A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A TEXAS FOOTBALL FAN

(Sorry that this is a little profane. I've always thought it was funny. So I copied it here. Rated "PG-13" to "R.")

A chronology of events for Saturday, December 4, 1999, and the early morning hours of Sunday, December 5, 1999:

6:00 Arise, play the Eyes of Texas and Texas Fight at full-freaking blast

6:20 Get in car, drive to New Braunfels 7:30 Tee off (me and a buddy were the FIRST tee-time of the morning)

8:50 Turn 9 (crack open first beer)

8:53 Crack open second beer

8:58 Crack open...(you get the idea)

10:30 Finish 18 (holes, as well as beers), sign scorecard for smoooooth 95

10:35 Headed for San Antonio

10:50 Buy three 18-packs for pre- and post-game festivities

11:10 We decide we don't have enough booze, so we double-back to a liquor store and buy the good ol' 750 ml plastic bottle "Traveler" Jim Beam

11:50 Arrive at the tailgate spot. Awesome day. Not a single cloud in the sky. About 70 degrees.

11:55 I decide that we're going to kick the sh!t out of Nebraska.

11:56 I tell my first Nebraska fan to go f#ck himself.

12:15 The UT band walks by on the way to the Alamodome. We're on the second floor of a two-story parking garage on the corner (a couple hundred of us). We're hooting and hollering like wildmen. The band doubles back to the street right below us and serenades us with Texas Fight and The Eyes of Texas. AWESOME MOMENT.

12:25 In the post-serenade serendipity, 50-100 grown men are bumping chests with one another, each and every one of them now secure and certain of the fact that we are going to kick the sh!t out of Nebraska.

1:00 The Nebraska band walks by on the way to the Alamodome. Again, we hoot and holler like wildmen. Again, the band doubles back and stops right below us to serenade us, this time, however, with the Nebraska fight songs. * Although somewhat impressed by their spirit and verve, we remain convinced that we are going to kick the sh!t out of Nebraska.

1:30 I begin the walk to the Alamodome, somehow managing to stuff the "Traveler" and 11 cans of beer into my pants.

1:47 I am in line surrounded by Nebraska fans. They are taunting me. I am taunting back, still certain that we are going to kick the sh!t out of Nebraska. I decide to challenge a particularly vocal Nebraska fan to play what I now call and will forever be remembered as "Cell-Phone Flop Out." Remember flop out for a dollar? The rules are similar. I tell this Nebraska jackass that if he's so confident in his team, he should "flop out" his cell phone RIGHT NOW and make plane reservations to Phoenix for the Fiesta Bowl. And then I spoke these memorable words: "And not those damn refundable tickets, either! You request those non-refundable, non-transferrable sons-of-witches!" He backs down. He is unworthy. I call Southwest Airlines and buy two tickets to Phoenix, non-refundable and non-transferrable. Price: $712. He is humbled. He lowers his head in shame. I raise my cell phone in triumph to the cheers of hundreds of Texas fans. I am KING and these are my subjects. I distribute the 11 beers in my pants to the cheering masses. I RULE the pre-game kingdom.

2:34 Kickoff. Brimming with confidence, I open the Traveler and pour my first stiffy.

2:45 I notice something troubling: Nebraska is big. Nebraska is fast. Nebraska is very pissed off at Texas.

3:01 The first quarter mercifully ends. 9 yards total offense for Texas. Zero first downs for Texas. I'm still talking sh!t. I pour another stiffy from the Traveler.

3:36 Four minutes to go in the first half: the Traveler is a dead soldier. I buy my first $5 beer from the Alamodome merchants. While I am standing in line, a center snap nearly decapitates Major Applewhite and rolls out of the end zone. Safety.

3:56 Halftime score: Nebraska 15, Texas 0. I wish I had another Traveler.

4:11 While urinating next to a Nebraska fan in the bathroom at halftime, I attempt to revive the classic Brice-ism from the South Bend bathroom: "Hey, buddy, niiiiiiiiice cock." He is unamused.

4:21 I buy my 2nd and 3rd $5 beer from the Alamodome merchants. I share my beer with two high school girls sitting behind me. Surprisingly, they are equipped with a flask full of vodka. I send them off to purchase $5 Sprites, so that we may consume their vodka. I have not lost faith. Nebraska is a bunch of pu$$ies.

4:51 No more vodka. The girls sitting behind me have fled for their lives. I purchase two more $5 beers from the Alamodome merchants.

5:18 Score is Nebraska 22, Texas 0. I am beginning to lose faith. This normally would trouble me, but I am too drunk to see the football field.

5:27 I call Southwest Airlines: "I'm sorry, sir. Those tickets have been confirmed and are non-refundable and non-transferrable."

5:37 I try to start a fight with every person behind the concession counter. As it turns out, the Alamodome has a policy that no beer can be sold when there is less than 10 minutes on the game clock. I am enraged by this policy. I ask loudly: "Why the f#ck didn't you announce last call over the f#cking PA system??!!"

5:49 Back in my seats, I am slumped in my chair in defeat. All of a sudden, the Texas crowd goes absolutely nuts. "Whazzis?," I mutter, awaking from my coma, "Iz we winnig? Did wez scort?" Alas, the answer is no, we were not winning and we did not score. The largest (by far) cheer of the day from the Texas faithful occurred when the handlers were walking back to the tunnel and Bevo stopped to take a gargantuan sh!t all over the letters "S", "K", and "A" in the "Nebraska" spelled out in their end zone. I cheer wildly. I pick up the empty Traveler bottle and stick my tongue in it. I am thirsty.

6:16 Nebraska fans are going berserk as I walk back to the truck. I would taunt them with some off-color remarks about their parentage, but I am too drunk to form complete sentences. With my last cognitive thought of the evening, I take solace in the fact that if we had not beaten them in October, they would be playing Florida State for the national championship.

6:30 Back in the car. On the way back to Austin for the 8:00 Texas-Arizona tip off. We can still salvage the day! I crack open a beer. * It is warm. I don't care.

7:12 We have stopped for gas. I am hungry. I go inside the store. I walk past the beer frig. I notice a Zima. I've never had a Zima. I wonder if it's any good. I pull a Zima from the frig. I twist the top off and drink the Zima in three swallows. Zima sucks. I replace the empty bottle in the frig.

7:17 There is a Blimpie Subs in the store. I walk to where the ingredients are, where the person usually makes the sub. There is no one there. I lean over the counter and scoop out half a bucket of black olives. I eat them. I am still hungry. I lean further over the counter and grab approximately two pounds of Pastrami. I walk out of the store grunting and eating Pastrami. The patrons in the store fear me. I don't care.

8:01 We are in South Austin. I have been drinking warm beer and singing Brooks and Dunn tunes for over an hour. My truck-mate is tired of my singing. He suggests that perhaps Brooks and Dunn have written other good songs besides "You're Going to Miss Me When I'm Gone" and "Neon Moon" and that maybe listening to only those two songs, ten times each was a bit excessive. Perhaps, he suggests, I could just let the CD play on its own. I tell him to f#ck off and restart "Neon Moon."

8:30 We arrive at the Erwin Center. My truckmate, against my loud and profane protestations, parks on the top floor of a nearby parking garage. I tell him he's an idiot. I tell him we will never get out. I tell him we may as well pitch a f#cking tent here. He ignores me. I think he's still pissed about the Brooks and Dunn tunes. I whistle "Neon Moon" loudly.

8:47 I am rallying. I have 4 warm beers stuffed in my pants. We're going to kick the crap out of Arizona. 9:11 Halftime score: Texas 31, Arizona 29. I am pleased. I go to the bathroom to pee for the 67th time today. I giggle to myself because of the new opportunity to do "the bathroom Brice." There are no Arizona fans in the bathroom. I am disappointed. I tell myself (out loud) that I have a "Niiiiiice cock." No one is amused but me.

9:41 I walk to the bathroom while drinking Bud Light out of a can. Needless to say, they do not sell beer at the Erwin Center, much less Bud Light out of a can. I am stopped by an usher: "Where did you get that, sir?" I tell him (no sh!t) "Oh, the cheerleaders were throwing them up with those little plastic footballs. Would you mind throwing this away for me?" I take the last swig and hand it to him. He is confused. I pretend I'm going to the bathroom, but I run away giggling instead. I duck into some entrance to avoid the usher, who is now pursuing me. I sneak into a large group of people and sit down. The usher walks by harmlessly. I am giggling like a little girl. I crack open another can of Bud Light.

9:52 I am lost. In my haste to avoid the usher, I have lost my bearings. I have no ticket stub. I cannot find my seats. Texas is losing.

10:09 Texas is being screwed by the refs. I am enraged. I have cleared out the seats around me because I keep removing my hat and beating the surrounding chairs with it. A concerned fan asks if I'm OK and perhaps I shouldn't take it so seriously. I tell him to f#ck off.

10:15 After the fourth consecutive "worst f#cking call I have EVER seen," I attempt to remove my hat again to begin beating inanimate objects. However, on this occasion I miscalculate and I thumbnail myself in my left eyelid, leaving a one-quarter inch gash over my eye. I am now bleeding into my left eye and all over my shirt. "Perhaps," I think to myself, "I'm taking this a bit seriously."

10:22 I am standing in the bathroom peeing. I'm so drunk I am swaying and grunting. I have a bloody napkin pressed on my left eye. My pants are bloody. I have my (formerly) white shirt wrapped around my waist. I look like I should be in an episode of Cops.

10:43 Texas has lost. I put my bloody white shirt back on my body and make my way for the exits. I am stopped every 20 seconds by a good samaritan/cop/security guard to ask me why I am covered in blood, but I merely grunt incoherently and keep moving.

10:59 With my one good eye, I have located the parking garage. I walk up six flights of stairs, promise that when I see my friend I will punch him in the face for making me walk up six flights of stairs, find the truck, and collapse in a heap in the bed of the truck. I look around and notice that traffic is lined up all the way around the garage, six whole flights, and no one is moving. I take a nap.

11:17 I awake from my nap. I see my friend in the driver's seat. I lift my head to look out the bed of the truck and notice that traffic is lined up all the way around the garage, six whole flights, and no one is moving. I am too tired to punch my friend. I call my friend a "Stupid cocks#cker."

11:31 I lift my head to look out the bed of the truck and notice that traffic is lined up all the way around the garage, six whole flights, and no one is moving. I call my friend a "Stupid cocks#cker."

11:38 I lift my head to look out the bed of the truck and notice that traffic is lined up all the way around the garage, six whole flights, and no one is moving. I call my friend a "Stupid cocks#cker."

11:47 I lift my head to look out the bed of the truck and notice that traffic is lined up all the way around the garage, six whole flights, and no one is moving. I call my friend a "Stupid cocks#cker."

11:58 I am jostled. The truck is moving. I lift my head to look out the bed of the truck and notice that traffic is beginning to move on the second floor. I jump out of the truck, walk to the edge of the parking facility, and pee off the sixth floor onto the street below. My friend looks at me like I just anally violated his minor sister. I turn around and pee on the front of his truck while singing the lyrics to "Neon Moon."

12:11 We are moving. We are out of beer. I jump from the truck and go from vehicle to vehicle until someone gives me two beers. I am happy. I return to my vehicle. 12:26 We have emerged from the parking facility. We make our way to my apartment and find Ed sitting on the couch with a freshly opened bottle of Glenlivet on the coffee table in front of him. We are all going to die tonight.

12:59 We have finished three-quarters of the bottle of Glenlivet. We decide it would be a wonderful idea to go dancing at PollyEsther's. Ed has to pee. He walks down the hall to our apartment and directly into the full length mirror at the end of the hall, smashing it into hundreds of pieces. We giggle uncontrollably and leave for PollyEsther's.

1:17 The PollyEsther's doorman laughs uncontrollably at our efforts to enter his club. "Fellas," he says in between his fits of spastic laughter, "I've been working this door for almost a year. I've been working doors in this town for almost 5 years. And I can honestly say that I ain't never seen three drunker mother fudgeers than you three. Sorry, can't let you in." We attempt to reason with him. He laughs harder.

1:44 We find a bar that lets us in. We take two steps in the door and hear "Last call for alcohol!" I turn to the group and utter: "See, dat wasn't that f#ckin' hard. Day don't f#ckin' do that at the Awamo...the awaom...the alab...f#ck it, that stadium we was at today..." We order 6 shots of tequila and three beers.

2:15 Back on the street. We need food. We hail a cab to take us the two and one half blocks to Katz's. The cab fare is #1.60. We give him $10 and tell him to keep it.

2:17 There is a 20 minute wait. We give the hostess $50. We are seated immediately.

2:25 We order two orders of fried pickles, a Cobb salad, a bowl of soup, two orders of Blueberry blintzes, two Reuben sandwiches, a hamburger, two cheese stuffed potatoes, an order of fries, and an order of onion rings.

2:39 The food arrives. We are all asleep with our heads on the table. The waiter wakes us up. We eat every fudgeing bit of our food. Most of the restaurant patrons around us are disgusted. We don't give a f#ck. The tab is $112 with tip.

2:46 I'm sleepy.

9:12 I wake up next to a strange woman. She is the bartender at Katz's. She is not pretty.

It's the BCS, stupid!

By Dan Wetzel, Yahoo! SportsDecember 22, 2005

[I like this article. It says what I have been saying for 2 years now. The "BCS Conferences" and the universities that make up those conferences agreed that the winner of the BCS Championship Game is the sole National Champion. I bet there is a contract somewhere that says that. So much for a university's word. - DS]

The surest bet of college football's annual overload of wild and woolly bowl action is simple, Southern California will not capture a third consecutive national championship, no matter what everyone keeps saying.

Oh, the Trojans may defeat Texas in January's Rose Bowl, host site for this season's Bowl Championship Series title game, but only hype or revisionist history says it would mean a three-peat for SC.

A second title? Sure. Pete Carroll's team whipped Oklahoma last year in the title game to win it all. Do it again and you get back-to-back.

But that certainly isn't three, because the year before it was LSU coach Nick Saban (not Carroll) who hoisted that ugly glass football that goes to the "champion" of the national system that each Division I-A football program (USC included) agrees each season to play under.

Why everyone is saying otherwise is beyond me.

Regular readers know that you can't oppose or detest the BCS more than I do. They also know that in December of 2003 we called Oklahoma's selection over USC into the title game against LSU "a fraud."

But our sympathy to SC's plight back then doesn't change the basic reality of sports, namely that the rules are the rules are the rules. In 2003, just as last year and this one, USC and its representatives of the Pacific 10 Conference, agreed that the system of determining the national champion of college football was the BCS.

That's how all sports work. Before the start of the season, everyone gets together and determines how to crown a champion. Some leagues, such as the NBA or NHL, have a series of playoff series. Some, such as the NFL, have a single elimination tournament. Some, such as NCAA hoops, have bigger fields. Some, such as major league baseball, have smaller ones.
College football's is the most controversial because it is the most ridiculous, designed to protect long standing power and profit in six major conferences (including the Pac 10) rather than equitably determining a champion. Fans hate it. Players hate it. Most coaches hate it.
None of which matters. The powers-that-be who count the money love it, or at least love it enough to agree to it every year. And back in 2003, once Pac 10 Commissioner Tom Hansen, on behalf of USC, did that, the Trojans had to live with the result.

That meant a complicated formula weighing computer stats and human polls determined that LSU and Oklahoma got to play in the championship game even though they, like, USC, had suffered a loss. Most people thought USC was better than OU, but the system factored more than what most people thought. The computers liked OU and once that happened, USC had no claim, ever, to the 2003 national championship.

Yes, the Trojans wound up being crowned champs by the Associated Press pollsters, which is fine and dandy, but that has no official bearing on anything. Before the 1997 creation of the BCS, the AP was about all anyone had, so it is understandable why teams cited its results. But post-'97 it is meaningless.

The agreed upon system was and is the BCS, not the BCS or a popularity contest if it turns out a certain team doesn't like the BCS. You can't rewrite the rules after the fact just because it benefits you.

Now, we understand why the Trojans would lay claim to the 2003 title. The BCS is so pathetic, untrustworthy and impossibly bad, it is human nature to just selectively ignore it. But intellectually it doesn't work that way. The official 2003 champion was LSU.
Why the media says (and will say it a million times in the next two weeks) USC won it all that year is baffling because it certainly isn't factual. I guess if everyone repeats the lie long enough, they no longer think they are lying. Who knows?

It is not like the silly formula hasn't assisted SC through the years. While it is my opinion the BCS screwed them back in 2003, it's also my opinion that it helped them last year. It was then that the formula decided that USC and Oklahoma should play for the title while three other undefeated teams sat out, Utah, Boise State and, most formidably, Auburn.

USC pounded an OU team that was the puffed up product of a weak Big Twelve Conference. It wasn't the Trojans fault, but the reality is they got a cupcake championship game. Considering what Auburn's two great running backs (Ronnie Brown and Cadillac Williams) are currently doing to NFL defenses, is there any doubt the Tigers would have been a much more formidable opponent?

That's the thing with the BCS, some years it helps, some years it hurts. Given the chance, maybe USC would have won it all in 2003. But maybe Auburn would have won it in 2004. We'll never know.

As long as we have the system we have, we can only go with the facts, no matter what the newspapers and television analysts say. In this case, USC and their 34-game and two-Heisman win streak are gunning for their second consecutive national title.

Win the Rose Bowl and next season they can go for the three-peat.