Texas A&M: from the inside you can't explain it, from the outside it looks like paramilitary Thalidomide babies swapping spit with fat girls.
Is there a more enjoyable job than network camera man in Aggieland? The Aggie crowd work is never disappointing. Where are these East Texas communities that promiscuously breed uncle-husbands to sister-wives? We even saw a Billy Liucci sideline drive-by. He looked like a scorned Amish fluff boy at a barn-raising.
The network's feeble attempt at a Mission Impossible 19: The Quickening Strikes Back Part IV promo tie-in to the Aggie game was strangely fitting. Tom Cruise may not know a thing about the Texas-Texas A&M rivalry and his scripted introduction may not come from his own experience, but who better than Scientology's greatest public advocate to serve as our Beatrice in a journey into the Dantean torment of Aggieland?
Witness here foul Baphomet wielding his anus clamps on a Corps Turd as he is made to serve as Kellen Heard's bathmat.
See here as Mephistopheles torments the genitals of Bill Byrne with horse radish as he collects an equestrian trophy. Yonder, Jackie Sherrill keens intensely in full clown make-up.
Anyway, Tom Cruise is really into Texas A&M football.
Xenu and Reveille are the same racket. Both groups scam gullible, insecure people out of their money with false camaraderie and promises of secret knowledge and belonging; rely on mythology and scapegoating to prop up their belief system; harbor contempt and resentment for those outside of the group; and speak in code and cant meant to infuse buffoonery with tradition and regality.
This was a deeply satisfying game for no other reason than, well, it SHUT THEM THE FUCK UP. Forever. Eternal scoreboard is eternal. I was tired of it. In the media. Online. At work. In their needling "traditions." In the gibbering proclamations of their buffoonish too-real-to-be-satire Athletic Director and their vaguely molesterish bow-tied president. (At any moment, I'm expecting Peter Sellers and Andy Kaufmann to step out of their disguises - and voila! - he greatest act of performance art in the history of Man). Aggieland's incessant whining amounts to nothing more than the five year's old eternal lament: It's...sob...Not...sob...Fair!
The Aggie small dick complex isn't a discreetly nurtured syndrome - as it should be. It's a regrettable thing. Best spoken of in hushed tones, with assurances of secrecy and tact.
"I heard about your...issue. Very sorry."
"Naw. I like it. I'm real proud of it, actually. I'm going to wave it at Texas and holler some. Whoop!"
No, the Aggies wave their Angry Irish Inch around like Harvey Keitel in Bad Lieutenant. And then when people point and laugh, they actually get their feelings hurt.
And somehow it's OUR fault. Because the most virulent Aggies need a foil to get through life? Because there is no place called Texas A&M - at least in a spiritual sense. Just an anti-Texas. A&M's self-identity is the Rube-ix Cube that can never be solved.
The rivalry is over. Your natural masters - QBed by a stork that can't throw twenty yards, bearing gifts of the sweetest Cart McCry karmic payback on popsicle stick calves careening around like a mad, bulimic pinball - reminded you of the proper order of things: God hates all things Maroon, there is no Day Of Thanks for the eternally petulant and mewling, collies are a spectacularly shitty dog breed, you glorify dudes that we used to hang on locker hooks in high school, and no matter the strides your school has taken from third rate military academy to quality state school, you're still, at the very core of your own self-identity, poor dumb Aggies.
The laughingstock of Texas. And so ever it shall be, as it were, for all times. Says Bill Little.
Now run along to the SEC and let your hearts swell with pride as LSU, Alabama, Florida, and Georgia win championships while you pretend you had something to do with it. Let's hear it loud and proud: S-E-C! S-E-C! S-E-C!
A new identity, once again derived by your self-definition against others.
Poor Aggies.