A Lesson In Fear and Loathing For Boise St. and TCU
Every day it's the same sh**.
Buzz. Whap. Brew. Brush. Dress. Shuffle. Ignite.
I get in my car and weave my way through traffic like some kid creeping from drunkard dad. The streets aren't snarling: they're downright angry.
Angry like the student population at Boise State this week. Angry like the personnel must feel at TCU. Absolutely livid like the pundits and fans around the nation have proven to be. Every team not named "Texas" or "Alabama" feels slighted, and it's only a matter of time until the grumblings turn into an outright revolt.
Every day the suburbs empty out and explode into an orgasm on the interstate. Honk. Push. Shove. Moment of freeflowing traffic. Logjam. You want fear and loathing? Here's its arterial center. It's so close that you can feel its breath tickling the hairs on your fingers. Slow. Deliberate. Waiting for you and every other Rat to charge into it, hoping to be the one little bugger that broke free.
The BCS brass thought that sticking their two cogs into one bowl would silence the cries for a playoff system. They thought that giving them the stage at Tempe would brush up the obvious flaws in a system that's adept at "correcting" a new one every single year. It's a working system, sure, but so was the Chevy Corvair, and that flipped over when pressured, too.
That's not it. This time it's different.
Different? All my worst heartaches have come at the hands of "This time it's different." Every Lucy I've known has pulled the football out of my way and laughed at me as I crashed back down to the bourgeoisie. So I sit in my car, wondering why everything on satellite radio sounds like crap; cut off by an F150 with the trailer hitch testicles and the vanity plate and the bumper sticker that reads "My b*tch likes it in the back door."
The back door. That's how Boise State and TCU thought they'd sneak in. They cashed in their perfect seasons and thought it'd be enough to challenge the high rollers. Ho ho! Not so fast, sonny: This table's reserved for those with big money to spend. Why not try Russian Roulette instead? We can even pit you two against each other.
So that's what we're left with after the BCS crew has had its turn: A definitive national title game, and scene from The Deer Hunter. MAO! MAO!
It's about that time when I realize the d0.uche in the truck is laughing at me. He gave it to her. I didn't. Disrespect breeds respect. Walking the narrow path breeds regret.
So I say to Boise State and TCU: Screw it. Play your hearts out, break some bones, and gut the University of Phoenix Stadium. Raze it. Drop a deuce on your gift baskets and mark'em "Guaranteed." Spray paint the Tostito's logo with a giant middle finger. Leave it a scorched remembrance of what happens to greed and corporate monopolies in the long term. Don't let the fact that one of your perfect seasons will die bring down the fact that many see this as the reason why the BCS doesn't work. Prove them right.
Some fool croons that there ain't no rest for the wicked. I've never met a cocaine cowboy in need of a nap. Sleep when you're dead or in County. Money don't grow on trees, but it is easily laundered. Beg when you're up to your sac in student loans. There's a brass ring at the end of the tunnel, but what they don't tell you is that you're better off jackhammering it to China than fighting traffic.
Everything I need I learned from Bugs Bunny. Maybe the Fiesta Bowl participants should, too.
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