4 million hits!

The brain trust at the Capstone Report have labeled us demagogues. It feels really good. And they typed “impuissance.”

Million dollar coach, million dollar band, million dollar word (used incorrectly) – Bama fans be rollin‘… out of the woodwork and into our comments! Hit after hit, comment after comment. You’d think we were giving away Sabanphetamine.

All because I said Nick Saban was their coach.

Nothing has ever generated more response.

I mean, I told them we hated them, but like ‘rtr’ pointed out, duh.

I told them that they would be cool with Nick Saban’s particular style of icing a kicker.* And they are.

I told them that they would be cool with the announcement that Nick Saban cursed his players for not running up the score enough to satisfy his ‘f—ing hatred’ of Auburn. And they are.

So what’s the big deal?

I hit ‘publish’ about 15 minutes after the game, which sadly means I had known we were going to lose for an hour or more.

Still, that post was not some teary-eyed hissy fit. (The difference between Auburn fans and Alabama fans is that we cry when we win and y’all cry when you lose. And throw bottles. And try to kill your children.)

I mean, did you read the first part?

I said Bama won. I said that it was the worst game I’d ever seen Auburn play (which is saying a lot, considering this impuissant season). It shouldn’t have been, but it was: a slaughter.

Bama fans – you won!

I didn’t expect it. It was a blow-out. 36-0.

I even told you roll tide!

So why comments like this:

hmmmm…can you say SORE LOSER! What a bunch of baloney! Give me a break, you guys win for six years in a row, can’t you just be proud of that and move on. I mean granted you haven’t won nine in a row like we did but you probably didn’t know that we won nine in a row because fans nor coaches went around holding nine fingers up, making a huge deal about it (THATS CALLED CLASS) So you had a crappy season, it happens to everybody. Yes you lost, yes you got SHUT OUT by Bama 36-0 but don’t start the mud slinging about Nick…I’m sure your wonderful Tuberville has never been obnoxious or cursed at the players or said he hated Alabama…nooooo surely not. Grow up! I don’t agree with the use of the wording he used but I’m sure he got carried away and was trying to pump his team up. But just remember this…when you lose, show your class

Pam Todd**

I’ve never been able to figure out if the lack of discernment and appreciation for context is more of a gene thing, or if checking your brain at your cheeks is just necessary to enter the cult. I suppose it doesn’t matter.

Let’s break it down.

Pam “Roll” Todd, I am not a sore loser. Sore losers go with the bottles and guns of above. After publicly ridiculing your opponent, sore losers refuse to shake the hand that blocked the punts. In response to beat downs, sore losers say Brodie things, like “if you take away that one quarter…”

And Pam, what exactly about that post is baloney? Again — Bama won. Check. Nick Saban is your coach. Check. You don’t condone ‘the use of the wording he used,’ but you’re cool with the sentiment it expressed. Check.

So where’s your beef? I’m not sure …

But thanks for your concern: I am proud of our streak. Six fingers proud. And I’m glad you bring that up, because the thumb’n'fingers raping of the Crimson “soul” lo these many years is something I’ve meant to explain since this blog began.

Alabama fans started it.

Doused-yourselves-in-gasoline-struck the match-and-called-the-flames-classless started it.

This might take a second.

I was at the 2005 Iron Bowl. Ground zero. Ground into the dirt 11 times. I didn’t see Tommy Tuberville hold up four fingers – to Auburn fans – on the way into the stadium. I was at Tiger Walk, but I didn’t see him. Neither did 99 percent of the people there. But on that first touch down, I shot four fingers up in the air without thinking. And when the 3rd quarter ticked 3-2-1, I did the same. So did all the Auburn fans around me. We smiled at each other, because this time it meant something more. “Four, four, get’em up.” We kept them up on the way out.

It wasn’t orders, it was natural.

And it was nothing new. Flip through any commemorative “First Time in Jordan-Hare” book, and you’ll see photos of the same. Before the ’89 game, after the ’89 game.

What Pam and her fellows may not realize is that “four” has special significance in the numerology of college football. Four quarters, four downs, four years (in theory) as a player*.

(You’ll note that this did not occur in, funnily enough, ’04. Three fingers would have been weird.)

Winning the 2005 game meant an entire senior class never losing to Alabama – four in a row, then still rarefied Iron Bowl air. The last time that happened was a mini-golden era for Auburn football. Holding up four fingers at the end of that game’s third quarter was a non-verbal pun for victory. It meant something deeper.

Tuberville did it because the fans were doing it. It was a salute, a high five (literally, the next year), and as classless as an index finger “#1,” which is to say, not at all.

It was chummed into scandal by Bama fan extraordinaire Paul Finebaum, and the internet, a fact I noted at the time in a story I wrote on the emerging influence of football blogs (I interviewed some dude named Orson Swindle, and this Jay Coulter guy, and there was this Auburner thing…).

The slogan “Fear The Thumb” was not pre-printed. It did not become the phenomenon we know today overnight. It was born several days after the 2005 Iron Bowl in unique reaction to the feminine hysterics elicited from Bama fans by Finebaum … and Tiger Rags pounced.

But the resulting t-shirt, now a collectors item, was not a unprovoked taunt. It was a message, a proportional response to Bama fans saying Tuberville holding up four fingers (to Auburn fans) was classless (because Paul Finebaum said it was classless). It was advice: Don’t worry about that, don’t worry about four fingers. Worry about next year. Worry about the thumb.

I have only seen Tommy Tuberville hold up four fingers, five fingers, six fingers, or seven fingers to Auburn fans, and even then, only when asked. I have never seen him or heard of him holding up four fingers, five fingers, six fingers or seven fingers to Alabama fans, except when asked to… by a (classless?) Bama fan stationed in Iraq.

So from the description of this picture, I was expecting to see a seven finger pantsing of Terrence Cody. Instead, I see only Auburn fans. You know why? Because it’s at Tiger Walk. Not midfield. Not the Bama bench. (Should he have shouted ‘we’re going to lose!?’).

Alright, that’s settled. Back to Pam.

Mudslinging? There is no mudslinging when it comes to Saban. It’s already all over the place. And there was no mudslinging in that post. Again, you’re cool with the icing technique, and that’s fine, and you’re cool with Nick Saban’s special way of “trying to pump his team up,” and that’s fine, too.

It’s just why we hate you.

I wasn’t listening to it. Gary “let them play” Danielson is a joke. I think Eli Gold would have been more objective. But my wife couldn’t stand having it muted, so she listened. I paced and blocked it out, but then, you know, she’s like “Oh my God…” and I’m like “what” and she’s like, “did you hear that?” and I’m like, “no, what?” and so she rewinds it. And she plays it. And I sit down. We play it again.

I know it was a “semi-private conversation.” I know he didn’t think anyone was listening – that’s part of what makes it so sonofamother… – though of course Tracy Wolfson said it was the loudest she’s ever heard him. And she’s been hearing him for five years.

Here’s the deal:

It’s not the implications that he was running up the score. We wouldn’t expect anything less.

It’s not that he cussed. Damn right – I loved it when Muschamp boomed! it so loud the camera mics cought it.

It’s not even that he said he cussing hated us. I doubt most coaches would have admitted that to their players, even were they to feel that way. But it’s not that.

It’s the “because.”

It’s the if / then.

It’s him cussing exhorting his players to cussing “keep playing” at 29-0 … not for themselves, not for BCS style points, not for the fun or the love of the game… but because don’t they understand how much he fucking hates us.

That’s not a motivational technique. That’s a revelation.

We’ve always known it was us against them. We’ve always known it was good vs. evil. Our way vs. their way. Right vs. wrong. But to here it so starkly articulated was genuinely chilling.

We’re different Pam, you and me. That’s all I’m saying.

See ya’ next year.

* All I could think Karate Kid 2, Karate Kid 2 – the crain kick of Florida ’07 didn’t work twice. But that meant we were going to win. Mystic drum move! It didn’t happen (but the Kodi kata of ’09!). And speaking of Karate Kid – tell me who would play Kreese, Saban or Tuberville. Exactly! That’s my whole point, Bama fans! Your coach is the bad guy in every movie! I know it, you know it, Jerry knows it. And speaking of Jerry, I honestly didn’t even see the cut block or chop block or whatever block it was during the game – must have been pacing – so I’ll let him handle damage control. But again, the thing is, with Auburn, we see that – by a player – and we go, ‘oh, no, no, no.’ Meanwhile, you see crap — from your coach — and you go ‘hell, yeah.’ If it’s a player, it’s rejectable, correctable, typically isolated. If it’s the coach, it’s systemic. You have to get on board. And you do.

** Pam was one of the first. I started with her. But then like, 15 more came, and I even deleted some… but I stuck with Pam… thanks Pam.

*** We all know the legend of Brandon Cox, but who is the “one player to ever beat Auburn” lil’ Nicky fact dropped on his way off the field? What is that — a 7th year senior?

Thoughts from the West Texas observatory – Georgia

photo by Scott Filmer

1992. We haven’t done anything all day. Pat Dye is in his last Georgia game but no one knows it. I’m 13. I’m in the West Stands. We’re down 14-10. It’s dark. It’s cold. No timeouts. We’re on, like, our own one. Suddenly, God boards Stan White’s manhood and he becomes a machine. Stan steers us down the field like some crazy-ass angel. It’s obvious we’re going to win. The Bulldogs are puddling into little girls, and the fans scream for what’s to come. Victory. 100 years. Eagles are flying overhead and collapsing in orgasm. We scream for the moment. Holy holy holy! We’re down to their goal line! Georgia is butter! They are women! We cannot be stopped. Twelve, eleven, ten… everyone’s lined up, we just have to hike it, we’re going to punch it in, we’re going to punch it in, we’re going to punch…

The Georgia Bulldogs, women that they are, are sitting on the ball.

Squatting.

They will not get up. Our guy, Bostic I guess, or maybe it was even Stan himself, on some glorious keeper, or maybe I think we bobbled the snap and Stan falls on it and the refs say “Auburn ball” and Stan has shot up like a vampire and is back on the line waiting for the refs to place it. It’s all just a formality. Go ahead throw your hands up and put the points on the board. Wait, why is the clock still running. Dad… Dad… the clock… we’re ready… why… are… they….

Stan is beside himself. He’s pleading with the refs to do their jobs. But there the Dawgs sit, lounging like Parisians … per the instruction of their “coach” … until the clock hits zero. Then they spring up like bacon’s on the stove in the locker room. They all sprint off the field, all our guys are still in our stances, pinching themselves. Stan is freaking out – I love you Stan. Dye is freaking out – I love you, Coach. The stadium itself is literally booing. Bloody arrows of puberty are screaming from my throat and into the soft necks of the refs. But there the game ends. 14-10.

“Dad,” I said, in tears, “I thought this was America.”

We walked the eight or so miles back to the car – Dad was always obsessed with parking, like, hours away. We drove back to Grandmama’s. I retreated to the soft glow of my grandfather’s office. I got out a piece of paper, I put it in his type-writer, and – fire with fire – preceded to describe the scene I had witnessed.

“Dear NCAA,” it began… “tonight I saw money change hands…”

Dad told me not to mail it. I can’t remember what I did.

***

Years later, out to eat, I see Housel for the second time in like, a week. First at Ruby Tuesdays, now Niffers. And so for the second time in a week, I scrawl a War Eagle or something on a napkin, hand it to a waitress, and try to stalk a friendship out of him. Maybe I even buy him a beer. He waves and he comes over. His wife, he says, is genuinely creeped out. But he’s not, War Eagle. It’s the week of the 2005 Georgia game. I tell him the story.

“I was there David, I saw it, I had good seats, West side, I had the perspective.”

He smiles.

“I think those feelings come from the perspective of your Auburn heart,” he says, poking my chest. “And mine, too.”

***

That’s what I was thinking about yesterday. As my gut turned. As my throat swelled. As my legs couldn’t get comfortable. My Auburn heart hurt. My Auburn heart hurts. We were supposed to win that game. Everyone saw it and felt it and saw it and knows it.

To the Auburner comments:

* Way to bring the refs, Georgia.

* Need some extra holiday cash? Officiate a Georgia game.

* We were lucky in the first half because Georgia dominated us but got no points. Georgia was lucky in the second half because the refs ran out of flags so they decided it was ok to play however they wanted.

* PLEASE someone find out who ref #11 was today and let me know.
post it on here.
give us his personal information.
i just want to send him a fruit basket or something.
and by fruit basket i simply mean hate mail and other various things representing how much i hate him and want him to die… whoops.

* For the first time in a LONG time I truly feel that the Refs cost us the game. I am normally not that kind of fan but damnit….

photo by Scott Filmer

[see more photos from the game here...]

A week after that Niffers thing, Housel replied to my “nice seeing you” e-mail.

“Did you really see money change hands?”

***

Bama will be number one going into the Iron Bowl.

We are going to bludgeon them.

War Eagle.

Thoughts from the West Texas (and I-20) observatory: Tennessee-Martin

I heard Kenny dip into that neat-o Hollywood butter-style – “Brad Lester gets the hand-off and gets maybe a yard” – and that’s when it hit me.

The last time someone was doing a play-by-play for me over the phone was the Vanderbilt game. I was in east Texas, en route to hand off the fam in Shreveport. Dad was at the Holiday Inn Express watching the second most glorious first quarter of Auburn football this year. He was describing it through the phone and we were feeling good. I got to the hotel. The feeling didn’t last.

“Kenny,” I said, not knowing I was on the phone with the once-voice of the Auburn High School Baby Tigers, a team that ran the table this year and could have given the big boys a run for their money, say the experts, “have you called games before?”

Yeah, it was right around there when it really sank in. I was back in east Texas, I-20, the South slowly reappearing, on my way to retrieve the fam at the same hotel.

A whole month I’d been by myself. A whole month starved of Auburn victory.

It got surreal, man. Everytime I called, Kenny would describe some horrible nightmare. The text messages were flaming barbs of disaster. “This is not good.”

Kenny is good. He made Kodi sound exactly like this picture he took of him.

We held on. We won. War Eagle.

Might I add that my week whatever prediction, which leads into my Amen Corner, etc. prediction, was all but dead on:

We struggle against UT-Martin but eventually win by like, three touchdowns… Bama makes it out of Baton Rouge…

We struggled but eventually won by like, two and half touchdowns (from what I understand we just sat on the ball rather than score the last one) and Bama barely made it out of Baton Rouge…

Next:

We beat Georgia with turnovers… [Bama] pulls a Bama win against Miss. St. with some fluke, but get banged up.

Let’s do it, men. Carpe Diem. Flex. Suck in your gut. And ladies, gather ye rosebuds. Let’s all bow are heads. 11:30. Raycom. I love the smell of napalm in the morning.

Thoughts from the West Texas observatory – Ole Miss

Can’t really remember much of anything. Proud the way we came out in the second half. I think Kodi is improving, despite the interceptions. Here’s how the rest of the season is going to go down, in case you were wondering.

We struggle against UT-Martin but eventually win by like, three touchdowns. We beat Georgia with turnovers. Bama makes it out of Baton Rouge. They pull a Bama win against Miss. St. with some fluke, but get banged up. We go into Tuscaloosa and beat them by 10 or more. Bama loses their last three. They get split in two by Tebow in the SEC championship game and go on to whatever bowl and lose in a squeaker. We go on to whatever bowl and win in a really good game that gets a lot of media coverage for some insane play. ’08 gets pressed into the books as 9-5.

Tuberville – I can’t even believe I’m bringing it up – goes nowhere. I’ll be honest. In the midst of the Franklin trauma, I caught myself in a one second day dream about what it might be like with…

But he’s owned up to it and I think he’s learned from it. Honestly, I think he could have two seasons like this and come back for a third. I think he’s earned it. I love him. Sue me.

Finally, remember the streaking thing? TWER’s most popular post ever? Well, there’s a separate blog for that sort of thing now. Spread the word.

War Eagle.

RTRinWVA = Not Obsessed With Auburn

Forrest, a reader, went to the West Virginia game. He wrote us an e-mail:

Right before the game started, four Bama fans, all in red, showed up and sat about 10 rows in front of us. They tried all game to start a fight with the 1000 or so Auburn fans sitting in the next section. I included the pictures and maybe you can write something about how retarded you must be to go to your rival’s away non-conference game.

Thanks a million, Forest… but I think the pictures speak for themselves.

Hmmm. I stared. T’was speechless. They’re powerful images. The faces, the tongue, the sunglasses at night, the ______ stains, the genes, the Randy Quaid….

But what was it about them…

Then it hit me: it’s as if four dudes decided all spur of the moment to Dick or Treat as Bammer stereotypes. Even the sign looks costume. If there was ever a contest for the Bammerish of Bammers, surely these prom kings would make the finals. Are you guys real?

Remember what I said about our one game… I wasn’t talking UT Martin.

Thoughts from the West Texas observatory – West Virginia

I am very thankful I saw the first half of that game. My clothes were actually uncomfortable on me, so tingly with adrenaline was my skin. I was hoarse within ten minutes. Seventeen to freakin’ three. We dominated. Bradley called at half. “Talk to me.” He’d been at work. He knew the score, knew most of the stats. But hadn’t seen it.

We look good, baby, we look good. I can’t believe it. I don’t know if it’s a pretzel and I’m just so damn hungry its filled me up, or if it’s a t-bone and I’m legitimately stuffed. Yeah, he looks good, man. Yep, been in the whole game. He looks comfortable, yeah, it’s good. I don’t know what’s happened. Whatever, we look good, we look good. We kicked a freakin’ on side kick! Oh man, War Damn Eagle. Alright, call you later.

And then the second half. And Bradley thinks I’m a liar.

Oh man, fresh off the vicarious Friday night with Coach, fresh off the Finebaum-Franklin not-really-that-bad tell all, what was it going to be? What would happen? What twists and turns in the cold Appalachian Thursday, what blood would fill our veins and how?

Thursday is over. And the truly tragic ink of the L has dried quickly. The first meeting with West Virginia – lost. We have to live with it.

A quick thought on a contributing factor, a nauseating trend: The quarterback debate has raged, the Franklin fiasco unfolded, but this anguished season has also been marked with what now, eight games in, appears to be habitually shoddy 4th quarter clock management. For years the dice have been rolled properly against all odds and Tuberville would vanilla the hell out of the 4th quarter and we’d hang on to win or come behind at just the right time. This year, the Plinko is screwed up. Maybe it’s just me, but a strange complacency seems to rule our come-from-behind strategy, as if a 5th quarter will flicker on the scoreboard and eventually make wise an uncalled timeout or a decision not to go for it – only four yards – down two scores with six minutes (or even eight minutes on the possession before!) left and facing a most unpleasant and unstoppable greased midget able to spin broken plays into 30 yard runs at will. There was just no way, no way in the world we were going to score twice the way things were going.

But… be that as it may… I am thankful for that half.

It’s the most excited I’ve been this season, the warmest I’ve felt. Which is sad, in a way. But I choose to be happy. It’s not our year. But we have our quarterback. And we will have our game.

… from the West Texas observatory – Arkansas

In retreating to the scriptures this morning, I came upon a stat that put things in perspective:

With the headless, mutant hate child sprung from a guru’s loins and starved in the withered womb of the athletic complex, Auburn gained 53 yards in the first half yesterday – only eight yards more than the 1893 Tigers gained against Alabama with the Flying Wedge in the opening possession of the first Iron Bowl. Oh Foy, oh McKissick… oh Shackelford, Dorsey and Buckalew. Oh Burns, oh Blackmon, oh Lester, Todd and Tate! Retrieve thy tally-ho of yore!

These are the days when you hate yourself for ever weighting the faith of your inner man with a blog’s obligations. I want to write well. I want to pour it all out in genius prose, fix everything with a poem. But right, right, right, I haven’t the time.

Instead, I quoth the Media Guide:

…..We’ve got a choice: get out and push, or fair-weather it over somewhere else. There’s no room for booing. We’re stuck with what we’ve got, and we’ve got to get behind the team and help them out. There’s no money to throw at yet another quick fix. Only hard work, and time, will fix our current woes.

…..War Eagle! It’s great to be an Auburn Tiger! Let’s get behind our team, and cheer them on, no matter what! It’ll get better. Our players know we’ve got their back.

War Eagle, till I die!

(And beat the hell out of Tuscaloosa.)

First sickening thought.

Thoughts from the West Texas observatory (and Shreveport)- Vandy

It was the first I’d actually watch watched with my Dad in a long time and it was in the lobby of the Shreveport Holiday Inn Express. I didn’t make it in time for the first quarter. Dad went Jim Fyffe for me on the phone. The opening drive, it was glorious. And fun. And powerfully Auburn. Dad was having fun, I was having fun letting him have fun, I was playing Stan White, color-commentating off Dad’s reports, I do good impressions. My wife rolled her eyes, but she was having fun. The glorious kid was having fun. I stepped on the gas. We were back in the technically south, just crossed into Louisiana, humidity, pine trees, hallelujah. Let’s get some food and enjoy this last night together, War Eagle, baby. Then my ear went wet with bile – they stopped us on the one. Wetter still when Foot Lauderdale broke up with me after the Fannin TD. Ominous. Gloominous. We stopped them on the one on their last drive in ’93? They stopped us on the one on our first drive 15 years later? 13 to nothing? Friends, I knew we were in trouble.

You will never find a more optimistic Auburn fan than the me that I am. The glass is half-full when there is no damn glass. The glass has been shattered by my Jericholoosa-tuned trumpet. On my faith alone, the Auburn Guard marcheth into the orgasm of hail-mary immortality.

And so it was with fear that I diagrammed the new feeling that logged into me as Vandy’s final punt was downed on the whatever. And it was with loathing that I named it “doubt.”

I mean, I pushed. I strained. I wanted it. I wanted to believe. But I looked into my Dad’s eyes and they said no. They said ‘are you kidding?’ They said, ‘backed up on our goal line? This team? It’s over.’

He was right. And it seemed, please Lord, help me understand, fated. The mugshot of their backup? He looked like a decent person – the perfect anti-example to Hattiesburg Macaulay, who I knew we’d beat – and I hate playing against decent people.

Before the game, I tried hard to ignore the potential irony of watching it in Shreveport. Knock on wood. Afterward, I was overwhelmed by the irony of my thinking that watching it in Shreveport was ever ironic. Because not even the Petro-Sun would want a team so tragic.

Given the context, the loss – the disease – we saw Saturday night was possibly the most debilitating in recent Auburn history. It was shockingly upsetting. Even in our palsied unsubstantiality, we, Auburn, the eternal Davids of the echoing green, were cast by ESPN as a greedy, corporate Goliath coming to rape and pollute the recovery of poor, populist, once-comatose Vandy. And per Bristol talking points, the Commodores went green on our ass – to the tune of a single extra-point off the uprights. Everyone clapped and signed the petition and felt good about themselves at our expense.

My post-loss habits typically involve a deep breath, a shake of the head, another deep breath, a stretch, and a moving on. Upon the interception, it was head to hands, face down, glasses off. I didn’t feel a lump in my throat but I thought, for the splittest second, I might. It wasn’t because it was a loss. It wasn’t because it was to a lesser team. It wasn’t because it was to Vandy, Saturday night’s bizarro-Auburn… (I mean they threw, they ran, the black quarterback takes himself out of the game for the white hero hurdler to come in and save the day. Freaky)…

It was because, like you, I’d never seen us look so bad.

You can tell I’m struggling here. It’s taken till Wednesday to get around to this. And it’s not very good. I think I could have taken the entire week off, actually. There’s the pain, but there’s also the endless maze of theories and attitudes to process, to approve, and I just don’t have the time. (Chris Shelling Jr.’s is drugs – drugs and Franklin. “He’s just disheveled. Have you seen that hair?” No, I said, he’s just laid back, such a nice guy, I mean, that one time I met him in practice, he so took his time with me, you know? He would have gone to Mellow Mushroom with me or something, you know? Spent the whole day with me. “Yeah, and that day probably would have ended in Meth.”)

Personally, I think that for whatever sad, unintended reasons, it has something very much to do with the scenario divined by the refreshingly unpretentious brain trust behind Smart Football, one already linked into orbit by better and more diligent bloggers than me … (superb, Jerry…)

At least the fallout has dampened the kindling of our quarterback fire – noticeably absent in The Wake, at least to me, at least in the blAUgosphere, is the premature apotheosis of Burns and the Todd-aimed bitching – but our coaches seem to be tapping dysfunction straight from the vein.

Despite Tuberville’s makes-sense insistence that the spread could beat back the pimps of Sabanism come signing day, the offensive woes of 2008 seem almost karmic, a seek-ye-first punishment for what we all (not so) secretly feared to be a season-too-soon bailing on Borges. Meanwhile, nice guy Al roams our nostalgia in Auburn pajamas, probably just as crushed as we are.

My one comfort since the drive back through the martian crags of West Texas has been to isolate and objectiy the pain, philosophic like, for what it is. Doing so brings visions: six points to LSU, one point to Vandy. A touchdown… we’re a touchdown away from 6-0… a touchdown away from 6-0 playing like this. And yet we’re in a new strain of apocalypse… it’s fascinating… it’s 2004.

I’ve got to wind things down.

The Arkansas game promises to be epic in the narrative of the Auburn Oh-Thousands. I hope we destroy them, leave none alive.

May the ravens that feed us in this time of crisis unveil a 7th bloated corpse on the 29th of Novemeber.

2nd Corinthians 12:10.

God be with you. War Eagle. Believe.

More thoughts coming.

It was a hectic weekend with a lot of driving. And work presses. But thoughts on it all will come. Don’t worry. In the meantime, I want every head bowed and every eye closed.

War Eagle. War Eagle forever.