Kill! Kill! Kill!: A Preview of FSU vs. University of Louisiana Monroe

It's going to start slow.  A little cuddling.  Maybe some nip sucking. Perhaps some light finger banging.  Who knows, maybe we even play "just the tip".  Then BAM!, we're caveman fucking you University of Louisiana-Monroe ("ULM").  Caveman fucking you good.  No condom.  Not pulling out.  No fucking sir.  You heard it here:  after some brief tenderizing, FSU is going to throw ULM over an office chair, pile-drive fuck every orifice in their body that will accept a cock, then grab them by the ponytail, throw them up against the wall of some seedy, back-alley establishment, pin back their legs and commence to hump, thrust, pump and jizz the Warhawks into submission.  For those of you with a violence fetish, it should be just what you're looking for. 

And, while FSU is busy in the missionary position, we will be where we always are around this time of year.  No, not behind Cinnabon eating the thrown away sweet rolls out of the dumpster.  And no, not hanging out at the bus station daring each other to lick the toilet seats on the men's bathroom.  Rather, we will be knee-deep in a flowing, wild river of delicious, life giving whiskey, soaking up every drop of this Saturday's blood shower.  Oh, and there will be Copenhagen.  Miles and miles of juicy, finger licking Copenhagen.  You hear us, Warchant.com staff!? You can have your queef loving tailgate hot dogs and cans of O'Douls.  We prefer getting swole off pure, 100% liquor fueled mayhem.  How do we do it week after week you ask?  Well, for starters we lost the ability to taste and smell long ago.  It was a tragic coke-sniffing accident.  We don't like to talk about it.    

 Introducing Kolton Browning to the Concept of ScalpKillMurderDeathBloodStab

 Memo to Kolton Browning, starting sophomore quarterback of the ULM Warhawks:  your ears should be burning.  Why?  Because Brandon Jenkins and Bjoern Werner are staring at a picture of you right now.  And raping you with their eyes.  Nigel Bradham is laughing through his gold teefusus thinking about eating babies and the various ways he is going to disembowel you and otherwise dine on your splean.  Greg Reid and Xavier Rhodes have raging, visible erections just thinking about jumping your curl routes.  And, Arrington Jenkins is gay (note, this is the happy gay and not the cock munching, butthole pleasures gay) at the prospect of stealing your cd collection out of your locker at half time.  The fine folks at Tallahassee Memorial have generously agreed to donate a full body cast with a name tag on it that says "You".  Mike Harris is going to kill you.  Tank Carradine is going to bury you.  And, Nick Moody is going to fuck Breezy Hupp on top of your grave.  While Greg Hudson watches and jerks off. 

By the way, who told you that you could play football with men?  Oh sure, you were a freshmen All-American in the hallowed Sun Belt league which is like saying you had a break out year in the Special Olympics.  Congrats, you won.  You're still fucking retarded.  Wait, there's more, you say?  You passed for over 2,500 yards, 18 touchdowns and rushed for 358 yards as a Freshman!?  Yippy damn skippy, fuck hole.  Guess what, Mark Stoops just wiped his balls and butthole with your stat sheet and then fed it to Jacobbi McDaniel.  No, no, don't worry about it getting stuck in his teeth.  He will floss with your pubes in the third quarter after Christian Jones breaks your torso in half and distributes the parts to the Noles' second team defense. 

Coach Todd Berry Talks About Stuff

College football is poisoned.  Poisoned with coaches who are too pussy to say what they really think and feel.  How many times must we hear head coaches give interview after interview littered with limp dick coach speak rather than answer a perfectly legitimate question with a candid response?  Quarterback played like shit last week?  Oh, he was up all night snorting angel dust out of stripper's ass canyons.  Defense gave up 500 plus yards of total offense and twelve touchdowns?  Yeah, that.  Well, the defensive coordinator just found out he knocked up a cheerleader.  And gave her crabs.   Couldn't bag that blue chip recruit?  Uh, that's because the recruiting coordinator spent the entire trip in some vile hooker den juiced up on blow instead of visiting the boy's mama.  See.  Honesty.  Well, ULM head coach Todd Berry is different.  He believes in straight shooting.  Yes sir, honest to a fault.  And, we found that out first hand when we sat him down for an interview. 

On whether he and his team are excited to play Florida State in Tallahassee

Well, I'm not sure "excited" is the term I would use.  It's like saying you're excited about the prospect of getting ass pumped and cream pied by a giant grizzley bear with a 12 inch pecker.  You like grizzley bears?  I don't.  They are generally ill-tempered and don't make considerate lovers.  My guys are scared shitless.  I got a running back that has been pissing in his football pants everyday at practice.  I got a quarterback who won't stop crying and calling me mama.  And, my offensive coordinator quit on me last week and I had to replace him with this piece of cheesecake.  Its got strawberries on top and I have found does well in situational play calling.  *takes a bite* 

If there is any other way for a quarterback to adequately prepare for Florida State's Defense without being hit in practice

I don't think so.  I mean, the bullrider doesn't get ready for the big bull ride by sitting on a rocking horse and stroking his fuck stick.  I know a lot of people don't (allow hits on the quarterback in practice), but I think non-contact jerseys for quarterbacks are for faggots and commies.  I also like watching random acts of violence; it makes my dick grow.  We made Kolton (Browning) pretty much live all of camp.  In terms of preparing him for FSU, we took turns driving at him in my Honda Element to try to simulate the speed and destructive power of Brandon Jenkins.  Fucked him up real good.  He cried like a bitch when I accidentally ran over his leg though.  Christ, all I heard was "ooooooh, coach, I think my femur poked through my skin." and "waaaaahhhhh, coach, I think I have gangrene in my leg.  Please take me to the hospital cause I think I am going into anaphylactic shock."   Pussy.  

On whether he expects his athletes to be able to compete with Florida State's athletes

Are you fucking kidding me!?  Have you seen what I am working with here!? Shit, my guys remind me of these two retard brothers that used to live up the street from me.  They were always asking me to do shit like *starts speaking in slurred retard voice* "blaaaaah, hey Todd, can we come over to your house and play foooootballlll" and I would be like hell no, you retards, then I would bust them in their fucking heads.  Look, my point is ... ah, I have no point.  Say, you got a Miller High Life on you? 

Hey coach, on second thought, maybe you should just stop talking for a while.  Maybe just sit a few plays out.  Just a thought.  

Mangum Kup  - Preseason Poll

Because even the Kup chase falls victim to devilish, ill-prepared preseason polls.  Plus, ours are the product of a serious mescaline bender.  Hey, don't blame us.  Those magical, flying dragons and their friendly elf jockeys told us to do it!

1.  Justin Bright - Buried on the depth chart; trapped in Mark Stoops' dog house. Will he be the next great, terrible white safety at FSU? 

2.  Zebrie Sanders - A human holding penalty.  But, will he keep his hands to the outside of opposing defender's teets enough times to produce Kup producing suck points? 

3.  Mark Stoops (a/k/a Clark Poops) - We just don't trust a fire crotch.  Won't do it.  No sir. 

4.  Bert Reed - Couldn't catch AIDS if he bellyflopped into a pool filled with AIDS. 

5.  Greg Reid -  A Mangum Kup anomaly.  Should have no place on this list, but sporadic bouts with sucks balls has him in the top five. 

6.  Josh Gehres - She would be higher on the list if she had not suffered a season ending knee injury brought on by too much suck and general fagginess. 

7.  Timothy Orange - WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU!?

8.  Willie Haulstead - Will likely be freaky fucking awesome.  We just think it's funny that he can't spell. 

9.  Jermaine Thomas - On this list solely because he wears #38.  And fumbles.  And dances around holes like he's Fred Fucking Astaire.  Ok, he kind of sucks. 

10.  EJ Manuel - Dudes, don't get mad at us.  Christian Ponder finished second in the Kup chase last year. 

PREMONITIONIZING ...

 This should be a thorough and complete face rape.  FSU will likely use about 1/93rd of its playbook and we will likely see plenty of bench warmers get meaningful playing time.  Hell, even Justin Bright will play.  But in all honesty, we see it going down like this:  Justin Bright will figit with his balls on the sidelines; Josh Gheres will watch; Odell Haggins will take a giant shit before the game; Josh Gheres will watch; EJ Manuel will go 16-21, 184 yards, 2 touchdowns and no interceptions in three quarters of play; Holmes Onwukaife's lower lip will be named co-captain of special teams; Bert Reed will drop an easy pass; Greg Reid will score a touchdown; Greg Reid will drop an interception; Arrington Jenkins will smell like poop; Renegade will piss in the North end zone; Arrington Jenkins will mistake it for Powerade; a ULM player will be severely injured; Mike Harris will be responsible; Ty Jones will inject his veins with insulin; Chris Thompson will inject his veins with FUCKING AWESOME; Jermaine Thomas will run standing straight up; Willie Haulstead still won't be able to read or spell; Odell Haggins will take a giant shit at halftime; Mark Stoops will plug his nose and hold his breath; Korey Mangum will watch the game in the break room at Applebees in between shifts; Timmy Jernigan will make Kolton Browning dead; The Noles will score 62 points; ULM will score no points; and the new dynasty will start on Saturday. 

NOLES 177 ULM -31



NOLES, BITCH 



Tallahassee Uber Alles: The Premature Adjudication of the 2011 Football Season

This.  Is.  It.  This is the season.  Isn't it?  Please God, say that it is.  You deserve it.  We deserve it.  We've all been patient.  And for Godsake, haven't we, the loyalest of loyal fans of the Seminole Nation suffered enough?  We took it like men as Chris Rix savagely eye raped us week after week for four long years.  We stood strong through the carousel of misery and death by baseball bat fight at the hands of Drew Weatherford, then Xavier Lee then back to Drew Weatherford again.  We waited oh so patiently for some sign of change as a decrepit Bobby Bowden sputtered through season after limp dick season, all the while praying that Renegade would huff some PCP, go shit nuts crazy on the field and trample the old man to death while Chief Osceola scalped off his pubes.  And, we have all shown tireless resolve and support during an entire decade of one continuous kick to the balls after another.  Well Goddamnit, our balls are tired.  And swollen.  And blue.  And no longer able to produce active sperm.  We (and our balls) have had enough, son. 

Now, we know that "science", "society" and "facts" tell us that FSU is still a year away from elite status.  But, stand there and tell us the deal we made with the Devil which allows for FSU to win the ACC and the National Championship isn't worth something.  We also tricked the Prince of Darkness into including a clause that lets us plant our wicked demon seed in Brooklyn Decker's womenly mystery parts, but that's a story for another time.  Anyway, we spent most of the off-season preparing graphs of pie charts, spreadsheets of pie charts, pie charts of graphs and other such scientemological evidence to prove to the naysayers that this is the year that our beloved Noles smash the bail bonds of mediocrity and once again assume their rightful place at the top of college football's elite.  You should really trust us here, we all hold master's degrees in stuff from the University of Santo Poco where we plundered and pillaged the vaginas of the indigenous prostitutes in between our learnedness.  Como Se Dice "my crotch is on fire from this rash you gave me, but I still refuse to wear a condom" en espanol? Accordingly, we give you our top five keys to a successful season: 

1.  Defensive Backs that are Not Bad, but Good 

Let's play a game.  It's called name the worst defensive backs at FSU from 2000-2010.  Oh right, it's a tie.  Between all of them.  Yes, for the past decade, the program that gave us Deion Sanders, Terrell Buckley, Dexter Jackson, Corey Fuller and other such kick ass shit now seems to be pumping out defensive backs proficient in burned deepedness, lack of playmakishness and Cover 2 deficiency virus syndrome.  Just a bunch of doom-struck gimps that cannot handle the pressure.  Yes, Kyler Hall, Roger Williams, Darius McClure, Rufus Brown and J.R. Bryant, we are directly referring to you.  But, things change for the better.  They always do.  Unless you're Washington State.  And now, the roster has seemingly been cleansed of the nightmares on the boundary and field corners and bad memories of those laughable clowns at the free and strong safety positions all but erased. 

Yeah, you just sit there and lie in your own suck, mister. 

Oh sure, it's not all happiness and unicorn smiles just yet.  Take Greg Reid, for instance.  One minute you want to hug him, the next minute twist off his tiny little head and drop it in a bucket of AIDS.  But, sweet move in knocking out Marcus Lattimore's gold teef.  And, thanks for all those sweet punt returns, brah.  Now, work on catching that pesky football and we'll stop referring to you as "fuck tard".  Just kidding.  We'll never stop calling you fuck tard. 

Further quandaries include uncertainty at the safety position.  We understand that Nick Moody has been banished to the bench for eternity in favor of the human personal foul, Lamarcus Joyner.  We believe the recent shake up has to do with Nick spending too much time fingering the magical crotches of certain FSU female soccer players.  With his penis.  Breezy Hupp, we're suggestively looking in you general direction here.  But, mostly just motorboating your milk wagons with our eyes. But hey, we can't say we fault Nick for changin his major to nocturnal carousing.  Cause lord knows when a female with Paul Bunyon sized circus tits openly solicits you for sex on Facebook, it's your purple headed warrior's obligation, no, it's sworn duty, to answer that call and run the old jailbreak blitz directly at that vagina.  Or butthole.  Whatever does it for you, guy. 

And, we certainly can't have a discussion about FSU's defensive backfield without mentioning our latest man-crush, Xavier Rhodes.  *sigh*   Why Xavier?  Because dummies, his veins are infused with electric awesomesauce.  And Xavier, fyi, in the spirit of past man-crushes, we will commence to courting you just as soon as the season starts.  Don't worry, nothing weird, just the usual:  a little fan mail; a few phone calls at all hours of the night; but mostly trespassing.  Because we firmly believe that nothing shows your support for a player more than silently hanging out in a tree outside said player's dorm/apartment 24/7, driving by their place and honking the horn fifty one times in a day, setting small fires or leaving a dead mouse on their doorstep.  Oh, we're crazy stalkers now, are we?  Ah, you guys just don't know romance. 



We're Not Gonna Lie.  It's Gonna Get Weird. 



2.  Defensive Lineman that Actually Do Defensive Lineman Stuff  (Jacory Harris is Ready for the NFL) 

What do you get when when you replace a bunch of 260 pound battered and bloodied vaginas with a group of grown ass men and a psychotic east German kill bot?  Well, for starters you get -------*Suddently, Jacory Harris breaks into the room.  Raises both hands in the air*  THE FUUUUUUUCK ISSSSSS GOOOOOOOIN ONNNNN Y'AAAAALLLLL!?  

We interrupt this pre-season preview to bring you this breaking news story:  JACORY HARRIS IS HERE TO FUCK.  Naw, but seriously, I'm here to fuck.  What I been doing all off-season?  Well, mostly playing the stock market.  *places banana to ear* Hello, Morgan Stanley, it's me.  Yeah, I wanna invest half my sweet moolah in vagina futures.  Dump the rest in  KY Jelly Mutual funds and edible panty bonds.  Hello?  Hello? Anyway, I also been making passionate love in unusual public places while Ray Ray Armstrong watches from a distance and films the unstoppable sexual force.  Me.  To be honest, part of me felt bad about it, but the rest of me was too busy having sex.  Why?  Because I am motherfucking, dick slapping Jacory Harris. 

Ready for this season?  You Goddamn right I am.  I've perfected my hand-eye coordination by sexting pictures of me naked wearing a cowboy hat, work gloves and holding a giant shovel.   Weightlifting?  Shit no.  The only thing I push up on are the fine ass bitches at Aventura Mall on Tuesday afternoons.  Look, I know I ain't the first one to have sex in a J.C.Penney, but damn it, you should still give me props for doing it. Why do I wear my Marc Jacobs goggles in the club?  So I don't get blinded when every vagina in the joint sprays in my face when I walk by.  Then, I proceed to the VIP room, drink Henessey out of a sand pail, pass out on the floor and wait for one of my bitches to scoop me up and fuck me in the basement.  Why?  Cause I am mad pussy sniffin, Salvatore Ferragamo loafer wearing Jacory Harris.

NFL?  You know I be ready.  Shit bitch, NFL scouts are callin me like a motherfucker just beggin me to come play for their teams.  Hold up, that's prolly one of them calling right now.  *holds tennis shoe up to ear*  Hello?  Yeah, you got him homie, who dis?  Super agent Drew Rosenhaus?  And, you're calling to tell me that the St. Louis Rams want to take me #1 in the draft!?  Right now!? Daaaaamn, that is good news, Drew.  Hey, they allow public humping in St. Louis, right?  They don't?  Naw, it's cool.  Yeah, I think we can make them put it in my new contract, too.  What's that you say?  They want to pay me in Lamborghinis, Thai prostitutes and bottles of Hugo Boss cologne!? Wait a minute, I think we need to negotiate.  Can I get the seats upholstered with chinchilla fur?  I can!  Can they make the smell of sex come out of the air conditioner?  Yes!?  Hot damn!  What else?  Calvin Klein called?  They want to base their new fragrance on me!?  No, no, I agree, it will be difficult to bottle the essence of my testicle sweat.  Suggestions for the name?  How about "Beating the Pussy Up"?  You love it?  So do I.  Ok, Drew, talk soon. See ya'll, it's still great to be long dickin, 87 touchdowns thrown this season, gettin my balls licked Jacory Harris.  RESPECT!

We now return to our regularly scheduled programming. But, don't act like you don't want to hear more about my boner ...

3.  Linebackers That Will Shank Your Mother in the Ovaries

FSU linebackers:  Cunning.  Lethal.  Death-Proof.  Oh sure, it's no secret that FSU's linebacking corps have always been a murderous pack of death loving kill panthers, who consistently deliver their own personal brand of unspeakable pain and dispair to opposing teams each and every Saturday like some unholy fucking blood orgy.   But, this year's crew promises to top their predecessor's savage lust for destruction and commit any number of crimes against humanity.  So, who thinks they know what savagery will be committed this season?  Well you, the most important people on the porn conduit known as the "Internet", seem to think you do based on the recent results of our pre-season reader's poll listed below, the outcome of which should shock and offend you.  If it don't, you all are sick fuckers.  And, that's coming from a group of guys that trim the hair on their nut sacs into a delightfully shaped beard pattern like the guys from ZZ Top.

WSWD's 2011 Pre-Season Reader's Poll Results Regarding What You Expect to See From FSU's Linebackers This Season

Arrington Jenkins performs unprotected prison sex on Clemson's mascot mistaking it for a real tiger - 18% 

Arrington Jenkins performs unprotected prison sex on Boston College's mascot mistaking it for a real bald eagle - 29%  

Arrington Jenkins performs unprotected prison sex on Tom O'Brien, his wife and his kids all while looking his housekeeper straight in the eyes.  Then, steals his Hyundai Sonata - 41% - BIG WINNER!

Nigel Bradham murders the entire crew of the University of Oklahoma's "Boomer Sooner" stage coach, sets the stage coach on fire then eats the horses - 12% 

Arrington Jenkins Can See You Masturbating

4.  Rick Trickett's Continued Coaching Through Words of Affirmation and Other Such Nurturing Techiniques

Look, we all know we have Rick Trickett to thank for the 180 degree turnaround in the play of the offensive line.  But, what about the man behind the man?  What makes him tick?  Whiskey and devouring live possums with rabies?  Maybe.  So, we popped in on RT and eavesdropped on his initial meeting with this year's crop of incoming freshmen offensive fat bodies to find out the secrets to his success on the field and in life: 

July 21, 2011 - Moore Athletic Center General Meeting Room, Tallahassee, Florida, 8:30 a.m. 

Trey Pettis ("TP"), Josue Matias ("JM") and Bobby Hart (BH") sit nervously and await their first meeting with offensive line coach Rick Trickett ("RT").  Hart drowns out anxiety by listening to the Wu-Tang Clan on his I-Pod.  Matias picks at this fingernails.  Pettis busily munches on a Texas Sweet Roll.  Suddenly, the door is kicked open with such force that the glass is broken and the frame becomes dislodged from two hinges.  Rick Tricket enters the room chewing a wad of Red Man tobacco.  Senior offensive tackle Andrew Datko ("AD") follows closely behind and is unphased by the violence. 

RT: YAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHMOTHERFUCKING YAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! 

TP, JM and BH:  *stop what they are doing.  look puzzled.  Datko sits.  Begins reading latest edition of The Osceola* 

RT:  THAT'S MY FUCKING WAR CRY.  BEFORE THE INDIANS BEGAN SAWING OFF MOTHERFUCKING HEADS, THEY ALWAYS DID A WAR CRY.  YOU, WITH THE MAN TITS.  LET ME HEAR YOUR FUCKING WAR CRY! 

TP:  Me? 

RT:  IS THERE ANYBODY ELSE IN HERE WITH JUMBO BREASTS AND PEPPERONI SIZED NIPPLES THAT I WOULD LIKE TO SUCKLE ON IN ANY OTHER CIRCUMSTANCE?  MOTHERFUCKER, I CAN ALMOST SMELL YOU MENSTRUATING.  YES, BITCH TITS, YOU! LET ME HEAR YOUR FUCKING WAR CRY AND IF I HAVE TO ASK AGAIN I'M GOING TO THROAT FUCK YOU TO DEATH! 

TP:  *lets out a weak, garbled yell* 

RT:  SWEET FUCKING CHRIST, THAT SOUNDED LIKE A CAT GETTING RAPED.  I SQUEEZE BETTER WAR CRY'S OUT OF MY BUTTHOLE.  DATKO, DID THAT NOT SOUND LIKE A CAT GETTING RAPED!?

AD:  Sure did, coach. 

RT:  YOU, BOBBY HART.  TAKE THOSE FUCKING NOISE MAKERS OUT BEFORE I TEAR YOUR ELF EARS OFF OF YOUR SKULL AND STRANGLE YOUR MOTHER WITH THEM!  DAMN IT, DATKO, THIS BOY MUST BE OUTSIDE HIS MIND. 

AD:  Sure is, coach. 

RT:  NOW, LISTEN HARD YOU PIMPLE DICKS.  I ONLY GOT ONE JOB HERE:  TURNING YOU PUDDING BOWLS INTO NAPALM PISSING SONS OF FUCKING DOOM.  AND, I'M VERY FUCKING GOOD AT MY JOB.  TAKE DATKO HERE.  THREE YEARS AGO HE WAS A ONE STAR, NO TALENT PUSSY.  WEREN'T YOU, DATKO!?

AD:  Sure was, coach. 

RT:  NOW FUCKING LOOK AT HIM.  HE WOULD DRIVE BLOCK YOUR SORRY ASSES ALL THE WAY TO QUINCY AND THEN EAT YOUR FUCKING TESTICLES FOR PURE SPORT.  PROBABLY YOUR ASSHOLES, TOO.

AD:  Like Kobayashi, coach  *makes munching sound* 

RT:  OK, HERE'S HOW IT WORKS, PUSSY FARTS.  I WILL MOLD YOU INTO KILLERS BY USING A SERIES OF AUTOMATED AND REPETITIVE MNEMONIC DEVICES WHICH ALL REVOLVE AROUND ME CRAMMING MY FINGERS UP YOUR ASSES IF YOU FUCK UP.  I CALL THIS METHOD OF HANDS ON COACHING THE "OIL CHECK".  ALLOW ME TO DEMONSTRATE, LADIES.  DATKO, STAND UP, SON. 

AD:  *Datko stands* 

RT:  NOW, DATKO HERE JUST FUCKED UP HIS BLOCKING ASSIGNMENT.  DATKO, WHY DID YOU FUCK UP YOUR BLOCKING ASSIGNMENT!?

AD:  I dunno, coach.  I guess I just forgot. 

RT:  OIL CHECK, BITCH!!  *RT proceeds to violently jam three fingers up Datko's ass cavity.  Datko winces, slightly* 

RT:  *RT leaves fingers in Datko's ass while he speaks*  NOW SEE, THAT WAS ONLY THREE FINGERS.  I WENT EASY ON HIM.  YOU JUMP OFFSIDES, IT CRANKS UP TO FOUR.  GET A HOLDING PENALTY AND IT MOVES UP A NOTCH TO FIVE.  YOU GET EJ SACKED AND I WILL FUCKING FIST YOU.  OIL CHECK!!  NOW, LET'S GIVE IT A SHOT.  JOSUE MATIAS, STAND THE FUCK UP, COCK MONKEY. 

JM:  *stands.  RT moves into position behind him* 

RT:  ALL RIGHT, FUCK HOLE.  TELL ME, WHO DO YOU BLOCK ON 32 COUNTER STRONG? 

JM:  Ummmm, man I should know this one.  I block the strong side linebacker? 

RT:  WRONG!  WRONG!! SO FUCKING WRONG!!!  OIL CHECK, BITCH!!  *RT jams four fingers up Josue's ass* 

JM:  Whaaaaaaaaaaoaoooooooooohhhhhhhhh!!!  *single tear rolls down cheek* 

RT:  THAT SMARTS DON'T IT, SON.  *RT removes fingers from Josue's ass.  Smells them*  GODDAMNIT, SON, THE FUCK YOU BEEN EATING?  IS THAT BEEF STEW I SMELL!?  NEVER YOU MIND.  MATIAS, YOU HAD BEST UNFUCK YOURSELF AND LEARN YOUR PLAYBOOK OR I WILL FUCKING RENDER YOU UNCONSCIOUS BY SQUEEZING OFF YOUR DICK.  ANYBODY ELSE NOT KNOW THEIR PLAYS? 

TP and BH collectively:  No sir!  We know them.  We know them. 

RT:  GOOD, CAUSE DON JOHNSON AND HIS FIVE FINGER BANGIN BROTHERS HERE *holds up fist, wiggles fingers.  smells them again* WON'T BE AS FORGIVING ONCE WE TAKE THE FIELD FOR PRACTICE.  JUST REMEMBER, YOU FUCK UP AND YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS, RIGHT!?

BH, TP and JM collectively:  Oil Check time, coach?

RT:  YOU GOT THAT RIGHT.  MOTHERFUCKING OIL CHECK TIME, BOYS.  NOW, LET'S GO GET SOME TACOS.  I'M BUYING. 



OIL CHECK!!!



5.  A Roster Devoid of Jenije, Ochuko and Mangum, Korey

We only say this because FUCK MANGUM AND JENIJE BECAUSE THEY FEED OFF FAILURE WORST DEFENSIVE BACKS IN SCHOOL HISTORY DOOMED FSU FOOTBALL TO VALLEY OF DESPAIR AND ALL THINGS EVIL AND BAD HOPE THEY MEET MULTIPLE MISFORTUNES INCLUDING CRIPPLING VIOLENT DEATH BY TRACTOR FIRE THEIR PRESENCE ON THE FIELD MADE KITTENS DIE AND GOOD PLAYERS PLAY BAD WANT TO BEAT THE FUCK OUT OF THEM WITH GIANT DILDOS NEVER RETURN TO FSU FOR ALUMNI WEEKEND BECAUSE WE WILL STALK YOU IN YOUR CAR AND SHOOT ROCKET PROPELLED GRENADES AT YOUR TESTICLES.  We type in all caps because we have problems. 

PREMONITIONIZING ...

Who ready?  We ready.  Ready for the motherfucking gridiron blood orgy that commeth in September.  Case of Maker's Mark?  Check.  Solo cup for holding our Copenhagen spit?  Yup.  A Colt 45, ten gallon hat, harmonica and a live rattlesnake?   You're goddamn right.  So, don't let us down, Noles.  Not this season.  No fucking sir.  Stomp fucking Oklahoma (If any of their defensive players are actually alive before kickoff).  Mouth fuck Miami.  And, cum blast Florida.  So, now the only question is what to do until kickoff?Well, we got a monster truck rally on pay-per-view and a whole boat load of Scandinavian porn.  The fuck you gonna do? 

NOLES, BITCH