WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!?!
When we last chatted here on this site some 2+ years ago, I was bidding you all adieu. I had burned out and, truth be told, it was time to move out of mom's basement and spend some of the Internet millions I made as Colin Cowherd's comedy ghost writer. Plus, I wanted to start dating a few of the hotties who were constantly throwing themselves at yours truly, as women are want to do with famous bloggers (I'm looking at you, Title IX).
So, I went out for one last beer with my blogging cohort and the MZone's resident Photoshop guru, Benny, then moved to a small, undisclosed island in the Bahamas. And all was good. As you can well imagine, it was days of sun, surf and babes ("You used to run the MZone? Take me!"). I cut off all contact with the outside world, save for the occasional trip to Miami for a little nightlife or to catch one of the TWILIGHT films (Team Edward. Busted).
Now, at this small, undisclosed island in the Bahamas, I got to be known as quite the party animal. You know when Jimmy Buffet is screaming in your face, "Yost, put down the fucking margarita!" you're over doing it.
But last week I thought I'd hit rock bottom. Thought I was starting to hallucinate. Because I looked up from the floor and standing in the doorway were not the two naked Playmates from the night before but what I thought was the Ghost of Benny. And he was talking gibberish. Crazy, outlandish shit: Saying that Michigan was coming off back-to-back losing seasons, including a 3-9 campaign in which they were Toledo's bitch. And then following that disaster up with a 5-7 suck-fest where they topped the previous year by making Ron Zook look like he could coach for a half.
I laughed at this Ghost of Benny. But he didn't. He said it was true.
I quickly set down the bottle of Glenlivit in my right hand.
Still he didn't stop. The nightmare was only beginning. For Benny next launched into a story that was so outlandish, so bat-shit crazy, it caused me to wonder exactly when I had become a crystal meth addict. As I lay there in a puddle of my own vomit and someone else's urine, Benny claimed that the Big 10 had added a team, was splitting into divisions and -- -- and I can barely type the words --they were going to do away with the traditional season-ending game between Michigan and Ohio State.
Once again, I laughed. Once again, Benny did not.
I quickly set down the bottle of Boone's Farm in my left hand.
"Surely," I bellowed (between vurps), "Michigan's President and AD -- as well as those of Ohio State -- will never let this happen!" That's when Benny dropped the bombshell: They support it.
I looked up, waiting for the bright light we all hear about when death is upon us. Then I began to recite the Michigan Man's Prayer: "Our Schembechler, who art in Heaven..." But all I got was the cold smack of Benny's hand, "Yost, it's even worse -- the only people rising up to stop it are..." Benny started to cry, like that time when I told him we were never going to finish the Blog Co-Ed Showdown. "What, Benny? Speak, old friend!" He composed himself enough to continue. "The...the only people rising up to stop it are...Michigan and Ohio State fans. Banding together as one."
The next smack was me hitting Benny. "Blasphemy!" Here I thought it was me with the drug problem. Yet it was Benny. Dear old Benny. Too many hours working on Photoshopped pictures of half-naked Arizona-State-cheerleaders-turned-porn-stars had finally pushed him over the edge.
But he pulled out his iPhone -- surprising us both when he actually was able to get a signal on this small, undisclosed island in the Bahamas -- and he proved it to me. Showing me news stories and blog posts. Facebook pages and Internet petitions.
It was true.
We now lived in a world in which Buckeyes and Wolverines had joined forces to defeat a greater evil. It must have been how Roosevelt felt teaming up with the Russians. But Benny explained that there was no other way. The very fate of The Game hung in the balance.
I checked outside for locusts as surely the End Times were upon us. Seeing nothing but the empty 12-packs of Red, White and Blue Light littering my lawn, I knew I could stay away no longer.
I hopped on the next flight with Benny (when the fuck did they start charging for luggage?!) and returned home. I returned to the musty basement in the Midwest that I thought I had left behind forever. Mom gave me a tearful hug, a "Welcome home" and the unfinished box of Twinkies I'd left in the closest next to my giant stack of old CHARLES IN CHARGE VHS tapes.
I then descended the stairs and took a seat in front of my trusty-but-now-dusty Dell 486. After somehow cleaning the computer virus off the hard-drive, the one I got clicking on a link while Googling "USC Song Girl Home Movie" for strictly "research purposes," I sat and began to type the words you read today.
Even now, wearing pants during daylight hours for the first time in months, I sometimes wish Benny was just a giant alcohol-fueled mirage that day. A figment of my maize and blue imagination. But he was a call to duty. To raise yet one more voice in protest against those trying to destroy the greatest college football game in America. The Game. The Game that instilled the lifelong passion for Michigan or Ohio State football deep inside of many of us to begin with. The Game -- at the END of the season -- that Wolverines and Buckeyes agree, with one voice, must preserved at all costs.
God Save The Game!
That I even have to come back and write this post stuns and saddens me. It points to bigger problems with college football and those who now run it. But that's for another discussion. For some reason, with the 2010 season just days away, we must instead turn our attention to saving the very rivalry that built the Big 10.
WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!?!
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