Dawgs vs. Wildcats: The Game Day Experience Vol V

Well, it was a short weekend, folks. Early game on the old Jefferson Pilot schedule (now Lincoln Financial), with kickoff set for 12:30. The trip down to the old stomping grounds was uneventful. No encounters with bag checking dads of former NFL stars. No torture at the hands of TSA authorities because I left my deadly 1 inch blade on my keychain (though I think at that length, I may have passed muster with Dennis Felton -- as long as I didn't have any primo Hippy Lettuce hidden in my briefcase). No pedestrians endangered. No Freaknik throw down. I'm happy to report that I didn't get lost solo after the game, and wander around the campus and the greater Athens area unable to recognize any landmarks that I'd seen some 2,639 times during my time there. (One of the street signs I almost slept under last week was for a road directly behind my frat house. Good Lord, I have no innate sense of direction). So, nope -- no controversey or major drama.

Unless of course, you count Freebird's sloppy, fawning man-love for Gators QB Tim Tebow*. In response to my blog post Thursday night, and subsequent discussions on the viability of other potential Heisman candidates, Freebird declared that you cannot argue with 42 TDs and Tebow's "rippling biceps" and "dreamy good looks,"* and the award should be bestowed upon a sophomore for the first time in history. Though Freebird said it would be "awkward" to reconcile his UGA degree and fandom with his daydreams of a romantic picnic in a sunny meadow with Tebow feeding him slivers of passion fruit*, he still boldly stood by his declarations to the scorn and contempt of the tailgate gathering.

The only real "action" at the tailgate occurred when some dipshit parked his Solara in one of our designated parking spots, and the tow truck was summoned. "Be here in a few minutes" turned into well over an hour. However, since the Scrats and Huffs were running behind schedule (news flash!), it wasn't that much of a detriment to the logistics. We were treated to the painful machinations of the tow truck driver trying to back up to the illegally parked Toyota. To call him a "driver" would be stretching the definition of the word. Seriously, this took over an hour while we all stood around eating chicken biscuits (Thanks, Hank!) and quaffing frosty beers. Freebird used this time to pen a quick sonnet to Tebow, only bringing his head up from his rapturous ode to ask us if we knew a word that rhymed with "bulging."* Even worse was the sound the tow truck made when it was put in reverse. It was a loud, high pitched, beeping whine that could only be more annoying if it was played from a tiny speaker on the end of a knitting needle that was jammed repeatedly into the recesses of the cochlea.

Well, there was the action of the "competitive scrapbooking" going on. Miz Freebird and Ricky Bobby poured over the pages, but we're not sure who was declared a winner. Mr. Freebird, however, is working on a scrapbook of his own. It will include a foreward by Urban Meyer, and lovingly tell the Tebow story in pictures from his christian missionary work in the Philipines, through his home-schooling all the way to the podium at the Downtown Athletic Club. The scrapbook will be gingerly wrapped in denim, cut from the jorts Freebird wears during his nightly masturbatory fantasies about the strapping man-beast of a QB running the "spread" in The Swamp, with Freebird cheering him on from the Gator sidelines sipping a white wine spritzer.*

Attention Scrat: Your pants are still missing. So much for that "dropping off at the tailgate" idea.

As for the game itself, it was a win. We didn't look great, but we didn't shit the bed like we did against UT. It could have easily turned into a listless performance that put the final outcome in question. Sean Bailey, after all his heroics and brilliance the past few weeks, looked particularly out of it, not fighting for the balls that were errantly thrown his way. But 24 and 20 ran like champs and we were left sitting at the tailgate, basking in a win, listening to the Commodores try not to act like, well, The Commodores.

A hearty Applebees dinner followed, washed down with several Brewtuses (is that the plural of Brewtus? I can't be sure about these things) and a drop off at a c-store somewhere between Athens and Lawrenceville to exchange "the package." After Freebird went in to grab a few supplies that resembled dinner at the Britney Spears household, we were off. I'm sure Miz Freebird had an entertaining ride home. And had to thwart the attempts of her husband to cajole her into wearing a blue jersey adorned with #15 for a little sexytime later on that evening.*

Maybe it's a good thing in hindsight that the large flask hit empty sometime in the 3rd Quarter, as I kept wondering why it was so damned hot in the E's car on the way back to their house. I kept cranking up the large knob in the center of the dash wanting more volume, not realizing the sound level didn't increase yet the temperature kept rising. I think I may have actually experienced being in a convection oven before my benefactors took pity on me and pointed out the difference between climate control button and the radio.

So endeth the home schedule for 2007. To all who participated at the tailgate and in the stands (and vicariously on this page), I raise my glass to you and toast you with a hearty Go Dawgs!


*May be exaggerated slightly. Or perhaps even untrue.