"Man, New Orleans was WILD. Laurinaitis passed out in the middle of Bourbon, and Brutus ate like 25 Lucky Dogs and chugged 7 Hand Grenades. He soiled himself...dotted his "i," he did. Got some lapdances from some really hairy ladies...it was the only thing that made us feel better after that beatdown. Herbstreit was completely hammered...he kept asking every bartender to fix him a double 'Ginn and Juice.' One barkeep said, 'Sir, the only Juice we have here is Williams.' Then the crying started. Look, here's how bad it was: Clarett was surveying the whole situation with stern disapproval. Man, we suck."     "YIPPEE!" In a parallel place on an ethereal plane somewhere far away...even farther away from reality than the webbed, ruddy denizens of Tuscaloosa, high on a precipice, there is a place... There, it is a pristine day; the orchard is full and the leaves gently sway. A small creek, babbling like a Holtz, winds its way through lavish gardens towards a grand intricately tiled plaza. The air is thick with the pungent smell of honeysuckle and grilled encased meatsThe plaza is lined with small pillars, upon which the bronzed heads of heroes rest, standing guard like foot soldiers, except without any feet. Or arms. Or kidneys. Or privates. But their sly smiles turn toward the plaza, pointing the way. The plaza and path are dwarfed by a grand structure: slutty caryatids surround an ornate stone rotunda. From the west, there is a noise. The pavillion from the lyceum is filled with hearty laughter and chatter; a dozen cossacked men make their way briskly towards the rotunda. There is excitement and palatable fervor as the men enter the rotunda. There it stands: a massive stone circle, etched and framed with gilded flourises, bolstered by weathered wood. It is a grand structure, replete with weathered grooves. Upon it, there are beautifully colored stone spheres...hues of green and red and blue adorn each sphere. There seem so many; but it is finite: 119, to be exact. The men stare at each other: there is work to be done. Spheres begin to slide across the circle, winding through the grooves, slamming into one another; one by one, the beautiful orbs are removed and placed on their respective pedastals upon the rounded wall. There are gasps and giggles and pounding and shouting...the gentleman they call "the Independent" is so beaten, he takes solace petting his rainbow-plumed peacock. A crimson sphere begins to seep a viscous oil that smells like deep fried something-or-other; it is quickly removed. Eventually, spheres begin to slow, and two move inexorably towards each other...a deep purple and gold, and a scarlet and gray. They click ever so slightly, and the men yell in triumph. The football gods have made their decision. In celebration and in the spirit of camaraderie, the men hoist tankards of swill and walk to the rear gardens. A sharp observer might note that these grounds are marked...every 5 yards, actually. The men stop and marvel, as they always do, at the stunning creature that guards through the grounds; a noble, massive tiger with eyes of gold. The beast walks near a tree and squats to relieve himself, and the men laugh. They are happy and drunk, and of course not interested in reviewing the tiger's scented gift. Were they to inspect it more closely, they might see the little chunks of something sprinkled throughout...turns out it's just some buckeyes. Well, kids, we find ourselves at the foot of a different kind of rotunda. Oh, what a crooked path we travel. Not as crooked as an Auburn O-lineman or some SEC officials, but sure, it's got a lot of bends and stuff. Not literally of course, since it's a pretty straight shot to New Orleans from Baton Rouge, unless you get in like Sorrento or something, like if you have to Saban really bad. But we digress - the biggest tussle of them all...so huge that it requires not just any old boring dome to hold it. Oh no. So huge that it can't be held in the desert, or on the beach, or in the foothills...nope. This fancydance requires a setting of a more carnal nature, one that revels for the sake of revelry. A place where Midwesterners are used to disrobing and making out with inanimate objects. Bonus part, it's a month early! To the battle now at hand. Lads and lasses, the Buckeyes of THE ohio state - the candy-coated drippy cotton dream of Kirk - are in town. A formidable foe, to be sure. Seriously, they were in the championship game just LAST YEAR! Well, when we say "in the game," we mean they showed up. They are so fierce, their own player Ted Ginn returned a kick for a touchdown, and they nearly broke his leg JUST BECAUSE. And their linebacker was dating Laura Quinn and was in a click-clack thing. Seriously, how can we possibly compete? Our band is only like the best darn band in the region, and theirs...theirs...THE WHOLE LAND! Well, they're pretty much from the Arctic Circle, so we don't know anything about them. OR DO WE?!? That THE ohio state's Band's moniker is "The Best Damn Band In The Land," or "TBDBITL" for short? Who are we to argue with a band whose uniforms are straight out of Pink Floyd's The Wall? Hammers marching, birds that turn into bombers...like an Ole Miss bowl game, they don't really exist. If you don't eat your meat, you can't have any pudding. Coincidentally, "pudding" is Glenn Dorsey's second-favorite snack, right after quarterback pancreas. That TBDBITLROFLLOL's big tradition is spelling out "OHIO" in script? This Cirque de Soleil-like event has been called the "greatest tradition in all of sports." In second place is the singing of the National Anthem. We totally get the tradition; we learned cursive in 2nd grade and it's stuck with us ever since. Thank you, TBDITLNKOTB, for setting the bar high and appealing to a fanbase who is able to read cursive. Our stupid block letters are suitable only for 1st graders, the useless bastards. That TBIDTL2LEGIT2QUIT's other big tradition is "dotting the 'i'" in the cursive "Ohio"? That's not all that impressive. Now, we could change our tune (GET IT THEY'RE A BAND) if they were to ever play at Ole Miss (and who wouldn't want to now that they have their Nutt) and honor their foe by spelling "Mississippi" and dotting all those "i's." In cursive. Just don't say "cursive" to a Rebel fan, lest you get a pimento-shrimp-dip-covered dueling glove right across your face. They don't take kindly to your bawdy language. That THE ohio state is 0-8 versus the SEC? There's no "i" in the number "9," but maybe someone could just stand in the middle? Or maybe the drum corps could be the hyphen? In cursive. That THE ohio state's stadium's nickname is "The Horseshoe?" Horseshoes are used for luck, or for Orlando Pace nipple rings, or for chain / ring puzzles, and they show up in the fine adage: "Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades." We bring this up because we actually know where to get some Hand Grenades. That Buckeye great Archie Griffin is the only player to win 2 Heisman Trophies? Tim Tebow has already been given 3, and this one time in EA NCAA football we had this guy named Coy Chaisson who had like 2,000 rushing yards, 43 touchdowns, 1,600 passing yards, 3 interceptions, 9 PATs, a net punting average of 43.6, 6 pancakes, a lot of YAC, 2 forced fumbles, and a safety. He won 4 Heismans. Sorry, Archie. That the Buckeyes are part of the Big Ten Conference, which actually has eleven teams? Maybe they should stick to fancy writing. That the Big Tenleven determines the winner through a quasi round robin? That the THE ohio state and Michigan rivalry is said to be one of the greatest in all sports? Problem is, THE ohio state has won like whatever of the last however many games. It's almost as if the game was scripted. DOT THAT, SALLY. That Andy Katzenmoyer might understand about 1/10th (or is it eleventh) of this The Trough? That the bookish coach of THE ohio state is known for his sweatervest? Want to know who else is known for a sweatervest? That's right. THE DEVIL. Oh sure, THE ohio state buckeye team, led by the supposedly erudite sweatervested Mr. Meepers, has been hearing all year that they are slow. Too slow for the SEC. That they are overrated. That they fidget with their privates a lot, especially in public. That they all think airbrushing is cool. That they grill puppies. That they are TiVo'ing Dance War: Bruno vs. Carrie Ann. That they once ate a Dorito out of a urinal. And while there may some truth in there, we know that this will be a battle to the gritty end. Of the first quarter. Welcome to the South, Mr. Meepers and Marching Hammers. Your motivation will be all for naught. You can prepare your game plan, you can play the "respect" card, you can put your stickers on your helmets, and you can ask for heavy starch on the sweatervest. But you are coming here. To our city. To our dome. To our noise. To our bedlam. We're usually hospitable, welcoming folks. No iced tea on the porch this time, Meepers. You're in charge of the "i" dotting, and we'll make sure they "cross the t" on when etching our name onto the trophy. HAT: 31, BEANIE: 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.