Cock Was Ours, Tail Was Theirs.

Sweet catharsis! Forgive my tardiness in publishing this post, but I am suffering. My throat and body are kaput. 

'Tis okay, says I, for the pups have been neutered.

Let's begin with the beginning. Woke up bright and early on Saturday at D's parents' house. Watched ESPN analcysts waver on who was to win the game. Packed up the Escalade and waited for 3 very tardy people to arrive. Wall Street Gator had the foresight to grab some Natty Ices for the ride to Jacksonville Municipal Stadium. Buen hecho.

Then the traffic. O, the traffic! With the streets saturated with Gators and pups, we were off, slowly, to the Field Goal parking lot. Some Georgia fans were foaming at the mouth so I threw them a biscuit.

We finally arrived and got to work immediately unpacking the chemical sustenance. The potato salad didn't make it, but that didn't deter the less squeamish of us from taking it down. Foregoing showering can build incredible immunity.

The weather was perfect hangover and tailgating weather. The sun came out only briefly until the game started. Otherwise, it was an overcast 65 degree day. 

I kicked it, got drunk fast, and played some bag-o. Then started flirting with the impish honeys. Once I was done motorboating with the local broads, me and the Wall Street Gator (WSG) made our way to the scene of the reckoning. We, and what seemed like everyone else for miles, needed tickets. There was a major supply problem.

370 bones later, me and WSG were heading to our seats in the heart of enemy territory. Our seats were high as a Georgia pine. We were surrounded by an ocean of red and black. 

Then, it began. Spikes devoured Knowshon with a vicious hit. The Gator bench erupted. From that point on, no Gator could be seen seated, while Georgia fans remained so in the futile hope that doing so would spare their rumps from the ass-kicking Florida was eager to deliver.

It was evident early: The Gators would handle Georgia, doggystyle.

They punted, we punted, then they missed. Then, Percy scored-- he does that, you know. The Gator sideline was fired-up. His Tebowness looked focused. 

The puppies would kick a field goal and, in what can only be labeled as cute, began to believe in themselves. That onside kick. What was that?

Then, He scored. 

Uh oh.

Halftime.

Me and the WSG went searching for beer. No such luck. The only thing available to drink was the sweet nectar of victory, and they wouldn't be serving that until after two more quarters of football. Back upstairs. Game on.

So, we're back. The pups drove the ball a little, getting an A for effort. Then Haden, who had been beat earlier on a post route, picked off Stafford and ran back 88 yards to the Gator 3. WSG and I went shit for apes. 

Then He scored again, untouched into the endzone, deflating the red half of the stadium. Silence is golden, but today it was red. 

Don't worry, it's not over. 

Then He spread the love, hitting Murphy 2 minutes later for a 44 yd. stride-strike, leaving Asher Allen wondering what life would be like if he wasn't burned like Salem witch, or had his jersey pulled.

Puppy ball. It's 2 months from Christmas and Knowshon gives Terron Sanders a little something for his stocking-- the rock. Sanders would run with Knowshon's ball almost to the goal line.

Uh-oh Spagettios, you know what this means: Him again. This time for 8 yds. That's 3 on the ground if you're counting, and it's only the end of the 3rd quarter. I love this shit. 

Here come the car keys. Jingle, jingle! 

Who's dancing now?

Stafford would throw 2 more picks. Seriously, if the Timbow wasn't so divine, I'd give Stafford the game ball for such atrocious decision-making. 

Then He did it again. Another stride-strike, but this time 25 yds. to the one with the winged-feet, Harvin. Touchdown Gators. Get some.

Fine, I will, said Brantley. Brantley hits Deonte Thompson for another one of those 6 point touchdown things. At this point, WSG and I are going nucking futs in the stands. No one is around us. 95% of Georgia fans are gone, tails tucked and wimpering.

At some point while I was marveling at the scoreboard, some back-up for the pups scored. Haden could be seen clapping for the pups' effort on the sidelines. 

Moody gets on the field and makes every Georgia defender his 5 AM whore, the ones you meet when you get home from Crobar.

Moody is the veritas. 7 carries for 71 yards. Give this man the rock, please. 

By now my voice sounds like I'm into swallowing crushed glass and my eyes look like I've spent 6 days in Ibiza. Party on, Wayne.

Then, right when I thought it was over: TIME OUT, FLORIDA. The relevant half of the stadium explodes in cheer. It's not over. It's going to hurt. Moody runs someone over. TIME OUT, FLORIDA. It's going leave a mark. 

And then He and Meyer looked upon their work. And it was good.

Game over.

Vengeance is ours.

Go Gators.