Let the Hate Rage: Texas/OU Scattershooting

Scattershooting while wondering whatever happened to that OU prickturd who was dumb enough to try and pickpocket my beer tickets in the men’s head outside section 26 in 1994. Hope he still has the taste of trough piss in his filthy mouth.

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I think I can speak for almost all of us when I say this: the Aggies are a big rival, but, by and large, they amuse me. I hate these OU motherfuckers with every cell and fiber of my being. This is just a different deal. Always has been; always will be.

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When Mike Stoops is inevitably fired (maybe Monday), he’ll be snatched up by Pennzoil, which will mine the gallons of viscous spilled fuck that erupts from his cavernous skull orifice every day for use in synthetics. Everything the man comes in contact with has to be laminated. People, places, things; animal, vegetable, mineral. His headset mic is encased in a giant stove pipe sponge and wrung out after each possession. Want to drown someone? Put them in a dry room with Mike Stoops and wait a half hour. If you’re not into prolonging the agony of the condemned, cut it down to ten minutes by giving Stoops a sandwich. Never trust a mouth breather.

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A bit of nostalgia and sage words from The Old Man.

“If the world was flooded with piss and Barry Switzer was in the only goddamn tree left standing, I’d rather drown than crawl up there with that son of a bitch,” he used to say (probably wasn’t original). “There are a few things that a grown man shouldn’t have to endure, and being stranded with Switzer is just one of them fixes where you hang it up and embrace death” (probably was original).

Miss you, Dad. Hook ‘em.

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Ever since the dawn of the Switzer era, the history of OU football is pockmarked with a never-ending series of punks, jackasses, downright criminals, and guys who look like they’re auditioning for a part in an off-off-off-off Broadway production of Sling Blade.

This brings us to Baker Mayfield. He’s not actually from Austin, but rather from our version of Arlington with hills and water called the Lake Travis Independent School District (that’s for you, Sam). Mayfield is undeniably very good to great, and his flair for the “goddammit how did he get away with THAT?” can flummox just about everybody this year save the now-beloved Iowa State Cyclones and the Fayetteville, Arkansas gendarme.

Mayfield is a bottomless well of lampooning material, but all of that is being recounted many times over elsewhere. I’ll just say that Mayfield reminds me of an OU player I knew of some years back and leave it at that. This dude had his own Annie Savoy: a local 49-year-old temptress that was recently discharged from her assistant professorship in divinity at the nearby Hillsdale Free Will Baptist College for dealing molly. That explained some things, among them why he named his dick “The Rockin’ Iscariot” and developed a taste for coaches’ wives.

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Took my son to the allergist on Monday morning. He was wearing a Texas tee. Nurse came in wearing UT scrubs. He looks up at her and says – completely unsolicited – “Did you know that Baker Mayfield is a jive chump?”

He turns 8 on game day.

True story. Love that boy.

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OU has Toby Keith and we have Matthew Mcconaughey.

Fuck it, never mind.

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Pro tip if you’ve never been to this fete before (or even if you have): don’t ever stop at the first coupon booth you see. Or the second. Or maybe the third. Work your way into the fairgrounds a ways until the amateurs are thinned out before you buy coupons. I think it was either my brother or Bird who figured this out many years ago. Anyway, it’s part of our routine.

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Lastly, do you think, for one goddamn millisecond, that Sam Ehlinger would be caught dead in a belly jersey with a white exurban faux headrag and a Fu Manchu pederstache? That’s what I thought.

Hook ‘em Horns, babes.