS--Yes, I know that was a weird one. And no, I have no idea why.

50-48 #26: ARKANSAS IS TO MYAGI-LIKE ZENISM AS NORTH CAROLINA IS TO COBRA FREAKING KAI

(Originally published 3/22/08)

50-48 #26: ARKANSAS IS TO MYAGI-LIKE ZENISM AS NORTH CAROLINA IS TO COBRA FREAKING KAI

Here, WATCH THIS.

Did you watch it? Or did you just keep reading, telling yourself that maybe if you had time later you would go back and watch it? Remember your Cyril Connoly: "A lazy person, whatever the talents with which he starts out, has condemned himself to second-rate thoughts, and to second-rate friends." For those of you who didn't watch it, go back up there, click the hyperlink, and watch it. For those of you who already clicked: CLICK AGAIN. But this time, dance around your apartment doing faux karate moves as the song plays. That is the kind of enthusiasm we are going to need if we are to pull the monumental upset tomorrow, knocking off #1 (and vastly overrated) North Carolina.

That is all I am going to say about that. For those of you living under a rock, the Hogs defeated Indiana last night, 86-72. But as much as I would like to wax for paragraphs about Darian's double-double or Sonny's 31 points, as much as I would like to tell you that though Gary Ervin was still Gary Ervin, he managed (with help) to shut down the nation's best point guard, I will not do it. Every time I brag about the basketball team, they immediately let us down. Every time I bitch about them, they somehow manage to pull one out of their asses. And so, instead of giving them the credit they so obviously deserve, I will say this: FUCK HOGBALL! The team is going to absolutely lay an egg against North Carolina. We have no chance. We are doomed. Little chicken! Little chicken! The sky is falling! Tomorrow will be the darkest day in Razorback history since a certain 300-lb bull dyke pressed "send" on her computer. We are all doomed. There is no god. We live in an existential abyss that is cold and meaningless, and sooner than later we will all die alone and naked and afraid. The flickering boxes that surround us and provide the meaning we so need every day—our computers, our radios, our televisions, our newspapers—are all lying to us, have always lied to us. Reality is nothing but a string of words, meaning is entirely constituent to language, and our words—our language—is failing us. Jean Baudrillard's analysis of the semiotics of media culture demonstrated how the grammar of the modern age leads to a simulated reality. Images have been over-represented, he argued, and therefore only refer to other representations. These images become referenced in response to signifiers, and representations that represent representations are not based in reality, thereby creating a false world of nothing but baseless symbols. We are the products of false products. We are all nothing. We are shibboleths. The Razorback basketball team, too, is a shibboleth—a representation of a representation of a representation of the 1994 championship team, lying with its uniforms and candor that it too can give us that kind of meaning and release. It is all a lie. Life is nothing but creative death.

Wow. That paragraph was disturbingly easy to write. I'm going to shake it off by watching that first hyperlink. What? You want to do that, too, but you don't want to scroll all the way back to the top? No problem. CLICK YET AGAIN. Besides, there is no argument I can make here for Arkansas's possible success that the song in that hyperlink can't make for me.

Want to try a different song? How about this new interpretation of Hey Jude? Still not good enough? How about a super karate monkey?

Instead of focusing on our basketball success, allow me a moment to ruminate on our baseball failure. The team isn't very good this year, unfortunately. Even my presence at the LSU game last night couldn't prevent a walk-off homerun in the bottom of the eleventh inning. But the game itself was really fun. (As I mentioned, it ended on a walk-off homerun in the eleventh inning.) My seats were poor, but they were in the same section as the Hog players' families, so there were a few other Razorback fans around. I made the ass of myself that all of you have come to expect, berating blue as well as the LSU fans sitting around me. And since my traveling party last night included a youngster, I didn't even work blue. [There were, of course, some exceptions. I was forced to verbally berate a fraternity brother of one sort or another when he yelled "Who cares?" after I shouted to the crowd the final score of the Indiana-Arkansas game. Lucky enough for me, he was an LSU fan, which makes him a monumental pussy. (The Abercrombie and Fitch shirt was a dead giveaway.)] The game was really fun, and as it was at the basketball game, the LSU fans around me were really nice and laughed at all of my jokes. I'll be back on Sunday morning (which is the reason for the early email this week) to see the Diamond Hogs try to recover.

Wait, you might be asking yourself, why isn't he going to the game today? Good question. Today I have a prior engagement, as the by-god #1 Boston Celtics are rolling into New Orleans to take on the #2 Hornets. I will be attending my first NBA game since the early 1990s with a sold-out crowd in the Crescent City. I assure you all that had these tickets not come my way before the college baseball season, I would be back at Alex Box again today. But this was just too good to pass up. And so the 50-48 sports tour continues. (Before the end of the summer, 50-48 will also have updates from Shea and Yankee Stadiums, Wrigley Field, and, quite possibly, Minute Maid Park in Houston.)

But as I close, remember: tomorrow at around 4:15 the Hogs WILL BE MASSACRED by the Tarheels of North Carolina. There will be blood, as there always is in situations such as these. Like the noted serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer, Ty Lawson and Tyler Hansbrough will carve us up, eat us, then save the leftovers in the freezer. They will wear coke-bottle glasses. They will eventually be killed in prison, but by that point the Razorbacks will already be dead. WE HAVE NO CHANCE TO WIN. WE ARE DOOMED. WE ARE DYING AND DYING AND DYING.

Hogball is dead. Long live Hogball.

50-48
Fuck Texas
WPS

[PS—Remember, I cannot pump you up for the Arkansas game because of the cosmical weather surrounding my entry into these verbal frays. I cannot emphasize this enough: LET JOE ESPOSITO DO IT FOR YOU.]

50-48 #25: EMERGENCY UPDATE: FUCK YOU, GANDHI

(Originally published 3/16/08)

50-48 #25: EMERGENCY UPDATE: FUCK YOU, GANDHI

Mahatma Gandhi once argued that "it is health that is real wealth, and not pieces of gold and silver." That is no consolation to us today, here on the 25th silver anniversary of 50-48. We should be celebrating this shimmering anniversary with an SEC basketball championship and a 6 seed. Instead, our chronically disappointing Razorbacks have sunk to a 9 seed, where they will be ousted easily in the first round by Indiana. Even on the miraculous, Jesus-comes-back-to-earth chance that the Hogs pulled a bizarre upset versus Indiana, they would follow that up by playing North Carolina, the tournament's #1 overall seed. Thus the season comes to a destructive, horrible end yet again. My eventual brain tumor says thanks, Hogs.

50-48
Fuck Texas
WPS

50-48 #24: THE STATE OF TENNESSEE—ITS ROLLING HILLS, ITS GOOD-NATURED IF SOMEWHAT TRASHY CITIZENS, ITS URBAN SPRAWL, ITS FLORA AND FAUNA—NOW BELONGS T

(Originally published 3/16/08)

50-48 #24: THE STATE OF TENNESSEE—ITS ROLLING HILLS, ITS GOOD-NATURED IF SOMEWHAT TRASHY CITIZENS, ITS URBAN SPRAWL, ITS FLORA AND FAUNA—NOW BELONGS TO US. THEY ARE OUR BITCHES, AND WE ARE THE BRASH MOTHERFUCKERS WHO BITCHIFIED THEM.

"Confront the dark parts of yourself, and work to banish them with illumination and forgiveness. Your willingness to wrestle with your demons will cause your angels to sing. Use the pain as fuel, as a reminder of your strength."

Though August Wilson died in 2005,—succumbing as he did to the harsh judge of liver cancer, drowning as he was in the excess plays and effluvia he was never able to finish—his ghost managed to escape the purgatory of playwrights all kinds—past the sullen Harold Pinter and the mumbling Arthur Miller, the regret still showing on what was left of his face—and arrive back on earth. He took Interstate 30. (He was coming, of course, from Texas; everyone who isn't good enough to go to heaven is immediately sent somewhere in Texas, with serial killers, child molesters, members of any university's "communications" department being sent straight to Austin to experience hell without the patient torture of a waiting-room experience.) He took 40 at North Little Rock, then 540 just before Fort Smith. He took exit 63, Razorback Road, then traveled past Baum Stadium, that shiny new Chic-Fil-A, and the new park and tailgating facility. He marched into Bud Walton Arena, looked Darian Townes and Charles Thomas in the eyes. Darian told Charles that he was nervous. Charles understood. He said, "Maybe that's because each of us has an unlicensed nuclear accelerator on his back." Darian nodded in agreement before Wilson bored the above quote into their brains, searing it into the parts of their brains that no amount of pot, illicit sex, DUI charges, or anything else could touch. And then he slimed them.

The now-dead August Wilson is a mischievous ghost.

But his slime, apparently, was the marinade that sealed those words into the brains of the boys, as the basketball team has played like a group possessed. On Friday, they took down the by-god #14 Vanderbilt Commodores, rich and privileged fucks that they are. I regret to say that I did not see the game. Instead, I was at a stupid history conference, talking to stupid history people about stupid history things, while three short states away the Hogs were vanquishing the second-best three-point shooter in the league and the sure-fire SEC player of the year. Instead, I followed the game at various points on a hotel lobby computer and a borrowed cellular telephone. Still, though the victory was lived vicariously, it was victory nonetheless. We defeated the Dores for the second time this season, and this time we didn't even need the fumbling chronic-masturbator Ross Neltner to seal the deal for us. The conference faded away like a bad dream. Beautiful cardinal and white rose in its place. We were headed to the semifinals.

Still, though Vanderbilt fell to defeat and the conference, stupid as it may have been, went well, I was still left without any confidence for semifinal round against Tennessee. They didn't just beat us last month. They laid a good-ole-fashioned Southern ass-whipping on us, winning by 20 and never really breaking a sweat. It was to my mind our worst loss of the season, because we looked so sincerely less able than them. Less talented. Less everything. And so when I fired up my Yahoo Raycom internet service yesterday, I wasn't expecting much. But I was hoping, ever hoping.

And then it happened. Steven Hill, who has been the victim of ridicule for his lack of strength, lack of offensive production, and lack (at times) of effort ever since escaping that cesspool of Branson, made a strong catch under the basket, a relatively decent offensive move on his defender, and ultimately, the shot that won the Hogs the game. They were his only points of the game. In a postgame interview, Hill referred to himself as an underutilized offensive weapon and began calling for more touches. 50-48 always approves of self-deprecating humor. Charles Thomas and Darian Townes celebrated justly. They were named 50-48's co-MVPs and will soon receive a large cardboard check and tiara. Thomas had 24 points, 10 rebounds, 2 assists, 2 steals, and a block in only 28 minutes of play. Townes had 16, 3, 2, 1, and 1 in only 21 minutes of play.

Let this sink in for a moment: The Hogs are back in the SEC championship game. They have a senior-laden team who is obviously not ready to stop playing basketball anytime soon. They have a highly regarded recruiting class coming in next year. In the Tennessee game, Coach Pel got a technical for telling that blind asshole Doug Shows that he missed another in a series of calls against Tennessee. He told JaJuan Smith, star Volunteer guard, to "shut the fuck up." 50-48 is not yet ready to predict the return of Hogball to national prominence, but its author is pretty confident that we're going to be seeing it sometime soon.

And, of course, winning today will do wonders toward paying off on that notion. In the second game of the night, surprise Cinderella team Georgia beat West #1 Mississippi State to move to the championship game. The Dogs actually played TWO games yesterday because of the much publicized weather problems in Atlanta that partially tore the roof of the Georgia Dome and postponed their quarterfinal match with Kentucky. (We are, for those of you living under a rock, playing the remainder of the tournament on the campus of Georgia Tech, former SEC member who pussied out early in last century's second half.) Georgia has been playing well, and like us, it is probably due to senior leadership. Dave Bliss and Sundiata Gaines have been playing basketball at Georgia ever since James Oglethorpe decided that the area looked like a nice place for a prison colony. This is their last run, and they are doing their best to take advantage of it. Making matters more difficult for us, they both seem like really nice guys—people for whom you might otherwise root.

But today is not a day for otherwise. At 2:30, on ESPN 2, the Razorbacks will play Georgia for the SEC Tournament title and an automatic bid into the NCAA tournament. The bids will be handed out later today at 5:00. [EDITOR'S NOTE: Expect another 50-48 later tonight providing emergency updates on these crucial goings-on.]

Wow. This is all too much for my poor, malfunctioning heart to take. We looked really, really good yesterday against a really good team. It was like poetry. It was like the first time you discovered T.R. Hummer and realized that poetry was more than pretentious jerk-offs jerking off on paper. That it could be beautiful. That it could make words into a symphony. The Hogs are providing the hard sheen and butterflies of those wonderful moments again. We are returning, and that might be even better than never having left at all.

Let me now briefly turn to the other news of the day. NCAA and SEC officials read their 50-48s diligently last week, just as I am sure all of you did. And based on the information I provided, they did the only just thing and named Aaron Murphuree player of the week. His largesse, however, did not carry the boys home through the wilds of Arizona, as the #1 Arizona State Sun Devils topped the Diamond Hogs 7-6 and 7-4. I will not provide links. You don't want to read them. This weekend, Georgia is in town and we have split the two games played so far. Yesterday's loss, however, was particularly calamitous, as we gave up a 9 run lead to lose 14-11. We have young players. It's early in the season. But surely there are no mitigating factors that can make this acceptable. Never fear. Dave Van Horn is probably sacrificing a live goat somewhere to ensure this will never happen again. He does what needs to be done to succeed. And I have total faith in him. (I would have less faith, of course, were I a goat.)

And finally, in football/gymnastics news, Mitch Mustain and Damien Williams attended the Arkansas/UCLA gymnastics meet last weekend, sporting Hog gear and rooting for the old alma mater. This is, along with the Tennessee victory, the best news of the week. God love those boys. When they are on the field this season, I will gladly shout, "Fight on!" (Well, maybe not shout. I'll whisper it. In the privacy of my own home. Under a blanket.)

But in the "keeping our eyes on the prize" category, let me return us finally to basketball. The SEC tournament has not been the colossal disappointment that it very well could have been. Instead, we have a chance to avenge an early season loss and win a championship to boot. We have a chance to send our seniors out on a glorious high note. We have a chance to give Billy Clyde Gillispie a big fuck you. And—most importantly—we have a chance to wrestle with our demons and cause our angels to sing. It's the reason we play. It can save us.

August Wilson also wrote, "It ain't nothing to find no starting place in the world. You just start from where you find yourself." Today we find ourselves on the precipice of a championship. We will start from where we find ourselves. And we will win.

50-48
Fuck Texas
WPS


[AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry about the lack of funny hyperlinks this week. But we have business to attend to today, and I am in fucking business mode. I feel championship. Can taste championship. And I am having trouble thinking about anything else. Go hogs go.]

50-48 #23: THUS SPAKE 50-48

(Originally published 3/9/08)

50-48 #23: THUS SPAKE 50-48

"All beings so far have created something beyond themselves," wrote Friedrich Nietzsche, somewhere in the depths of the cold, cold winter of 1882. "And do you want to be the ebb of this great flood and even go back to the beasts rather than overcome man? What is the ape to man? A laughingstock or a painful embarrassment. And man shall be just that for the Übermensch: a laughingstock or a painful embarrassment…" Well, against the best guesses of many a philo major, flush as they certainly are with stringy beards, a habit for nicotine, and the virginity of Dulcinea, Zarathustra turns out to be correct. Übermensch has descended. We have seen the next step in a Lamarckian version of human evolution, and we have become joyously lesser in comparison. This doesn't portend doom. It isn't a dark day. Rather it is like looking up at the stars in the clear night sky, or looking down on the earth from the comfort and temperature regulation of an American airplane. You realize your smallness, your insignificance, but the fact gives you comfort, wraps you in a dark blanket of downy meaninglessness, and whisks you away to sleep like your mother's best nursery rhymes.

Who is this Übermensch? you might be asking. And what the fuck do I care, as I am devoid of stringy beard and virginity? I spent my youth beating up philo majors, you might be thinking, not listening to them. Well, #1) 50-48 applauds your moxie. #2) The Übermensch turns out to be a Razorback!

[AUTHOR'S NOTE: No offense, Pete, on the philo major thing. And no offense, Chet, on the virgin thing.]

On Friday, the Razorback baseball team defeated Sienna 14-5 in the cold air of a Fayetteville afternoon. Hog Senior Aaron Murphree used the occasion to take out all of his frustrations for being picked on in elementary school, for being turned down by the captain of the cheerleading squad, and for failing that junior college math test that he could have passed had he just tried a little harder. He hit 3 homeruns, giving him ten for the ten-game season. His third cleared the god damned batter's eye in centerfield, measuring 485 feet.

On Saturday, he hit another one, giving him 11 in 11 games. He has hit a homerun in his last 5 games. His feats are unprecedented in the annals of Razorback baseball. Thus the Übermensch jive. Thus the misprojection of Jean-Baptiste Lamarck.

[And in this day and age of technological enhancement, the author feels it incumbent upon him to defend Murphree's virtue, though he has no specific proof. Remember, four short years ago, our season was semi-derailed when steroids came to the Baum locker room. I choose to believe that the former controversy has created an atmosphere of paranoia and disgust when it comes to chemical enhancement. It isn't like the players are implanting cellular telephones that run on blood in their arms, or anything like that. That would be crazy.]

And so the baseball team is 10-1 going into today's game, and will be taking on the by-god #1 Arizona State Sun Devils on Tuesday night. Fear not. We are ripe for giant-killing. Still, complacency is the tool of the devil. We must remain ever-vigilant on the long road to Omaha. We can think of our success so far as a cesium clock, slowly losing half a second every 30 million years. That seems pretty good, but science says NOPE. Loss is a loss is a loss. We must kill the cesium clock within us, and carry on to an NCAA championship with the even greater precision of a Japanese mercury model, whatever that means.

[AUTHOR'S NOTE: Speaking of the Diamond Hogs, the media guide is online: CLICK HERE.]

It seems as though this is the best spot to make the transition to discussing the basketball team, but I just don't have the heart. We completely fucking sucked at Ole Miss, then looked like five flailing Übermenschs on Saturday against Auburn. Thinking about the basketball team makes my head hurt. So instead, I will tell say this: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CORNFLAKES! Even when Hogball disappoints, you can never have a bad week when one of your favorite foods has a birthday. (The above link will tell you all about the thrilling Gilded Age tale of the genesis of cornflakes, but for a far more colorful rendition, see T. Coraghessan Boyle's The Road to Wellville.)

Let's see...How else can I take up basketball space without talking about the basketball team? How about this ballad dedicated to men's undergarments? How about this kitty cat cartoon? How about the comic semiotic reinterpretations of real life terrorism warning signs?

Those are all good. But instead, I think I'll introduce you to the new official house music of 50-48. Tegan and Sara are the best Canadian identical twin pop duo since Sonny and Cher. [AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sonny and Cher might not have been identical twins. They also might not have been from Canada. I have no way to verify this information either way.] Here's one of their SONGS. Here's their MYSPACE page, which plays more of their songs. Feel free to send emails of thanks, but as a blanket response, allow me to say this: YOU'RE FUCKING WELCOME.

Before I abandon this week's email, giddy with excitement that before this day is over I will, in fact, have eaten homemade sloppy joes, it's important to bring up a few football facts: #1) The Hogs-Aggies series is now officially official, as first reported here at 50-48. #2) Football video game advertising culture is funny. #3) Emmitt Smith is still a dumbass.

Next week, 50-48 will have exclusive coverage of the SEC basketball tournament. I am predicting either mind-blowing success or mind-numbing failure. Or both. That is to say, more than anything else, Hogball is definitive proof that Chaos Theory isn't the steaming pile of shit we sometimes make it out to be. 50-48 will also have exclusive coverage of the Diamond Hogs' upset of #1 Arizona State. It will have exclusive coverage of sloppy joes. It will have exclusive coverage of our own glowing Übermensch and the evolutionary declension of everyone else in the face of his Nietzschean prowess. Aaron Murphree will excel. We will recede. We will subsume our identities within his, living vicariously through his magnanimous capacity. We will tell ourselves that this is precisely what sports is for. That this is the sweet release of fandom. It is why we buy tickets, travel to games, spend money and money and money. We need Aaron Murphree. We are become Aaron Murphree. Only through our sublimation to his greatness can we ever expect to see the shining stars again, to see the world floating below us through the comfort and temperature regulation of an American airplane. He will wrap us in a dark blanket of downy meaninglessness, and there we will find comfort, even when the basketball team makes us want to jump headfirst into an electrical fire. He will whisk us away to sleep like our mother's best nursery rhymes. We will be small. And our smallness will make us big.

50-48
Fuck Texas
WPS

[EDITOR'S NOTE: "Exclusive," within the context of the 50-48 paradigm, should be understood to mean "mimicked" or "common" or "elementary," with the possible exception of its use in relation to sloppy joes.]