I can’t take it anymore, Bubba.

This isn’t about Ohio State or LSU. It’s not about Colt Brennan, or Mark Richt, or Lee Corso or Myles Brand or even the cabal of billionaire Masonic Zionists who run the BCS.

This is about me.

And I am losing my mind.

Hierarchy used to mean something in college football. Notre Dame was good. The WAC was not. Now Charlie Weis is spending December sobbing over a plate of cheese fries, and June Jones is America’s favorite sun-stoned Cinderella.

The Old Order is dead.

The New Order is null.

Jeff Sagarin Himself couldn’t save us from the void.

I am not alone in my angst. Open your eyes, Bubba: The bleachers are in ruins; the message boards are burning. There is no poll We will not challenge, and no icon We will not smash—there is no invective We will not hurl, provided it knocks the Other Guy from atop his crumbling and ill-gotten perch.

We are a Nation on the Brink, and We are not in the mood for heroes.

Pity the fool who’d dare to call himself our Champion.

It is sometimes the most trivial straw that breaks the camel’s back. Radical Islam doesn’t scare me. Global warming I can weather. But when Dave Wannstedt takes down the No. 2 team in the country, then—then Bubba:

Then it is time to Panic.

Some say the world will end in fire; some say in ice.

From what I’ve tasted of parity, I’m inclined to believe doomsday is Les Miles and Jim Tressel fighting for the boobie prize—but then again I suppose I’m only just saying, is all...