I’ve had this problem a lot this year.  What do I do with all this rage?  How can I make my life feel better after giving up yet another large lead in the fourth quarter to an inferior opponent?  And this time losing?  Mother fucking god dammit.

I say mother fucking god dammit with the matter-of-factness of a 30-year veteran bailiff, which I am not, because I want to pound my fingers through someone’s skull, but I don’t know whose.  I want to break something, but I don’t know what.  I want to break into someone’s home and take a dump in an inappropriate place, but I don’t know whose house and whether to lay chocolate sausage in their fireplace or on their kitchen counter.

I just don’t know.

What do I do with all this rage?

This season, I have attempted the following:

• Exercised feverishly, gone for a run and done push-ups.  Result: short-term release, rest of weekend still ruined.

• Put on some Indigo Girls and ironed shirts.  Result:  even more angry and now slightly gender-confused

• Kicked a laundry basket down stairs and punched some pillows.  Result:  short-term release, and the futile sight of a laundry basket rolling down stairs just saddening.

• Slapped the hell out of a wall and pounded my foot.  Result:  A strange  awakening to my own insanity.  Appendage throbbing.

What is wrong with me?

What is wrong with them?

What do you do when you’re your own worst enemy?  Syracuse sucks.  I don’t care that they won, that they didn’t give up, bleh…  Leave the polite talk to the coaches and players after the game.  Syracuse is garbage, and Notre Dame should have won by four touchdowns.  The offense squandered great defensive and special teams plays.  And then, as if to get back at the offense in some passive-aggressive hissy fit, the defense had their inevitable collapse in the closing minutes.
Rant, rant, rant.  I’ll apologize for the rambling.
But I will continue to not call for Weis’s head.  I will continue to think, “Remember last year.  Remember last year.”   This team will be great in two years.  I firmly believe that.  And if they aren’t, I’ll be the one with the whet stone, front and center.  I’ll get those axes so sharp… you’ll be, like, “Damn… my axe so sharp…damn…”  And I’ll say, “You’re welcome.”
So what do I do?  What do you do?  What do we do?  How do we save marriages, professions, and front bumpers with all this rage?
Suppress it, bottle it, and go beat the shit of USC next week.  Fuck it.  It’s our last chance of the season to look forward to next week.  Go Irish!

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Salve Magisterium,

After 40 days and 40 nights of fasting, prayer, and utter silence, I entered the Cathedral of Notre Dame Stadium only to find a flood of Biblical proportions.  And it was Good.  Anyone who attended the game on Saturday and was rooting for God’s Chosen College Football Team can attest to the fun that was had from the very first kickoff, to the very second kickoff that followed rapidly on its heels, to the very third kickoff which licked the second kickoff’s bunions in turn.
More…

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• A Missive from the Enclave
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Salve, Magisterium.

I was visiting with Brother Bernard, the Enclave’s archivist, the other night and beneath the full, silvery moon, with the sound of his rare, red piglets squealing in the background, Brother Bernard passed on to me a rare and unsettling manuscript.  For centuries the Enclave has gathered every piece of writing in existence.  Not just work that has been published, mind you, but copies of every scrap and doodle on earth are gathered, catalogued, and archived by Brother Bernard’s minions.

It was with trembling hands that the good Brother handed me this work, and I share it with you now, previously lost to the ages, only so that you may understand the devastating power of the written word, the vastly overrated goodness of abbreviations, and the importance of a good editor.

OMG, IMO Gators’ Meyer so Hott I May G in my P’s

His name is etched in the anals (sic) of history.

Urban Meyer is so hot that he can roast an entire turkey by merely pinching his nuts together and yawning on the fowl.  It doesn’t even have to be thawed...

The list continues for one hundred-and-three pages after that, makes some rather dubious claims about a football coach’s abilities and sexual proclivities, and concludes abruptly with the sentence: “Only I could make you truly happy, Urban.”

The piece has no author listed, but is written entirely on Orlando Sentinel stationary and is heavily perfumed with Calvin Klein’s “CKIN2U” Cologne.  Which is delicious.

Let us read and heed.  Warnings abound in such work, and the would-be columnist wallows in superlatives like a pig rolling in its neighbor’s shit.

Let us pray for lost souls, and let us pray for gout unto those who worship false idols.

H’amen.

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Salve, Magisterium.
As the newest in the ranks of the HLS bloggers, please permit me to introduce myself. I am Priest to a Parish of One. Master of the Carp. I am the founder of a major, nationwide pizza chain (Hint: it rhymes with Kiss my Nut (sort of)) and it is my intention to liquidate my shares in this deliciously godless franchise-steeped business enterprise to bring the mainstream Church back to its true purpose. Its original goal. Its bright and shiny golden Catholic egg-baby.

Notre Dame football.

I belong to a secret enclave of true followers, known simply as The Enclave, who meet deep in the bowels of the earth, a field goal kick above hell. We wear special boots with extra thick soles just to convene because it’s so damned hot down there, but that’s okay because such pain does not approach a fraction of the discomfort our Lord the Baby Jesus feels every time Notre Dame loses a football game. Our Lord the Baby Jesus has had a very difficult year.

Each member of our secret, ancient organization wears a replica of the 1988 College National Championship Ring in the sacred hilt that is our navel to remind ourselves of Our Lord and Lady’s mighty suffering through the past two decades and the joy that should rightfully be ours.

I willfully digress.

The timing of this first missive is anything but coincidence. The Book of Rock’s prophecies in the Second Weissatude are coming to pass…

“Yea, and the fourth Golic shall crest
And Lord Tenuta shall sound his shining horn
The Turk will neuter the Alligator with his claws
And the Bush will be burnt at the feet of the Yahoos
And Yea, though it may not be the year
It may well be the year before the year
Or perhaps it will be the year
Although that would be unexpected…”

The translation grows ever esoteric beyond that, but the timing seemed provident nonetheless.
Let us welcome a new punter into our fold.
God speed, little Floridian. God speed.

H’amen.

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