Daily Snarl: Football


Given that tomorrow is one of the celebrated match-ups in the newly minted season of Tennessee Football's questionable and very slippery early phase, I figured a stern nod of acknowledgment was due to the men in Orange for whatever meritorious and gallant effort that either explodes upon Shields-Watkins Field or flops stillborn in the Great Orange Sea of Neyland. As of this moment the current Vegas Line favors Florida by 7.5, or around a touchdown, which, is a respectable differential given the glumly whispered predictions around here of a two touchdown or more Florida victory – one that is stated matter -of-factly by those who dare utter such anathema, although, given the prior two games such logic seems almost sound, but as we know the polls aren't exactly the solid definition of a distinct and true premise for our syllogistic purposes, nevertheless, as they say "the game's gotta get played son."


Considering the usual Gator vitriol (photo exhibit A) I propose to not even attempt to rise above their level, and instead, invite the Gators to go auto-copulate themselves.


"... then I voted for the lesser of two eVils."

That's a phrase I hear far too often. Problem I have is that you're still choosing eVil. Now, I'm no card carrying member of the Algonquin Round Table. That said, common sense tells me it'd be better to not vote at all. Its getting to the point where the saying "it doesn't matter who you vote for, just vote" is antiquated.

So, come November, if you believe in a candidate. If you are unafraid of loudly proclaiming, in a crowded room, "HEY! I VOTED FOR __________!!!" Vote. More power to you. But if you feel the least bit hesitant, follow the advice of Poppa Carlin, and don't.

Feud Oil

Conflict, with the big "C," is one of those historical rhythms with a drumbeat that's driven the tempo of Homo sapien interaction ever since, well, at least since those damn monkeys from that 2001: A Space Odyssey  flick got old, err, "new" skool on each other and started bashing one another's skulls with mastodon femurs and a nascent discovery of bloodlust, power, competition and domination – which eventually was to be known as politics – yet nevertheless codifying a reflexive and brutal interaction in a homogeneous community that had, on a whole, mostly been interdependent for survival.


And although the emergent variations in cultural and social structure over eons point to a hodgepodge of "apparent" diversity they are but a thin veil covering all those ancient instincts – the ones that made us persist, a genetic predisposition for survival, this is still the governing rule and the one that fuels all the narratives of all the folk in all the lands, for without it there is no "being" no "us" no defining in the way that is uniquely allowed by a fourteen hundred cubic centimeter mass of highly developed neurotissue.

Okay, this is a supremely useless digression to get to the main subject – Feud Oil. This bottle came into my possession many a moon ago. Produced by Tummy-Hawk Battlers INC. in the lovely hamlet of umm.. Scalpum, Kentucky, it apparently is designed to primarily "fuel the feud" or at the very least make it more than a timid back and forth of flaming poop baggies on the cabin porch. Perhaps a catalyst for the infamous Hatfield-McCoy feud? 

We may never know...

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