With apologies to Frankie Muniz, who certainly wouldn't have lost to Stayht.     "Hey, Mr. Ref Fella, how are you doing? Excited about this weekend's game? Yep, we're headed to Baton Rouge. You have a lovely lawn. Oh, look - you've dropped something...is that a banana peel? Oh, look at this! It's a penaltay flag...with several thousand dollars next to it! Wow! I think somebody got a visit from the Lowder Bunny!" Football gods, deities of the gridiron; you ancestral spirits of yore who govern this awesome game sometimes with a jittery, drunken, greasy hand...what did we do to upset you? Was it that we deleted that Lifetime movie? Or that we fast forwarded through that commercial you like with chicken? Whatever it was, we're sorry. That being said... You take us to the site of the last-second-bean chunk...the one with the ounces of bounces...and you feed us feet first into the grating disk of the cosmic food processor. Pop the splash guard on, pulse a couple of rotting eggs with some pickled beets, then pour in a steady stream of rancid pork fat and transmission fluid. The end result? A tangy emulsion of pure stink which might be able to wash the thick coat of pain coating our dropped maws. THANKS A LOT, YOU BASTARDS. That's the last time we let you have the rest of our syrup so you can use it for a dipping sauce for your meatball Hot Pocket. Wait...maybe last weekend was a test; one of those David Carradine ones, with the bamboo whipping and the stones and the slugs, like an Alabama betrothal! Yes, that's it! It was a necessary detour...we're ready, and of course sorry. Tell you what - go ahead and pour that stuff in our "World Record Holder - Longest Makeout" mug and let's chug-a-lug, kids, because we don't have time to thrash about on the ground like a capybara having just eaten peyote. Not this week. It's not that we need to tell you : SuperTube and his merry band of also-rans are coming to town! That's right, ladies and lads, better start holding in that urine, because those NERF balls ain't gonna soak themselves. Get out the block and tackles, because it's not enough to tip over some port-o-lets, OH NO. That crap is for amateurs. Nope, this time we're going to break out the block and tackle and just lower shrieking Auburn fans into scalding pitch, all while our fight song plays. Toddlers have been fed a steady diet of Red Bull and BC Powder all week, and they've been forced to watch the replay of that egregious pass interference fantastic Auburn defense from last year. Many have undergone surgery to have their hands replaced with trowels and pizza cutters, so that when the teenagers finally drag the Auburn fans to the ground in the annual Auburn fan chase The Jostling of the Jowls, the wee ones can really get in there and do some good old fashioned field dressing. "Mommy, look! I'm Torquemada!" We'll spot them by their colorful pom-poms they carry in their orange back pockets - it's like plumage! Heck, maybe they can flap those rear feathers and catch a whiff of something...maybe...corn dogs? Quite possibly the pinnacle of human humor, this corn dog trope has filled boys and girls all over the world with a true joy, a warming sensation not unlike finally stealing a smooch from your cousin under the lights of Jordan-Hare. The Trough says to all - let us embrace it. Let us make it our own. Let us say now, with the spark of a hot mustard, WE SMELL LIKE CORN DOGS. The Corn Dog Credo I am an LSU fan. When people walk by me, they say, "Damn, that guy smells AWESOME." That is because I smell like nature's most perfect food - a corn dog. My meaty flavorful center is guarded by a smooth dense crust, like a golden brown sheath of battle. I am constantly surrounded by a hug of savory cornmeal, and I stand ready - stick in rear - to throw your mouth a flavor party. Smelling like a corn dog means never having to rely on Charmin to celebrate a victory, in the way only high schoolers can. Smelling like a corn dog means never having to shake a pom-pom. Smelling like a corn dog means never having to face the ignominy of fielding a special teams player who can only get fired up fighting the band. Smelling like a corn dog means I can inhale the sweet smell of corn dogs instead of having to smell the bull dung emanating from the field when a "can't boost off a player on the PAT" penalty is thrown, or a magical pass interference penalty VANISHES...POOF!. Smelling like a corn dog means I get to see touchdowns instead of field goals, so many so that even the field goal kicker is allowed to get some, too. Smelling like a corn dog means feeling the earth shake. Smelling like a corn dog means not losing to Mississippi State. Smelling like a corn dog means celebrating a parade of colorful characters from Elvis to Superman to pimps, and it means never having to wear orange pants and ties, looking like a foot soldier in a jackass army. Smelling like a corn dog means seeing an actual BCS championship trophy on campus. In seasons and in days of light and dark, may the corn dog oil never a spark. To towering trees that scrape horizon's line, may you fall with fury to be carved in time, Into a stick, a pillar, a miniature log; a shape becomes a cog in the center of the dog. Oh corn, you corn, growing high to noble story, may the rippling wind be a harbinger of much greater glory. And to barnyard beasts who form a most columnar meat, may they prance with delight at such a remarkable feat. For to forever power smell and flavor, it must be an honor to truly savor. Golden brown and delicious, this much becomes clear: if you smell a corn dog, an LSU Tiger is near. Auburn, we plan on making New Orleans reek of corn dogs, but we'll hit you enough to leave some stink on you, maybe mask some of that dipspit stench. Heck, the dog might even go back to licking you without you licking it first. Enjoy your stay. Tigers 24, War Damn Refereeagle 14 Welcome to The Trough, a place that really gets to the meat of LSU's opponents. Ok, not so much the meat, but the sinewy gristle and thick connective tissue. We then feed these funbits through a grinder to get a coarse meaty bounty, and that's what is on display here. It should be a given that while The Trough is loosely related to LSUChicageaux.com, it's more like a Baton Rouge uncle than a Tuscaloosa cousin. In other words, what's in The Trough is obviously not endorsed by any official LSU entity. They've got better sense than that.