Big 10 Preview: Illinois!!

Someone Put The Eyes In Illini! MEEEEOOWWWWW!

The Fighting Illini hail from Champaign-Urbana (pick a city and stick with it, cocksuckers). Their campus has long been home to gentlemen of questionable ethical standards, and current football coach Ron Zook is no exception. He has spent the last off-season luring highly rated prospects to a team that is 1-15 in the Big 10 since 2005, which is clear and blatant evidence of lying, bribery, and possible instances of recruits’ grandmothers being held hostage by men wearing fake Indian headdresses. Nonetheless, the NCAA has decided to let Zook continue his felonious ways for at least one more season without reproach; the thinking must be that his current rate of success is worse than any sanctions the NCAA can impose. That seems fair.
WILL LEITCH says: col-lege foot-ball?

What You Should Know

Illinois is a basketball school, and as mentioned before, those teams are usually pretty fun to meet on the gridiron; nine times out of 10 they suck out loud. Since 2003, that’s been the case for the Whining Illini. The Zooker is back for his third season, and it should be his best yet. Granted, his winning percentage is, according to calculations, “negative eleventy thousand,” so it’s not as if he’s got much more room to drop. Well, unless he volunteers for Locks For Love, then gets busted jacking off in the warehouse.

Aside from the highly plausible confluence of Vidal Sassoon and man juice, the Illini have a slew of young blue-chippers around, including a top-rated wide receiver who joined the team in the spring (probably to save his aunt’s life). Zook is fortunate that the Illini faithful have thus far been more patient than his former employer—as if that’s hard to pull off—because his record thus far has been far worse than the 8-5 year that got him kicked out of Gainesville. Zook is, as a matter of fact, 4-19 in his two seasons at Illinois. 3-19 if you want to be an asshole and only count teams that are in the (ugh) “Bowl Subdivision.”
WILL LEITCH says: Gainesville... that's in Florida.

What You Should Fear

They have a defense. As a matter of fact, they were much stouter than the Hawkeyes on the defensive side of the ball; they gave up only 3.3 yards per rush to Iowa’s 3.6, and they held opposing QB’s to just 182 yards per game through the air. Central to the rush defense is all-Big 10 middle linebacker and THC favorite J Leman (right).

All of that is a bit misleading, of course; opponents spent a sufficient amount of time leading the Illini that they ran the ball 58% of the time; Illinois could stack the line and play for the run more often than not. Regardless, they also spent most of the time losing for the three years prior to 2006, and they were giving up about two full yards more per run then. So let’s not pretend they haven’t nutted up a lot.

Anyway, just about everybody is back on defense; leading the way are cornerback Vontae Davis and Leman. Juice Williams cannot possibly misfire on more than 60% of his passes again (right? um… right??), and he’s got some talent to give the ball to now. In other words, it seems like they can’t possibly suck as bad as they usually do. The degree to which they will improve still, of course, remains to be seen.

The offense looks like it should be good enough. Williams is a physically talented QB who spent much of the offseason working on his mechanics with famed quarterbacks coach, Blaze McHeed. McHeed quickly discovered that the Juice is actually left handed. This should help him in the upcoming season, but he needs to stop letting his mind wander on the field. That seems odd, doesn’t it? An Orange Juice that can’t concentrate.

Sorry.

WILL LEITCH says: Oh shit, a camera. All right, chin down and to the right, eyes up, work the bangs. We can do this, Leitch!

What You Can Probably Laugh At with Confidence

It is the Illini. There’s lots to laugh at. For one, Orange Juice doesn’t even have the silliest name on the team; that would belong either to the aforementioned Aurrelious Benn (SPOILER ALERT: Joaquin Phoenix suffocates him in Gladiator) or the Mullet King (again, right). Questionable parenting aside, there’s also that 2-30 conference record since 2003.

Most importantly, you should take great glee in the fact that their fan base universally hates Iowa. They despise us as a school, team, and fan base. Yeah. Think about it, Iowa fan; do you even care about Illinois? On the list of Iowa rivalries, there’s Iowa State, Minnesota, and Wisconsin dominating the top three; past them, Iowa fans usually care more about the Michigan and Ohio State games more than the rest of the Big Ten opponents. And there’s this team just four hours away that fucking hates our guts. It’s time to relish that fear, to feed on it, and to shove our own apathy back in their mouths.

So, our apologies, Illinois fans. Sorry that you still feel the need to whimper about our assistant coach busting your boy Lou Henson handing out free cars. Sorry that we get all the seriously hot girls from Chicago who spent more time looking good than earning their way into the U of I. Sorry that nobody cared enough about your shitty team to cultivate a rivalry before someone finally called Henson on his shit. Seriously, our bad on this one. And any time you guys want to stop clinging to our nuts, that’s fine.
WILL LEITCH says: We don't get why everyone mocks the bangs anyway. The Zooker recommended them highly. They smell great.

So, Can Iowa Beat Them?

The short answer? Of course Iowa can beat them. It’s Ron Zook vs. Kirk Ferentz. It’s in Kinnick. It’s not as if we’re talking about Michigan here. But it’s not all party favors and streamers here. First of all, as mentioned before, they have a defense. Second, Iowa only took last year’s game by a 24-7 margin; it’s not as if 18-point swings have never happened ever. Realistically, though, the 2008 tilt in Champaign looks much more threatening from the Hawkeyes’ perspective.

If Vegas were to put a spread on this game right now, it would probably look something like Iowa -13.5; for a game in Kinnick against a bottom feeder, even a 2-6 Iowa squad ought to win by two touchdowns. Depending on what both teams do in the first half of the season, that number could swing wildly, but it probably won’t. If it does move much, it’ll probably be in Iowa’s favor. If it dips below 10, Iowa’s season will be in the toilet and you may as well pick up a gambling habit to numb the pain. Once more for the hell of it, J Leman (right).
WILL LEITCH says: Hel-lo, sailor!

What They’ll Do the Rest of the Year

This is awfully tough to figure out; who knows how much the Illini are actually going to improve? Will they implode if Missouri takes the first game by a couple touchdowns or if they can’t get out of the Carrier Dome with a win? What if the Indiana faithful will the Hoosiers to a win in their Big 10 home opener? How Illinois starts the first four games will be crucial to how they finish the conference season. They could go 4-0, or they could go 1-3 (it’s relatively safe to assume that the Illini can take out Western Illinois).

Assuming they’re not world-beaters, they’ll probably be rolling into Iowa City with a 3-3 record, losing to Wisconsin, Penn State, and either Missouri or Syracuse; the Other Orange team won by a deceptively close 31-21 margin in Champaign last season, and they’re also a team on the rise. So once they leave Iowa City with another notch in the L column, life gets a bit better. They have dates with Michigan and An Ohio State University on deck, but the other three games are very winnable (Ball State, Northwestern, and a trip to Minnesota). 6-6 is a fair prediction, as is the subsequent massive over-reactionary contract extension that will keep Zook in the Big 10 for about another decade. This, Iowa fans, should thrill you beyond words.

What we can be sure that they’ll do this year is fill about 40% of their stadium, complain about Iowa, and wear way too much orange for someone who isn’t traipsing through a forest at 5 a.m. with a rifle on their shoulder.
WILL LEITCH says: Orange makes me look splotchy!


"We" would like to thank Mr. JHC for his invaluable help in this nuanced look at the Illinois football team in 2007.

THC Meets with Ron Zook: Part III

OPS and I flew to Chicago to cover the Big Ten Media Conference. If you haven't read it yet, the first part of the meeting with Ron Zook is chronicled here. The second part is here. You'll want to check those out or this story may come off a little weird.


The minute we got outside the hotel, the Zooker's mood changed. I thought he was difficult before; now he was impossible. I kept peppering him with questions, but trying to keep his attention was futile. I finally stopped talking and just got in-step behind him.

We got into a bit of a rhythm after a block or so. He moved down the street at a breakneck pace, covering ground like a silver topped panther, stalking his prey. I had no idea where we were going and if not for the slight giddy-up in his step (probably the result of the Zook Hook pressing the bounds of decency in his khakis), he would have lost me. I was relieved to not have his nose trained on me but to be honest, inside, I felt a desire to get his attention again. I don't know if it was for the story or for more nefarious purposes, but at that moment, I knew I wanted Ron Zook more than I'd ever wanted any man before. As he leapt from corner to corner I tried to look about to see where we were but none of the streets looked familiar, nor did the faces. As the shadows grew long, my patience grew short. I was losing my buzz and now petulance was my mask to wear.

Finally, I grabbed him by his meaty shoulder and said, "if you just tell me where we're going I'll let you smell my hair as long, and as hard, as you need to."

Without breaking his stride, or even turning, he whispered one word: "Chinatown."

(read more...)

THC meets with Ron Zook: Part II

Hey, Jebus here. I'm a professional journalist now, so I did what we do and flew to Chicago with OPS to cover the Big Ten Media Conference. His meeting with Ron Zook is, chronicled here. If you haven't seen it yet, you need to.

So, we're in Chicago and I was just starting to have fun when I got a harried phone call from OPS. Here's the transcript from the call (that got me out of bed):

OPS: Wake up, shithead. You don't even want to know what happened to me this afternoon.

JHC: I'm pretty busy here. What do you need?

OPS: Whatever. Zook is fucking weird and I'm out of here. I'll walk back to Iowa.

JHC: Hang on. You're with Zook? Sweet! How's his tan?

OPS: He's a freak, and not the cool kind. I'm grabbing my shit and leaving. Between what you got and what I got we can make the rest up.

JHC: Hang on. I told you there'd be things you didn't like. That's part of being a journalist! We're pros now, man. Sack up! It's not all free fried food, adultery, and plagiarism. What's the big deal?

OPS: ... he keeps smelling me.

JHC: Wha?

OPS: Yeah. He made me buy new shampoo and then he sniffed me like a hothouse flower. It was like he was trying to sniff my insides...

JHC: He's a "sniffer", huh?

OPS: How the hell do you even know what that is? You know what? I actually don't want to know. I'm getting my stuff and taking off. Later.

JHC: No! Stall him. I'll be there in 5 minutes.

OPS: What? Where are you? What happened to busy?

JHC: We have adjoining rooms. I put them on Hawkeye State's Amex.

[adjoining room door opens and Jebus comes out]

OPS: Dude, put some fuckin' pants on, it's 3 in the afternoon.

JHC: Right.

[Jebus goes back into room, comes out seconds later looking groggy but strangely focused]

JHC: Let's do this.

OPS: Are you still drunk? Did you shower today? Did you shower this week?

JHC: What week is it?

OPS: I'm getting my shit. You freaks do what you want.

[OPS enters room with JHC following]

Zook was sitting in the corner of the room, which was totally dark, except for the lamp in the corner. His leathery face may have been obscured but we could feel his steely glare.

"So you needed back-up for the Zooker?," he spit out.

OPS walked over to the bed, grabbed his notebook, his bag, and he muttered, "family emergency... this is Jebus... later" toward Zook and as he passed me on the way out he whispered, "you boys have fun". He left the room and as the door slammed the Zooker shouted after him, "GOOD GAME" with authority.

Zook didn't move. We had a timeless staredown but finally gave up because it was so dark we couldn't tell if one of us blinked. I went over to open the blinds. Zook saw his opening and was up like a shot. He slipped in behind me, got on his toes, and got a cheap smell in, I felt the heat of his proboscis graze the back of my left ear.

".... what... what is that?", barked Zook, baffled.

I looked at him knowingly and said, "Hi, coach. I'm Jebus H Christ with The Hawkeye Compulsion. Why don't you have a seat and lemme ask you some questions."

Zook backed into the chair and sat down hard. "What was that scent?", pleaded the Zook, more to himself than anything else.

I started the interview (I may have been slightly slurring my words), "I think it's clear you have things moving in the right direction on the defensive side of the ball. You have J Leman, who's got tremendous hair, by the way..."

"HE DOES!", Zook interrupts, and instantly perks up.

"...but I want to know what makes you think you're going to be able to build something over the long haul here? If we assume you aren't cheating, which you clearly are, how are you going to succeed as a football coach at a basketball school if you couldn't succeed as a football coach at a football school?"

"How tall are you, son?"

"Six-four."

"What do you weigh?", the Zook continues.

"205."

"Why can't I smell your hair?", the Zook pleads petulantly.

"Can we get to the interview here?"

"Can we get to the interview here?", mimics Zook, childishly.

"Coach, come on. Let me do my job."

"I am sooooooooo sick of foot-ball! Jiminy Christmas, doesn't anyone want to talk about fishin'? Or newsy stuff? Ask me about water skiiing!", cried an aroused Zooker.

"Let's shift gears. Why don't we get out of here and go catch a drink?"

At this point, Zook positively leapt to his feet with an aggression and athleticism that both surprised, and intrigued, me. I also noticed for the first time that flat front pants were an ill-advised fashion choice because he was aroused and not ashamed. Before I had a chance to say anything he was hustling me out the door with a hand just a little too low on my back and his ever present nose was just fucking hovering on my shoulder. I didn't like his intentions but I liked his moves.

"I know just the place! The Zooker will treat you to a nice haircut!"

"... I thought we were going for a drink?", I asked suspiciously.

"Place I have in mind, you'll get both!"

I pointed to his crotch and asked, "you bringin' that too?"

He looked down and proudly swiveled his hips lasciviously, exclaiming (just a little too loudly), "The Zook Hook? Oh yeah!"

Part III, is here.

THC meets with Ron Zook: Part I

(Legal disclaimer: you should not believe a single word of any of this)

One of the perks of being a Big Ten Blogger(tm) is that we're granted unlimited access to all Big Ten media functions, like this past week's Big Ten Media Conference. Sure, we're technically not members of the media, but I am an excellent string-puller (for future reference, readers, think long and hard before you agree to perform an unspecified favor for Jim Delaney. Long and hard.).

When JHC and I arrived in Chicago, we were awed by the luxurious set up for the coaches, players, and reporters. The tables were filled with media guides, posters, and other free memorabilia. We never thought we'd need a free 2" Purdue helmet, but you never know, right? Jebus mentioned that his flask was empty (note: it wasn't when we got on the plane at 9 A.M.), and after promising he wouldn't drive, he set out to remedy the situation. I, on the other hand, got my responsible journalist on.

The hottest interviews were, of course, with Jim Tressel and Lloyd Carr. That's no surprise. I wasn't able to get any meaningful questions to them, so I decided to pursue some of the less famous coaches.

After kibitzing with Bill Lynch, whose most common response to questions was "I told you my name's not 'Terry'," I asked a fellow journalist (hint: name rhymes with Dirk Werbstreit) where the Illinois table was. His face blanched in terror.

"Why?" he asked. I replied that I wanted to get a few quotes from Zook.

He stood in stunned silence for a beat, then burst out laughing. When he noticed I didn't laugh along with him, he settled down. "Did you stay here at the Regency this morning? What shampoo did you use?" he asked.

"The shit in the little bottles they give," I responded.

The well-coiffed journalist cackled with glee. "All right, man," he said. "Go talk to Ron. Let me know how it goes."

As soon as I sat down at the table, star tailback Rashard Mendenhall quickly excused himself. I naively saw nothing wrong with that and began asking Zook some questions.

I started with some softballs, like: "Do you believe the hype about Illinois making a bowl game in 2007?"
"We're getting better and better!"
"How about Isaiah, or as--"
"JUICE!!!"
"Yeah, uh, 'Juice'--"
"Juice is getting better and better."

I was about to bring up the absurdity of Williams' 37% completion rate when Zook's nostrils flared and he stared daggers into my eyes.

"You staying here this weekend?"

I waffled, perplexed. "Uh, yeah, someone else asked--"

"I can smell it, son! You think Swindle uses goddamn Suave?!" he barked.

Before I could respond, I was sent away from the table by security. As I wandered around in a daze, I felt a firm grab on my arm. It was Zook.

"There's a Whole Foods on West Huron," he whispered into my ear. Then he quite conspicuously sniffed me, which elicited a disdainful groan. "Your hair's thick," he needlessly reminded me. "Like a horse, or a dog. Pick up something to make it smell good."

If I was going to get my chance to ask the hard-hitting questions (how does someone get fired from Florida that quickly? whose member of Aurrelious Benn's family did he have to kidnap at gunpoint to get him to commit?), I figured it wouldn't be too much of a hassle to pick up some shampoo.

After the quick stop at the store, I showered quickly, and began dressing. As I was slipping on my shirt, there was a knock at my door. I opened it, and Zook stood there, eyes ablaze.

"Mr. Zook, I, uh," I began.

"You showered," he responded. "Good."

"Yeah. What are you doing here? Who told you what room I was in?"

"Shhh." He put his finger to my lips and walked in. "I suppose you want to do this interview."

"Well, yeah, uh--" I stammered. "I gotta get my notebook, I wasn't really planning on doing this up here, or you being in here at all. Ever."

Always the Casanova, Zook sat down on the bed, gently placed his hand on my notebook and said, "We'll get to that," which was more than mildly unsettling. "How much did you spend?"

"Oh, it was like $7. Don't worry about it," I said. "Please."

Undeterred, Zook took a $20 bill out of his pocket, folded it the long way, and put it on the night stand. "It's on the Zook," he said. As he exuberantly crossed the room to close the blinds, he smelled my hair again. "Organic shampoo? You dirty little bitch."

Part II, written by JHC, is here.
The horrifying finale of the Zook trilogy is here.

THC Meets with Ron Zook: Part III

The minute we got outside the hotel, the Zooker's mood changed. I thought he was difficult before; now he was impossible. I kept peppering him with questions, but trying to keep his attention was futile. I finally stopped talking and just got in-step behind him.

We got into a bit of a rhythm after a block or so. He moved down the street at a breakneck pace, covering ground like a silver topped panther, stalking his prey. I had no idea where we were going and if not for the slight giddy-up in his step (probably the result of the Zook Hook pressing the bounds of decency in his khakis), he would have lost me. I was relieved to not have his nose trained on me but to be honest, inside, I felt a desire to get his attention again. I don't know if it was for the story or for more nefarious purposes, but at that moment, I knew I wanted Ron Zook more than I'd ever wanted any man before. As he leapt from corner to corner I tried to look about to see where we were but none of the streets looked familiar, nor did the faces. As the shadows grew long, my patience grew short. I was losing my buzz and now petulance was my mask to wear.

Exasperated, I grabbed him by his meaty shoulder and said, "if you just tell me where we're going I'll let you smell my hair as long, and as hard, as you need to."

Without breaking his stride, or even turning, he whispered one word: "Chinatown."

The moist summer air gave portage to the word and it grazed my lobe like an insistent lover. That singular word, as it washed over me, sent a bolt of energy through my nether regions like I've never felt before, and I froze. I was dumbstruck and--to be clear--more than a little creeped out. His behavior was such that the only thing I was certain of was that he wasn't fucking around. He was going somewhere and I was going with him. As soon as I decided I was all-in, he was gone. I looked around frantically, but he was nowhere to be found. I moved forward and as I did I noticed for the first time that I was a full head taller than everyone around me. I was in Chinatown. I moved down the street, discarding Chicasians left and right. I suspect I was causing a bit of a scene because eventually my diminutive speed bumps cleared a path and let me through. I was directionless, though, and the faster I moved, the farther I felt from my man. I must have run a mile, randomly turning left and right; I think I passed the same bodega 3 times (fuckers all look alike). I was frantic. I may or may not have been crying (a little). I finally bellowed out like a mighty beast, "ZOOKER!!!!" and pounded my fleshy paws on the wall of a seedy shoe store/tattoo parlor/whorehouse. When my lungs burned and my hope was snuffed I stopped. This was it. I was done. I'd failed. I was no journalist. I wasn't even a blogger. I was just another hopeless, sexy, fully aroused man, drenched in sweat, lost in the armpit of the Midwest.

Just as I decided to head back toward civilization, I felt a little tug on my sleeve. It was a small boy (or possibly a tweenish Asian Catholic school girl hooker?) trying to garner my attention. I grumbled and pulled away. I think I actually growled at it. As I took a step away I heard a little voice say, questioningly, "zookhook?" You look for zookhook?"

I unclenched my raised fist and said to it, "You know where the Zooker is? If you do, take me there. If not, I'm not paying more than $10 for a tug."

It (upon further inspection it looked like it was a middle-aged man) replied, "follow me, Big Boy!" and it scurried down an alley.


It was full-on dark now and I was pretty sure I was about to be mugged or brought to a filthy Cantonese restaurant; either way, I was up for it. I went down the alley, turned a corner, and there was one light. It was bright and red and dirty, like a beacon of sin. I didn't need my little erstwhile Sacagawea to tell me what time it was. I knew I'd found the Zooker.

I don't even have a foot in the door and I hear from the back of the room, "Big Boy!" in that unmistakable Zook croak.

It was somehow dark and bright at the same time. I could hear him but couldn't see anything. The place... smells. I don't know if it's opium or if someone's getting a perm. All I can hear is giggling and "zookhook", over and over again. I finally get my eyes on him and I wish I hadn't. He's exposed, aroused, and wearing nothing but a ne'er do well smile and a cock ring made of what appeared to be pot stickers. He also looked like he'd never been happier. There was nothing sexual going on, but some things, specifically things involving Ron Zook, massage oil, and his unfathomably crooked shank cannot be unseen. I've been around (a lot) and I've never seen anything like it. He dispatched a few of his half dozen minions over with a flick of his newly manicured finger and they practically carried me to a throne next to (but significantly less baroque than) the Zooker's. As they attempted to remove my clothes I shook them off. He gave me a sly look and said, "lighten up, Newsy. This is on the Zooker."

"That's great coach, but I'd like to get an interview in..."

He clapped his hands and within seconds I had a tumbler with 6 fingers of bourbon and 3 ice cubes, just how I like it. I instinctively reached for it and took a long pull from it. I felt the Zooker's knowing smile, but I didn't care. That glass was the teat of God, and I was sucking it like the runt of Christ. I drank it down in one drink and it was the best drink I've ever had. It burned all the way down and a single whiskey tear trickled down my cheek. It burned too. I was instantly soused and I didn't resist when what felt like a thousand greedy fingers removed my clothes. Soon enough I was wearing nothing but my notebook. Zook took an appraising look at me and winked, "lookin' good, Big Boy. Don't worry, the Zooker's a vault."

"Can we get to the interview? " I slurred. I was thinking there was more than bourbon and ice in that glass. I liked it.

"You ask one, I ask one. That's how the Zooker plays ball."

"I have never seen worse technique on a Division I QB. What are...

"He's color blind too. Ain't that a sumbitch?"

"... noted. What are you doing to get him on the same page, offensively?"

"You hit that one, Newsy. One page. That's it. Zooker trimmed the playbook down for the stupid bastard. I'd like to see OBC think of that."

"Speaking of which..."

"Nice try, this one's mine. Why couldn't I smell you back there? "

"I'm odorless, man. Totally odorless. Always have been, " I replied.

"No WAY!"

"Way. And it's my turn. We both know you're cheating..."

"Right."

"That wasn't my question, by the way, but thank you."

"You cheeky motherfucker!"

"Thanks. So, the cheating thing, it works. I can see that. But you're going to have to coach, eventually. You will need a system to move to the top of the Big 10. Your one-page playbook theory sounds great, but what are you going to do when you look at that talent all looking back at you and you have nothing to say? You know, like when you were at Florida?"



"I don't understand how you're odorless. What if you sweat?"

"You never answered my question, but I'll give you this one. Nope. Not even when I sweat. Not even when I bleed..."

"No one makes me bleed my own blood, " he interrupted, as though it was the funniest thing he'd ever said, "you know what movie that's from?"

"Dude, seriously, don't waste your questions on shit like that. " I cautioned.

" 'Don't waste your questions! I'm Newsy! I'm bossy!' Lighten UP, man. Jesus. Do you like mango?"

"Juice?"

"No, shampoo, I bet you'd smell fab."

I couldn't help it. I was flattered. I also noticed that my eyes were getting really heavy. I was sure now that they'd slipped me a mickey. "You drug me, coach?"

"Big time. It's amazing you're still sitting up. I'm fucking crashing myself. Arr.. arreell... fuck, what's his name, Newsy?"

"areln... Arreola... dude... I dunno, " (I think) I replied.

"That Benn kid. He's always talking about the purple drank. He thinks he's the shit. I brought him in here and he was out for 2 days. You should see the video. Kid's got a cock like a fucking peanut too..."

"fasd sleepp"

"Me too, Newsy, me too. It's lights out for Captain Zook."


I woke up in the back of a cab on the way to the airport Monday afternoon. To this day, I have no recollection of what transpired over the weekend. I felt surprisingly good, but I was wearing the Zooker's pants. That was awkward. My cell chirped, I looked at the ID and it said "Zookster." Which was new to me. I answered it (which I never do), and before I even said anything he started in.

"Newsy! You were a blast. Hey, no hard feelings. I took care of everything with the girls too. I didn't rape you or anything if that's what you're worried about. I'm not into dudes. I will say this, your hair smelled fucking awesome when they were through. I was wrong about the mango. You're strawberry-kiwi, all the way. We still on for Oct 12th?"

I was in shock, awe, and rage. I'd lost the last 48 hours, and I'd probably been raped--repeatedly--by a bumbling, water skiing head coach of an arch rival. But as I answered, I looked in the rearview of the cab, and I had the best haircut of my life. It was outstanding. Without a second thought I said, "Aye fucking aye, Captain!"