50-48 #41: IN THE MAGICAL UNIVERSE THERE ARE NO COINCIDENCES AND THERE ARE NO ACCIDENTS. NOTHING HAPPENS UNLESS SOMEONE WILLS IT TO HAPPEN

50-48 #41: IN THE MAGICAL UNIVERSE THERE ARE NO COINCIDENCES AND THERE ARE NO ACCIDENTS. NOTHING HAPPENS UNLESS SOMEONE WILLS IT TO HAPPEN

WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT FIRST GAME ALL ABOUT?!?!?!?!?

Wait. Don’t type angry. Never type angry. Remember your therapy. Take the blue pill. No, no. The darker blue. There, that’s better. Doesn’t that feel good? It’s like a million little centipedes crawling all over you. You see? Every time you touch the keys they light up like the sidewalk in the Billie Jean video. Wait, wait, wait. You’ve gone too far, pal. Stop making out with the light switch. Take a red pill. Maintain. Stay cool. Drink this. Okay, okay. IT BURNS! I know, I know. It’s okay. Tell yourself it’s fruit punch. 90% of life is telling yourself shit that isn’t true. While you’re at it, tell yourself that Salma Hayek loves you. She does you know. She totally loves you. And that time off the Mariana coast, she totally meant everything she said. Wait, wait, wait. Man! Put your clothes back on. Here, take the green pill. Stay within yourself. Be the ball. What cannot happen right now is that your typewriter somehow magically turns into a bug. CANNOT HAPPEN. Take this pink pill here. Isn’t that better? Nice healthy level. Nice healthy level.

Okay, so: (whisper) what the fuck was that first game all about?

There. That’s better.

Three turnovers?!?! The defense allows 157 rushing yards?!?! And 24 points?!?! We have to be bailed out by Casey Dick in the fourth quarter?!?! Against a 1-AA opponent?!?! You can find the complete depressing statistics HERE. We here at 50-48 recommend not clicking that link unless you ate uncooked chicken. It’s fucking sickening.

But alas, that is only part of the problem. The new Razorvision, nee Razorzone, completely botched the audio, leaving those of us out of earshot from an Arkansas radio station begging for information after the middle of the third quarter. The tireless members of the 50-48 Football Desk kept refreshing the ESPN gametracker every five seconds hoping and praying that a miracle would happen.

And, to their semi-chagrin, it did. Casey Dick actually played well. He showed poise in the fourth quarter, leading his team to a comeback victory, leading one to the conclusion that Casey is in much better hands with the Petrinos fondling his brainstem every day in practice. Still, when you shake the team’s performance in the great cosmic colander that is modern punditry, you’re left with the fact that the comeback, as stirring as it was, and the passing yards, as joyful as they may have made you, came against a 1-AA opponent. Meanwhile, LSU was thrashing a MUCH BETTER 1-AA opponent. Perspective’s a bitch. I’m going to take another pill.

Oh, hey there unicorns. Sure, I’ll come to candy mountain. That’s an awesome liopleurodon. Can I pet it? Oh, my god! It bit off my hand! No! Why didn’t I heed the advice of my local paleontologist!? NEVER try to pet a carnivorous marine dinosaur from the Callovian stage of the Middle Jurassic Period! Damnit! Now how am I going to type the rest of this?!?!

Wait. It’s okay. It’s all in your head. Take one of these purple pills. There. That’s better. Both hands in tact.

As if the Razorbacks’ poor play and Razorvision’s duct-tape-and-paper-clip approach to modern internet audio weren’t bad enough in the vacuum that is the cloister of my disgusting hovel of an apartment, their combined shitty performance had far greater effects. The force of sucking emanating from Fayetteville last Saturday brought a giant hurricane from a trajectory that I can only assume was aimed at the large mound of dirt below Texas, and instead brought it right up Interstate 49 in Louisiana, slamming it into 50-48 headquarters and forcing said headquarters to be evacuated to safer climbs in the northeastern part of the state.

There stood 50-48, a refugee. (Or, as the kids say, a Fugee.) It was strumming its pain with its fingers, singing its life with its words. Meanwhile, the Razorbacks’ butthole play was killing it softly with the fumbles and the shitty defense and the almost-losing.

Still, 50-48 remained optimistic in the face of danger. [I know, ladies. I know. Try not to swoon too broadly. 50-48 will not be liable for any injuries its readers sustain from fainting at demonstrations of its fundamental bravery. (Also, 50-48 reserves the right to refuse service to anyone. Also, no shirt, no shoes, no service. Also, bridge may ice in cold weather. Also, don’t rile the monkeys.)] 50-48 now knows that when it sees war-torn masses flooding the border of some third world country from darkest Albania or something like that, it can nod contemplatively and say, "I've been there." Then the swooning will commence all over again.

All of this is to say that hurricane season isn’t over. And if the Hogs flub the shot against the mighty Warhawks of NLU this weekend, another hurricane is probably destined to come our way. Ergo, the football players at the University of Arkansas hold the fate of a state in their hands. They can choose to compete at a legitimate 1-A, SEC level and spare the lives of millions, or they can let innocent people die. It’s a Faustian bargain, to be sure. IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT FOOTBALL TEAM?!?!? DO YOU WANT THE ENTIRE COASTAL POPULATION OF SOUTH LOUISIANA TO DIE?!?!? PLAY BETTER!!!!!! SAVE LIVES!!!!!!!

Whoa. Hang on, pal. Almost done. Have one of these yellow pills. Oh, man, that’s nice. Remember what Dr. Robinson said. Self-actualize. Pretend you’re back on the Mariana coast. Oh, yeah. And there’s Salma! Hi, Salma! I told everybody you meant what you said. They didn’t believe me. Wait, Salma! Don’t go! I can’t…Where’s the coast? What am I?

Oh, back in the cloister of my disgusting hovel of an apartment. Darn. Allow me to offer this brief summation, a conclusion that restates the thesis of the above: If the Razorbacks don’t play better this Saturday against NLU, I am going to become a bonafide drug addict and two million people will die at the hands of an angry god. In their place, liopleurodons will regenerate and roam the marshlands that once passed for arable territory. The United States Army will try to eradicate the beasts from the area, but will inevitably fail. Their anger at the onslaught will lead to a massive liopleurodon takeover of the entire country, as American humanity is eliminated as so much fodder for the screaming beast that is a run of the mill liopleurodon appetite. Right before I die—the morning meal of a particularly nasty beast nicknamed “Pokey,” for one reason or another—Salma Hayek will take back all those nice things she said to me on the Mariana coast. And after Pokey eats me, she’ll start making out with him.

The stakes are high. They lead this commentator to one final question: what the fuck will this second game be all about?

Or, to wit: WHAT THE FUCK WILL THIS SECOND GAME BE ALL ABOUT?!?!?!

Wait, one more question: Why is my typewriter moving? What!? What IS that? OH MY GOD!

50-48
Fuck Texas
WPS