Ed Orgeron and I are drunk. The kind of drunk that in your college days you would only recall when the pictures showing your friend’s genitalia looming perilously close to your unconscious face returned from the drug store. The kind of drunk that has you at Waffle House at 5 a.m. with four kinds of syrup running down the edge of your table as you fork more Toddle House Omelet into your yaw-yaw piehole, discussing Ed’s recently-renewed tenure as the recruiting coordinator for the most powerful coach in college football.

“I don’t know where I got this reputation as a shirtless badass,” says Ed, barely comprehensible through a faceful of hash browns. “I’m as fun as the next guy. Did people expect me to light my farts on fire while I’m trying to think up new ways to tell the Blue Chip Football players as little as possible but just enough to have them commit to my football program so that I can leave them 14 months later?” Ed asks, then rips a belch that he quickly followed up with a deep rumbling church creeper that rattles cheap silverware in a three table radius. Quickly Ed says, “my ex-girlfriend called that fart the ‘fish fart’, it is like somebody punches you in the breadbasket and as you stoop to catch your breath, and is a reminder why the undead might need to retain the ability to defecate”.

I shake my head, keeping an eye on my plate. Striking like a copperhead on meth, Ed’s fork has made three surgical strikes across our table already, spiriting off a couple of chunks of French toast and an entire Tennessee Pride sausage link.

“There’s no pleasing people.” I notice a river of strawberry syrup rolling down the front of his white USC polo, then remember it was there before we ever sat down to eat. “But now that I’m getting back from Hot-Lanta, football people are going to see the real me. What I did in Atlanta was start a rumor that there was an open spot on the Auburn staff, and that old Lance Thompson was going to fill that position. Fucked it up for the new guy something awful.  Did you read the book “Meat Market“? It was book written by some Sports Illustrated geek that is loosely based on my life. I love college recruiting, I get to do things I couldn’t do in NFL like puntkicking legless Mexican kids on skateboards “.

The waitress is hovering near our table, trying to anticipate when our third carafe of orange juice will empty. Or rather, when O is going to empty it. He catches her eye and  with her red polished bird finger she playfully indicates that he should wipe his upper lip, where a fragment of chocolate-chip pancake is cemented by the syrup. He licks his lips and smacks the waitress on what in more delicate times was referred to as a ‘fanny’ but right now he refers to it as “fine as hell turd-cutter”, and she giggles and shuffles off to the kitchen.

“Personally, I’ve never had any problems being serviced by a midget, but it’s usually more of a cooperative, tag-team situation. Think totem poles. OK, don’t.” He continued, “I don’t know where the sex symbol thing came from either,” he begins, waving his fork around his head, delineating the boundaries of his kingdom of cocksmithery. “People know you have access to Lane, they see the smirking face and his untucked shirt, and they connect the dots. I’m going to totally take advantage of that on the football recruiting message boards–after I pay some lip-service to the behind-the-scenes crap at ESPN, I’ll dish a little dirt on the shit I pulled while I was in Knoxville and blame it on somebody else. That’s what those ESPN suits want to hear in a anyway.”

The waitress returns with a fresh jug of juice. Ed takes a long swig from it then pours the rest on his pancakes. Most of it winds up on the floor. Long after the carafe is empty, I continue to hear the sound of liquid tumbling into a puddle and I realize that he’s urinating under the table.

“What good are secondary recruiting violations if you can’t live a little?” he asks.

I’m going to turn my attention to the forgotten Tennessee Vols battle cry of Vols, Bitch.. No, I’m not talking about the old guy message board cracka who always pops off with Kiffin’s post-firing reflection, “Wow, that was a tough one,” with a gently admonishing, “It’s only going to get tougher.” The old fucks that don’t know say the way of life is dead. It died a long, long time ago. If we had our choice we would make #8 stay for awhile. Vols, Bitch: A Way of Life.

Something touched me deep inside as I say Vols, Bitch is still alive.

Related articles by Zemanta

• Pete Carroll, Live and Uncut: Report of Alex Gibbs’ edition (seattletimes.nwsource.com)
• Urban Meyer and God: A Match Made in Gainesville For Sharrif Floyd (bleacherreport.com)
• Vols Football: The Challenge Derek Dooley Was Man Enough To Accept (bleacherreport.com)