50-48 #56: MIRACLE ON MARKHAM II: PROLEGOMENA TO A DISQUISITION ON THE NATURE OF DYNASTY
I'm in the throes of a hectic work weekend and thus don't have time to provide an analysis of today's glorious comeback against LSU. Rest assured that it will be on its way in the next few days. For now, there is only victory. And joy.
True, pure, unadulterated joy.
JOY. (click)
50-48
Fuck Texas
WPS
PS: Thanks to everyone who called and text-messaged and emailed today. The best part about Razorback victories is that it makes me feel, however briefly, popular.
PPS: I've been waiting all semester for a victory worthy of that hyperlink. If you click off the HD feature, it will run better. Enjoy.
PPPS: Suck it, Tigers.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Monday, November 24, 2008
50-48 #55: AWFUL DISCLOSURES OF THE HOLIDAY INN BATON ROUGE, OR, THE HIDDEN SECRETS OF A NUN'S LIFE IN A CONVENT EXPOSED
50-48 #55: AWFUL DISCLOSURES OF THE HOLIDAY INN BATON ROUGE, OR, THE HIDDEN SECRETS OF A NUN'S LIFE IN A CONVENT EXPOSED
It was Maria Monk who first peered into the cloistered halls of a dark and labyrinthine building in the early 1830s and found evil lurking in a supposedly holy place. The child of a tumultuous youth, Maria decided to engage in the grand project of self-reclamation by entering a convent. But the Hotel Dieu Nunnery in Montreal was anything but the promised life of seclusion and quiet, patient reflection.
After a series of gross discomforts, Maria escaped, before thinking better of her dire predicament and returning, hat in hand, to the convent. Still, the nuns forced her to pay a fee for re-entry. Such is the business of godmaking.
When she re-donned the vestments and got about the chores of being christ’s bride, Maria found that things were more than simply amiss at the Hotel Dieu. The nuns, it turned out, were the public concubines of the priests, raped incessantly to feed the urges of the unmarried men of the cloth. When babies were born of these sexual experiences, they were quickly blessed, then murdered in ritual sacrifice before being dumped into a basement pit filled with lime.
Hmm.
The message Maria provided for the country [presented in semi-titillating Victorian prose as Awful Disclosures of the Hotel Dieu Nunnery Montreal (1836)] after her second escape from the nunnery is clear: Beware of dark and labyrinthine buildings. Even if they seem nice. Even if they are well-stocked with beverages and laughter. Even if, like a Holiday Inn for example, they have a quaint little Mexican restaurant in the lobby and one of those elevators with the glass backs, allowing riders to watch as the floor below ascends and retreats.
We here at 50-48 were also the children of tumultuous youth. We here at 50-48 also sought shelter in a dark and labyrinthine building. And we here at 50-48 were also chagrined by the experience.
Evil lurks.
So it was that we returned to the Baton Rouge Holiday Inn after witnessing Hootie’s players defeat the hapless LSU Tigers this weekend. During the game, we sat right behind the Ole Miss bench, and we here at 50-48 did our level best to shout every disgusting thing we could think of at the huddle of coaches massed on the sideline, hoping that Hootie would hear one of our verbal ripostes and cry like a little girl. To no avail. He was probably text messaging some Oxford news anchor. We only saw him from behind, but his posture would seem to indicate the proper motion for either internet stalking, pederasty, or generic wanton infidelity.
Then the dejection by my Tiger-loving family. Then my own dejection at yet another Hootie win and an almost guaranteed Ole Miss berth in the Cotton Bowl. Then off through the interminable LSU traffic to the Holiday Inn.
Little did we here at 50-48 realize, we were staying in the Ole Miss team hotel! Oh, the cruel and vicious fates! We enter a place for sanctuary, only to discover it’s possessed by the devil itself! It was a horror near indescribable in its all-encompassing blackness.
That’s when we here at 50-48 knew we had to act. Thus the old question goes: Would you have killed Hitler if you had the opportunity? With Arkansas’s Hitler so ever close, so under the very roof that we ourselves were under, we formulated a Valkyrie operation of our own.
We moved slowly, silently out of our room, down the hall to the bank of elevators situated just across from the soda machines and ice vendor. We carefully—but without giving any indication of willful intent—pushed the up button and waited, waited. The glass monstrosity seemed to creep along at a snail’s pace until we were sweating bullets in the artificial hotel cold of the foyer.
But came it did, after so much waiting. We smiled politely to the elderly woman exiting, giving no indication that it was our intention to ride up to the sixth floor, seek out Hootie’s room, then murder him in cold blood.
We walked onto the elevator, looked out at the floor down below, looked out at the hotel lobby, decorated as it was to provide a sense of easy comfort to anyone coming from any part of the country—a sort of drab, positive malaise designed to numb more than anything else. Then we turned to face the bank of buttons and lights that would take us to the dark lair where the great Satan himself was probably making phone sex calls to a local Baton Rouge hotline. We pushed six.
But the light behind the number didn’t appear.
We pushed it again. And again.
Again with the cursed fate! The sixth floor required card access! Our murder plot was foiled.
Instead, we returned to the room, watched Texas Tech get boatraced by Oklahoma, and ate some delicious peppermint sticks. Such is the nature of potential revenge. Attempts are thwarted, but potential never completely dissipates.
Meanwhile, the Hogs blew another lead. They lost another late road game. The cosmic disappointment that game provided only topped the slow building of another disastrous day. And I don’t want to talk about it.
I finally fell asleep, nightmares bouncing off the inner-shellac of my skull, haunted as I was by the dark presence of Hootie just four floors above me.
“I must be informed that one of my great duties was to obey the priests in all things,” Maria wrote, “and this I soon learnt, to my utter astonishment and horror, was to live in the practice of criminal intercourse with them. I expressed some of the feelings which this announcement excited in me, which came upon me like a flash of lightning; but the only effect was to set her arguing with me, in favour of the crime, representing it as a virtue acceptable to God, and honourable to me. The priests, she said, were not situated like other men, being forbidden to marry; while they lived secluded, laborious, and self-denying lives for our salvation. They might be considered our saviours, as without their service we could not obtain pardon of sin, and must go to hell. Now it was our solemn duty, on withdrawing from the world, to consecrate our lives to religion, to practice every species of self-denial. We could not be too humble, nor mortify our feelings too far; this was to be done by opposing them and acting contrary to them; and what she proposed was, therefore, pleasing in the sight of God. I now felt how foolish I had been to place myself in the power of such persons as were around me.”
You see?! You see?! Does that not sound familiar?! We are all surreptitious nuns. We have all been abused by the false religion of Hootie and his minions. God speed, Ole Miss. You’re going to need it.
I have never been unwillingly fucked by a priest. I have never slaughtered my baby, blessed it, then dumped it in a giant pit deep in the bowels of my apartment. But as I lay there in that hotel room, I was conscious that I was resting defeated under the same roof as a victorious Hootie. Conscious that the basketball team had dropped its first game of the season to Missouri Southern (more about the basketball team in weeks to come). I was for all practical intents and purposes Maria Monk. I were become Maria Monk.
And as I lay dying, I thought what Maria probably thought during one of the myriad times a nefarious man of the cloth covertly entered her room, convinced her that it was God’s will that she remove the robe, then pounce on top of her with the zeal of someone whose sexual choices had been thinned through a career choice cleverly disguised as The Call:
“Fucked yet again.”
50-48
Fuck Texas
WPS
PS: (50-48 would like to include this brief disclaimer that Maria Monk’s story was disproven soon after its publication. Also, 50-48 is engaging in a fit of fantastical storytelling and is not admitting to conspiracy or attempted murder in any form or fashion. We’ll save our revenge against Hootie for when we see him in hell.)
It was Maria Monk who first peered into the cloistered halls of a dark and labyrinthine building in the early 1830s and found evil lurking in a supposedly holy place. The child of a tumultuous youth, Maria decided to engage in the grand project of self-reclamation by entering a convent. But the Hotel Dieu Nunnery in Montreal was anything but the promised life of seclusion and quiet, patient reflection.
After a series of gross discomforts, Maria escaped, before thinking better of her dire predicament and returning, hat in hand, to the convent. Still, the nuns forced her to pay a fee for re-entry. Such is the business of godmaking.
When she re-donned the vestments and got about the chores of being christ’s bride, Maria found that things were more than simply amiss at the Hotel Dieu. The nuns, it turned out, were the public concubines of the priests, raped incessantly to feed the urges of the unmarried men of the cloth. When babies were born of these sexual experiences, they were quickly blessed, then murdered in ritual sacrifice before being dumped into a basement pit filled with lime.
Hmm.
The message Maria provided for the country [presented in semi-titillating Victorian prose as Awful Disclosures of the Hotel Dieu Nunnery Montreal (1836)] after her second escape from the nunnery is clear: Beware of dark and labyrinthine buildings. Even if they seem nice. Even if they are well-stocked with beverages and laughter. Even if, like a Holiday Inn for example, they have a quaint little Mexican restaurant in the lobby and one of those elevators with the glass backs, allowing riders to watch as the floor below ascends and retreats.
We here at 50-48 were also the children of tumultuous youth. We here at 50-48 also sought shelter in a dark and labyrinthine building. And we here at 50-48 were also chagrined by the experience.
Evil lurks.
So it was that we returned to the Baton Rouge Holiday Inn after witnessing Hootie’s players defeat the hapless LSU Tigers this weekend. During the game, we sat right behind the Ole Miss bench, and we here at 50-48 did our level best to shout every disgusting thing we could think of at the huddle of coaches massed on the sideline, hoping that Hootie would hear one of our verbal ripostes and cry like a little girl. To no avail. He was probably text messaging some Oxford news anchor. We only saw him from behind, but his posture would seem to indicate the proper motion for either internet stalking, pederasty, or generic wanton infidelity.
Then the dejection by my Tiger-loving family. Then my own dejection at yet another Hootie win and an almost guaranteed Ole Miss berth in the Cotton Bowl. Then off through the interminable LSU traffic to the Holiday Inn.
Little did we here at 50-48 realize, we were staying in the Ole Miss team hotel! Oh, the cruel and vicious fates! We enter a place for sanctuary, only to discover it’s possessed by the devil itself! It was a horror near indescribable in its all-encompassing blackness.
That’s when we here at 50-48 knew we had to act. Thus the old question goes: Would you have killed Hitler if you had the opportunity? With Arkansas’s Hitler so ever close, so under the very roof that we ourselves were under, we formulated a Valkyrie operation of our own.
We moved slowly, silently out of our room, down the hall to the bank of elevators situated just across from the soda machines and ice vendor. We carefully—but without giving any indication of willful intent—pushed the up button and waited, waited. The glass monstrosity seemed to creep along at a snail’s pace until we were sweating bullets in the artificial hotel cold of the foyer.
But came it did, after so much waiting. We smiled politely to the elderly woman exiting, giving no indication that it was our intention to ride up to the sixth floor, seek out Hootie’s room, then murder him in cold blood.
We walked onto the elevator, looked out at the floor down below, looked out at the hotel lobby, decorated as it was to provide a sense of easy comfort to anyone coming from any part of the country—a sort of drab, positive malaise designed to numb more than anything else. Then we turned to face the bank of buttons and lights that would take us to the dark lair where the great Satan himself was probably making phone sex calls to a local Baton Rouge hotline. We pushed six.
But the light behind the number didn’t appear.
We pushed it again. And again.
Again with the cursed fate! The sixth floor required card access! Our murder plot was foiled.
Instead, we returned to the room, watched Texas Tech get boatraced by Oklahoma, and ate some delicious peppermint sticks. Such is the nature of potential revenge. Attempts are thwarted, but potential never completely dissipates.
Meanwhile, the Hogs blew another lead. They lost another late road game. The cosmic disappointment that game provided only topped the slow building of another disastrous day. And I don’t want to talk about it.
I finally fell asleep, nightmares bouncing off the inner-shellac of my skull, haunted as I was by the dark presence of Hootie just four floors above me.
“I must be informed that one of my great duties was to obey the priests in all things,” Maria wrote, “and this I soon learnt, to my utter astonishment and horror, was to live in the practice of criminal intercourse with them. I expressed some of the feelings which this announcement excited in me, which came upon me like a flash of lightning; but the only effect was to set her arguing with me, in favour of the crime, representing it as a virtue acceptable to God, and honourable to me. The priests, she said, were not situated like other men, being forbidden to marry; while they lived secluded, laborious, and self-denying lives for our salvation. They might be considered our saviours, as without their service we could not obtain pardon of sin, and must go to hell. Now it was our solemn duty, on withdrawing from the world, to consecrate our lives to religion, to practice every species of self-denial. We could not be too humble, nor mortify our feelings too far; this was to be done by opposing them and acting contrary to them; and what she proposed was, therefore, pleasing in the sight of God. I now felt how foolish I had been to place myself in the power of such persons as were around me.”
You see?! You see?! Does that not sound familiar?! We are all surreptitious nuns. We have all been abused by the false religion of Hootie and his minions. God speed, Ole Miss. You’re going to need it.
I have never been unwillingly fucked by a priest. I have never slaughtered my baby, blessed it, then dumped it in a giant pit deep in the bowels of my apartment. But as I lay there in that hotel room, I was conscious that I was resting defeated under the same roof as a victorious Hootie. Conscious that the basketball team had dropped its first game of the season to Missouri Southern (more about the basketball team in weeks to come). I was for all practical intents and purposes Maria Monk. I were become Maria Monk.
And as I lay dying, I thought what Maria probably thought during one of the myriad times a nefarious man of the cloth covertly entered her room, convinced her that it was God’s will that she remove the robe, then pounce on top of her with the zeal of someone whose sexual choices had been thinned through a career choice cleverly disguised as The Call:
“Fucked yet again.”
50-48
Fuck Texas
WPS
PS: (50-48 would like to include this brief disclaimer that Maria Monk’s story was disproven soon after its publication. Also, 50-48 is engaging in a fit of fantastical storytelling and is not admitting to conspiracy or attempted murder in any form or fashion. We’ll save our revenge against Hootie for when we see him in hell.)
Thursday, November 13, 2008
50-48 #54: EMERGENCY UPDATE: FINALLY! LEE WINS THE WAR AND THE SOUTH RISES AGAIN! WE KNEW IT WOULD HAPPEN SOONER OR LATER.
50-48 #54: EMERGENCY UPDATE: FINALLY! LEE WINS THE WAR AND THE SOUTH RISES AGAIN! WE KNEW IT WOULD HAPPEN SOONER OR LATER.
Just a quick update to let everyone know that former Hog Cliff Lee just won the American League Cy Young Award! Though Eric Hinske had some quality at bats in the postseason this autumn, Lee was really the only Razorback shining star in the majors this season. His award is all the more impressive considering that control problems last year had him pitching in Bum Fuck Anonymous Triple-A City. This is the biggest comeback since Napoleon returned from Elba! (And is sure to have a happier ending.)
Congratulations, Cliff! The Hogs still love you!
We here at 50-48 feel like a lion who just finished a satisfying dinner of 48 delicious midgets. And we would like to provide this inspirational message to Roy Halliday, K-Rod, Dice-K, et al: SUCK IT, BOYS! WOO PIG SOOIE!
Thank you for your time. Please return the normalcy of your day. Good night, and good luck.
50-48
Fuck Texas
WPS
Just a quick update to let everyone know that former Hog Cliff Lee just won the American League Cy Young Award! Though Eric Hinske had some quality at bats in the postseason this autumn, Lee was really the only Razorback shining star in the majors this season. His award is all the more impressive considering that control problems last year had him pitching in Bum Fuck Anonymous Triple-A City. This is the biggest comeback since Napoleon returned from Elba! (And is sure to have a happier ending.)
Congratulations, Cliff! The Hogs still love you!
We here at 50-48 feel like a lion who just finished a satisfying dinner of 48 delicious midgets. And we would like to provide this inspirational message to Roy Halliday, K-Rod, Dice-K, et al: SUCK IT, BOYS! WOO PIG SOOIE!
Thank you for your time. Please return the normalcy of your day. Good night, and good luck.
50-48
Fuck Texas
WPS
Monday, November 10, 2008
50-48 #53: PSYCHOPATHY
50-48 #53: PSYCHOPATHY
Did you know that psychopathy isn’t listed in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders? Instead, it’s included as part of the broader diagnosis of “antisocial personality disorder.”
And speaking on behalf of antisocial personality disorder sufferers everywhere, we here at 50-48 would just like to say: WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?!?!
The idea, of course, is that more common disorders such as schizophrenia or bipolar disorder have recognizable, diagnosable symptoms. Psychopaths are psychopaths precisely because they experience no symptoms. They don’t give a shit about anything. Trying to gauge not giving a shit is kind of like trying to measure air with a ruler. Until, that is, said psychopath goes and kills someone, then says something like, “Huh. Olive Garden would totally hit the spot right now.”
Still, psychopaths make up about 25% of the American prison population and a full 1% of the broader male population of the United States. “Beauty and ugliness, except in a very superficial sense,” wrote Hervey Cleckley in 1941, a world still choking on the breathing apparatus and neuro-synapse fire of Adolf Hitler, “goodness, evil, love, horror, and humor have no actual meaning, no power to move him.”
Of course, one of the consequent questions asked of psychopaths is the great moral puzzle: would you cause one person’s death in order to save the lives of others. Some would say yes, because the good of the few outweighs the good of the one. Others would say no, there is never a legitimate moral justification for causing the death of anyone. Psychopaths wouldn’t say yes or no. They would talk about Olive Garden. Or they simply wouldn’t understand the question. Or, influenced by the vast overproduction of slapstick comedy, burgeoning as it has since the days of vaudeville, they would argue that the death of the few caused by the death of the one would be far more entertaining.
We bring it up because we here at 50-48 couldn’t muster the gumption to let the Hogs’ disastrous loss to South Carolina ruin our Saturday. Don’t get us wrong. Our Saturday sucked, just like every other day sucks in this dirty hellhole of a place. But it wasn’t because of the Hogs. Casey Dick sucked, then got hurt, then saw his brother replace him. The running game mustered all of 54 yards. Michael Phelps and Jim Leyland were on the South Carolina sidelines, rooting against us. And they’re both awesome.
Normally, such events would drive us into an alcoholic frenzy. But this week they didn’t. We here at 50-48 have come up with several possible scenarios as to why this is: 1) Life is so bad and our general wish for the sweet release of death so palpable, that sport losses don’t even phase us anymore. 2) The crappy state of Razorvision and the lack of television coverage made the loss seem so distant that its power couldn’t overtake us. 3) We are psychopaths.
The first scenario can obviously not be the case. True, life is bad. True, we here at 50-48 do wish for the sweet release of death. But sport losses always phase us. The second scenario is possible, but Razorvision has sucked since its inception and there are plenty of games that take place far, far away from this horrid cesspool of a place in which 50-48 resides.
That leaves only one possible explanation. We are psychopaths. 50-48 will send a special emergency message as soon as we murder a busload of people, along with the one guy that would have been able to save them.
If there’s any justice in the world, scientists will study our brains after the unfortunate event, create a fancy name for the brain problems so obviously existent inside the hard shell of our skulls, and put it in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.
Still, if we survive the next two weeks, and State manages to defeat us on the 22nd, we will be left with this response: WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?!?!
Then we'll go to Olive Garden. Olive Garden would totally hit the spot right now.
50-48
Fuck Texas
WPS
Did you know that psychopathy isn’t listed in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders? Instead, it’s included as part of the broader diagnosis of “antisocial personality disorder.”
And speaking on behalf of antisocial personality disorder sufferers everywhere, we here at 50-48 would just like to say: WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?!?!
The idea, of course, is that more common disorders such as schizophrenia or bipolar disorder have recognizable, diagnosable symptoms. Psychopaths are psychopaths precisely because they experience no symptoms. They don’t give a shit about anything. Trying to gauge not giving a shit is kind of like trying to measure air with a ruler. Until, that is, said psychopath goes and kills someone, then says something like, “Huh. Olive Garden would totally hit the spot right now.”
Still, psychopaths make up about 25% of the American prison population and a full 1% of the broader male population of the United States. “Beauty and ugliness, except in a very superficial sense,” wrote Hervey Cleckley in 1941, a world still choking on the breathing apparatus and neuro-synapse fire of Adolf Hitler, “goodness, evil, love, horror, and humor have no actual meaning, no power to move him.”
Of course, one of the consequent questions asked of psychopaths is the great moral puzzle: would you cause one person’s death in order to save the lives of others. Some would say yes, because the good of the few outweighs the good of the one. Others would say no, there is never a legitimate moral justification for causing the death of anyone. Psychopaths wouldn’t say yes or no. They would talk about Olive Garden. Or they simply wouldn’t understand the question. Or, influenced by the vast overproduction of slapstick comedy, burgeoning as it has since the days of vaudeville, they would argue that the death of the few caused by the death of the one would be far more entertaining.
We bring it up because we here at 50-48 couldn’t muster the gumption to let the Hogs’ disastrous loss to South Carolina ruin our Saturday. Don’t get us wrong. Our Saturday sucked, just like every other day sucks in this dirty hellhole of a place. But it wasn’t because of the Hogs. Casey Dick sucked, then got hurt, then saw his brother replace him. The running game mustered all of 54 yards. Michael Phelps and Jim Leyland were on the South Carolina sidelines, rooting against us. And they’re both awesome.
Normally, such events would drive us into an alcoholic frenzy. But this week they didn’t. We here at 50-48 have come up with several possible scenarios as to why this is: 1) Life is so bad and our general wish for the sweet release of death so palpable, that sport losses don’t even phase us anymore. 2) The crappy state of Razorvision and the lack of television coverage made the loss seem so distant that its power couldn’t overtake us. 3) We are psychopaths.
The first scenario can obviously not be the case. True, life is bad. True, we here at 50-48 do wish for the sweet release of death. But sport losses always phase us. The second scenario is possible, but Razorvision has sucked since its inception and there are plenty of games that take place far, far away from this horrid cesspool of a place in which 50-48 resides.
That leaves only one possible explanation. We are psychopaths. 50-48 will send a special emergency message as soon as we murder a busload of people, along with the one guy that would have been able to save them.
If there’s any justice in the world, scientists will study our brains after the unfortunate event, create a fancy name for the brain problems so obviously existent inside the hard shell of our skulls, and put it in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.
Still, if we survive the next two weeks, and State manages to defeat us on the 22nd, we will be left with this response: WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?!?!
Then we'll go to Olive Garden. Olive Garden would totally hit the spot right now.
50-48
Fuck Texas
WPS
Sunday, November 2, 2008
50-48 #52: HE OF THE NOODLY APPENDAGE IS BLESSING US ALL
50-48 #52: HE OF THE NOODLY APPENDAGE IS BLESSING US ALL
When physicist Bobby Henderson created the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster in 2005, in response to discussions in Kansas about the teaching of intelligent design in science classes, he inspired people all around the world to begin worshiping a floating meatball wrapped in noodles. The 50-48 Religious Tolerance Desk even issued an official statement that year showing support for the new organization, arguing in part, “We here at 50-48 love all faiths, especially those that ridicule evangelical Christians.”
Why do we bring it up? you might be asking. First, the doctrine’s Eight “I’d Really Rather You Didn’ts” provide a powerful counter to Judeo-Christianity’s oft-cited Ten Commandments, and we here at 50-48 think that readers everywhere could benefit from their clairvoyant wisdom. Second, and most importantly, devotees of the Flying Spaghetti Monster—Pastafarians, to wit—believe above all else that pirates are “absolute divine beings.” Pirates loved peace and candy and board games just like everyone else. Their overly-negative reputation as drunkards, rapists, and Johnny Depp wannabes comes not from actual fact, but from an overwrought propaganda campaign propagated by Christians of the Middle Ages and Hare Krishnas. Pastafarianism has also successfully correlated the rise of global warming to the diminishing number of pirates in the world. Here is a handy chart: CLICK.
Finally, the pirate-laden theology of Pastafarianism is the dogma of 50-48’s new favorite non-Razorback, Mike Leach, who personally gave the most disgusting scum on the entire planet—the Texas Longhorns—a nice big shitburger to eat this weekend. It was a fitting punctuation to a glorious day that also saw the Razorbacks hang on to win a tight one against another 50-48 favorite, Gus Malzhan, and his game Tulsa squad.
(Of course, these aren’t the only interesting elements of Pastafarianism. The existence of the group itself leads to insistent and fundamental questions such as, in the words of the Associated Press, “Does religion require a genuine theological belief or simply a set of rituals and a community joining together as a way of signaling their cultural alliances to others?” But, unfortunately, trying to unpack the ontological consequences of that one would only lead us down a winding road, far, far away from the Hogs’ win and the Longhorns’ loss. Que sera sera.)
So, let’s get to it, shall we?
1. I'd really rather you didn't act like a sanctimonious holier-than-thou ass when describing my noodly goodness. If some people don't believe in me, that's okay. Really, I'm not that vain. Besides, this isn't about them so don't change the subject.
Obviously, Hootie isn’t paying attention to these commandments. And, sure, if there was one dark blot on an otherwise great day, it was Tubby’s inability to make Auburn look like anything other than a Pop Warner girl’s field hockey team. We here at 50-48 imagine Hootie is sitting somewhere upon his vast promontory high atop his compound in East Jesus, Mississippi or wherever his shit-filled compound that passes for a Fortress of Darkness and Solitude lies, giggling with giddy glee at taking credit for another victory he didn’t deserve and plotting which players to blame for his next loss.
2. I'd really rather you didn't use my existence as a means to oppress, subjugate, punish, eviscerate, and/or, you know, be mean to others. I don't require sacrifices, and purity is for drinking water, not people.
Sorry, Spaghetti Monster, but Coach Leach and his pirate horde oppressed the ever-living shit out of the Longhorns this weekend. But, in his defense, the students, faculty, fans, and alumni of the University of Texas are not people. They are Satanic demons from outer space sent to earth to give us all an example of how not to behave. Also, they’re vampires. Also, despite what they might tell you, they all have chlamydia. No, no, no. Trust us. Don’t listen to that slutty girl in the bar in Austin, slurring her words and telling you how deeply emotional she felt when Lance Armstrong returned heroically from ball-cancer. She’s a walking VD factory. The devil is a deceiver, and he comes in many forms.
3. I'd really rather you didn't judge people for the way they look, or how they dress, or the way they talk, or, well, just play nice, okay? Oh, and get this into your thick heads: woman = person; man = person; Samey = Samey. One is not better than the other, unless we're talking about fashion and I'm sorry, but I gave that to women and some guys who know the difference between teal and fuchsia.
Speaking of looks and judgment, I’ve come around the bend on the hallucinatory possum that lives outside of my building. After a weeklong stakeout in the wee hours of the morning, I have come to the reluctant conclusion that Scampers is NOT a figment of my imagination. Though I have not yet mustered the courage to touch him, his consistent presence and inconsistent behavior lead me to believe that I simply have neither the imagination nor the possum expertise to create the depth of character required to climb trees, steal catfood, and dive headfirst into fenceposts. So my self-diagnosis of my own mental state is improving! Still, I’m reminded of the old joke: I used to think the brain was the most essential organ of the body, but then I thought, “Right. Well, look who’s telling me that.”
4. I'd really rather you didn't indulge in conduct that offends yourself, or your willing, consenting partner of legal age AND mental maturity. As for anyone who might object, I think the expression is "go fuck yourself," unless they find that offensive in which case they can turn off the TV for once and go for a walk for a change.
The Hogs ALMOST gave away a sure victory this week, and Casey practically gift-wrapped their comeback with a late interception that kept us from scoring and gave the Golden Hurricane a final drive to win. BUT THEY DIDN’T. So no criticism this week. The running game seemed to die on the vine, but Michael Smith’s 27-yard run in the first quarter was brilliant. Casey’s late interception hurt, but his 385 yards gave him more than the superior talent of David Johnson. The Hogs let a 17-0 lead evaporate, but they didn’t panic, even though Tulsa had one of those fancy ranking numbers prefacing their name. Sure, it’s now seventeen in a row against Tulsa for the Hogs, but this was a fundamentally different dynamic than years past. Tulsa’s offense would be a legitimate test for anyone—led, of course, by demigod and future Petrino-successor Gus Malzhan. Finally, the game-winning score came from little Dennis Johnson. After Tulsa tied the game with a field goal late in the third quarter, Johnson took the ensuing kickoff 96 yards for the winning score. Despite the frustrations that come from losing, WE ARE GETTING BETTER. And we here at 50-48 would much rather have steady improvement than some sort of baseline inferior mean, exacerbated every once in a while by a “defining win.” (Good luck with that, Rebels.)
5. I'd really rather you didn't challenge the bigoted, misogynistic, hateful ideas of others on an empty stomach. Eat, then go after the bitches.
Nine of my last 10 meals have consisted entirely of Cheetos and candy bars. Why is that? What is it inherent in Cheetos that fosters such obsessive behavior? I don’t know. But I want out of this cheese-coated cage. Still, despite my best efforts, I have yet to find a hotline for such problems. I tried to call the suicide hotline, but the operator didn’t seem to think that Cheetos addiction constituted a viable reason to suck on a gas pipe. I called her a turd, then hung up. And then I ate some more Cheetos. Cruel mistress!
6. I'd really rather you didn't build multi million-dollar synagogues / churches / temples / mosques / shrines to my noodly goodness when the money could be better spent (take your pick):
1. Ending poverty
2. Curing diseases
3. Living in peace, loving with passion, and lowering the cost of cable
I might be a complex-carbohydrate omniscient being, but I enjoy the simple things in life. I ought to know. I AM the creator.
This one seems to be a message to you, Little Rock. Stop trying to gild that shithole stadium with scoreboards and new aluminum siding. It isn’t helping. Instead, use that extra money for something positive. Perhaps you could pay for ego-reductions for everyone in West Little Rock. Or maybe you could teach everyone in North Little Rock to read and bathe. I also envision a fancy new government-subsidized whorehouse for use by visiting Razorback fans from out of state. Here are some name suggestions: The Pig In A Poke; Crazy Dirty Hog Sex; Woo Pig Do Me. You’re welcome.
7. I'd really rather you didn't go around telling people I talk to you. You're not that interesting. Get over yourself. And I told you to love your fellow man, can't you take a hint?
Prior to the start of games on Saturday, I was accosted by an angry group of psycho-Protestants who came knocking to ask if I was interested in attending their church. When I told them I wasn’t, they began questioning my motives. I told them those, too. And, whoa! They didn’t like that. The conversation got a little heated, as it always does with psycho-Protestants, and it was all I could do not to mention that I had to be going, because I had an appointment to ass-rape virgin orphans at the particular request of my lord and master Satan. But I didn’t. I was the picture of restraint. Besides, those people looked like they had just stepped off the Texas bigamy compound. Not the sort of folks you want to tempt. Still, I love being accosted by angry psycho-Protestants. It was like the Flying Spaghetti Monster was looking down upon me, promising me that the day was going to go my way. “You see,” he said. “At least you aren’t like that.” Right on.
8. I'd really rather you didn't do unto others as you would have them do unto you if you are into, um, stuff that uses a lot of leather/lubricant/vaseline. If the other person is into it, however (pursuant to #4), then have at it, take pictures, and for the love of Mike, wear a CONDOM! Honestly, it's a piece of rubber. If I didn't want it to feel good when you did it I would have added spikes, or something.
NOTE TO LITTLE ROCK: This would make a great sign for the bathroom wall at the Woo Pig Do Me.
So, what have we learned today? Well, the Hogs are continually improving, and as the recruiting classes continue to pour in, we can all look forward to competing nationally very, very soon. Also, we were reminded of what dirty fucks the Texas Longhorns are. But most importantly, we spent time meditating on the commandments of the great pirate religion of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, in honor of Mike Leach and his Texas Tech Red Raiders. Without them, Saturday still would have felt a little hollow. And so, we here at 50-48 exit for the week, stage left, by saluting the team that provided the perfect punctuation to Arkansas’s win over Tulsa:
Guns up, motherfuckers.
50-48
Fuck Texas
WPS
PS: Praise be to the Flying Spaghetti Monster, and his noodly appendage of grace and redemption. Ramen.
PPS: Remember, those wanting to be on the 50-48 mailing list, to be updated when new installments come online, all you have to do is send an email to fiftyfortyeight@gmail.com.
When physicist Bobby Henderson created the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster in 2005, in response to discussions in Kansas about the teaching of intelligent design in science classes, he inspired people all around the world to begin worshiping a floating meatball wrapped in noodles. The 50-48 Religious Tolerance Desk even issued an official statement that year showing support for the new organization, arguing in part, “We here at 50-48 love all faiths, especially those that ridicule evangelical Christians.”
Why do we bring it up? you might be asking. First, the doctrine’s Eight “I’d Really Rather You Didn’ts” provide a powerful counter to Judeo-Christianity’s oft-cited Ten Commandments, and we here at 50-48 think that readers everywhere could benefit from their clairvoyant wisdom. Second, and most importantly, devotees of the Flying Spaghetti Monster—Pastafarians, to wit—believe above all else that pirates are “absolute divine beings.” Pirates loved peace and candy and board games just like everyone else. Their overly-negative reputation as drunkards, rapists, and Johnny Depp wannabes comes not from actual fact, but from an overwrought propaganda campaign propagated by Christians of the Middle Ages and Hare Krishnas. Pastafarianism has also successfully correlated the rise of global warming to the diminishing number of pirates in the world. Here is a handy chart: CLICK.
Finally, the pirate-laden theology of Pastafarianism is the dogma of 50-48’s new favorite non-Razorback, Mike Leach, who personally gave the most disgusting scum on the entire planet—the Texas Longhorns—a nice big shitburger to eat this weekend. It was a fitting punctuation to a glorious day that also saw the Razorbacks hang on to win a tight one against another 50-48 favorite, Gus Malzhan, and his game Tulsa squad.
(Of course, these aren’t the only interesting elements of Pastafarianism. The existence of the group itself leads to insistent and fundamental questions such as, in the words of the Associated Press, “Does religion require a genuine theological belief or simply a set of rituals and a community joining together as a way of signaling their cultural alliances to others?” But, unfortunately, trying to unpack the ontological consequences of that one would only lead us down a winding road, far, far away from the Hogs’ win and the Longhorns’ loss. Que sera sera.)
So, let’s get to it, shall we?
1. I'd really rather you didn't act like a sanctimonious holier-than-thou ass when describing my noodly goodness. If some people don't believe in me, that's okay. Really, I'm not that vain. Besides, this isn't about them so don't change the subject.
Obviously, Hootie isn’t paying attention to these commandments. And, sure, if there was one dark blot on an otherwise great day, it was Tubby’s inability to make Auburn look like anything other than a Pop Warner girl’s field hockey team. We here at 50-48 imagine Hootie is sitting somewhere upon his vast promontory high atop his compound in East Jesus, Mississippi or wherever his shit-filled compound that passes for a Fortress of Darkness and Solitude lies, giggling with giddy glee at taking credit for another victory he didn’t deserve and plotting which players to blame for his next loss.
2. I'd really rather you didn't use my existence as a means to oppress, subjugate, punish, eviscerate, and/or, you know, be mean to others. I don't require sacrifices, and purity is for drinking water, not people.
Sorry, Spaghetti Monster, but Coach Leach and his pirate horde oppressed the ever-living shit out of the Longhorns this weekend. But, in his defense, the students, faculty, fans, and alumni of the University of Texas are not people. They are Satanic demons from outer space sent to earth to give us all an example of how not to behave. Also, they’re vampires. Also, despite what they might tell you, they all have chlamydia. No, no, no. Trust us. Don’t listen to that slutty girl in the bar in Austin, slurring her words and telling you how deeply emotional she felt when Lance Armstrong returned heroically from ball-cancer. She’s a walking VD factory. The devil is a deceiver, and he comes in many forms.
3. I'd really rather you didn't judge people for the way they look, or how they dress, or the way they talk, or, well, just play nice, okay? Oh, and get this into your thick heads: woman = person; man = person; Samey = Samey. One is not better than the other, unless we're talking about fashion and I'm sorry, but I gave that to women and some guys who know the difference between teal and fuchsia.
Speaking of looks and judgment, I’ve come around the bend on the hallucinatory possum that lives outside of my building. After a weeklong stakeout in the wee hours of the morning, I have come to the reluctant conclusion that Scampers is NOT a figment of my imagination. Though I have not yet mustered the courage to touch him, his consistent presence and inconsistent behavior lead me to believe that I simply have neither the imagination nor the possum expertise to create the depth of character required to climb trees, steal catfood, and dive headfirst into fenceposts. So my self-diagnosis of my own mental state is improving! Still, I’m reminded of the old joke: I used to think the brain was the most essential organ of the body, but then I thought, “Right. Well, look who’s telling me that.”
4. I'd really rather you didn't indulge in conduct that offends yourself, or your willing, consenting partner of legal age AND mental maturity. As for anyone who might object, I think the expression is "go fuck yourself," unless they find that offensive in which case they can turn off the TV for once and go for a walk for a change.
The Hogs ALMOST gave away a sure victory this week, and Casey practically gift-wrapped their comeback with a late interception that kept us from scoring and gave the Golden Hurricane a final drive to win. BUT THEY DIDN’T. So no criticism this week. The running game seemed to die on the vine, but Michael Smith’s 27-yard run in the first quarter was brilliant. Casey’s late interception hurt, but his 385 yards gave him more than the superior talent of David Johnson. The Hogs let a 17-0 lead evaporate, but they didn’t panic, even though Tulsa had one of those fancy ranking numbers prefacing their name. Sure, it’s now seventeen in a row against Tulsa for the Hogs, but this was a fundamentally different dynamic than years past. Tulsa’s offense would be a legitimate test for anyone—led, of course, by demigod and future Petrino-successor Gus Malzhan. Finally, the game-winning score came from little Dennis Johnson. After Tulsa tied the game with a field goal late in the third quarter, Johnson took the ensuing kickoff 96 yards for the winning score. Despite the frustrations that come from losing, WE ARE GETTING BETTER. And we here at 50-48 would much rather have steady improvement than some sort of baseline inferior mean, exacerbated every once in a while by a “defining win.” (Good luck with that, Rebels.)
5. I'd really rather you didn't challenge the bigoted, misogynistic, hateful ideas of others on an empty stomach. Eat, then go after the bitches.
Nine of my last 10 meals have consisted entirely of Cheetos and candy bars. Why is that? What is it inherent in Cheetos that fosters such obsessive behavior? I don’t know. But I want out of this cheese-coated cage. Still, despite my best efforts, I have yet to find a hotline for such problems. I tried to call the suicide hotline, but the operator didn’t seem to think that Cheetos addiction constituted a viable reason to suck on a gas pipe. I called her a turd, then hung up. And then I ate some more Cheetos. Cruel mistress!
6. I'd really rather you didn't build multi million-dollar synagogues / churches / temples / mosques / shrines to my noodly goodness when the money could be better spent (take your pick):
1. Ending poverty
2. Curing diseases
3. Living in peace, loving with passion, and lowering the cost of cable
I might be a complex-carbohydrate omniscient being, but I enjoy the simple things in life. I ought to know. I AM the creator.
This one seems to be a message to you, Little Rock. Stop trying to gild that shithole stadium with scoreboards and new aluminum siding. It isn’t helping. Instead, use that extra money for something positive. Perhaps you could pay for ego-reductions for everyone in West Little Rock. Or maybe you could teach everyone in North Little Rock to read and bathe. I also envision a fancy new government-subsidized whorehouse for use by visiting Razorback fans from out of state. Here are some name suggestions: The Pig In A Poke; Crazy Dirty Hog Sex; Woo Pig Do Me. You’re welcome.
7. I'd really rather you didn't go around telling people I talk to you. You're not that interesting. Get over yourself. And I told you to love your fellow man, can't you take a hint?
Prior to the start of games on Saturday, I was accosted by an angry group of psycho-Protestants who came knocking to ask if I was interested in attending their church. When I told them I wasn’t, they began questioning my motives. I told them those, too. And, whoa! They didn’t like that. The conversation got a little heated, as it always does with psycho-Protestants, and it was all I could do not to mention that I had to be going, because I had an appointment to ass-rape virgin orphans at the particular request of my lord and master Satan. But I didn’t. I was the picture of restraint. Besides, those people looked like they had just stepped off the Texas bigamy compound. Not the sort of folks you want to tempt. Still, I love being accosted by angry psycho-Protestants. It was like the Flying Spaghetti Monster was looking down upon me, promising me that the day was going to go my way. “You see,” he said. “At least you aren’t like that.” Right on.
8. I'd really rather you didn't do unto others as you would have them do unto you if you are into, um, stuff that uses a lot of leather/lubricant/vaseline. If the other person is into it, however (pursuant to #4), then have at it, take pictures, and for the love of Mike, wear a CONDOM! Honestly, it's a piece of rubber. If I didn't want it to feel good when you did it I would have added spikes, or something.
NOTE TO LITTLE ROCK: This would make a great sign for the bathroom wall at the Woo Pig Do Me.
So, what have we learned today? Well, the Hogs are continually improving, and as the recruiting classes continue to pour in, we can all look forward to competing nationally very, very soon. Also, we were reminded of what dirty fucks the Texas Longhorns are. But most importantly, we spent time meditating on the commandments of the great pirate religion of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, in honor of Mike Leach and his Texas Tech Red Raiders. Without them, Saturday still would have felt a little hollow. And so, we here at 50-48 exit for the week, stage left, by saluting the team that provided the perfect punctuation to Arkansas’s win over Tulsa:
Guns up, motherfuckers.
50-48
Fuck Texas
WPS
PS: Praise be to the Flying Spaghetti Monster, and his noodly appendage of grace and redemption. Ramen.
PPS: Remember, those wanting to be on the 50-48 mailing list, to be updated when new installments come online, all you have to do is send an email to fiftyfortyeight@gmail.com.
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