Honks of the Week

There are levels to whiteness. On one side of the spectrum, you have Raul Smith.  Punctual. Creditworthy.  Hairless.  But his spic first name holds him back. 

The next level of Honk would be someone like Pat Dooley, beloved Gator scribe and noted white devil. His Twitter profile speaks for itself:

“I believe in background vocals, a college football playoff, Marriott upgrades, baby back ribs and long, slow, wet tugs on draft beer.”

And then there is the top level. The pinnacle of pale.  A level of whitness so pure it would blind a mortal man.  That level is reserved for the perico that Demayrius Thomas, Jared Cook and the rest of Blooching lined up on the glass tables of Machuchando this week.  

175 points without Peyton Manning. Six players over 18 points. And this is just the beginning.  I’m going to keep serving up that Jeff Conine every week until the rest of you boys look like this:

I was going to talk about some NFL honks, but let’s cut the bullshit.  You boys have been quiet as church mice for the last few days. I tried to warn you about that offense.  Gator nation didn’t want to believe it.  The Broward kids who learned about college football on the Huffington Post told me the Canes were in trouble. They pranced into the stadium with the swagger of Adam Levine.  Then this happened.

 
After the glorious victory, I started talking shit to anyone in blue and orange.  A skinny Indian dude gave me a sad, confused look and muttered to himself, “I don’t even listen to Kenny Chesney.”  An older honk furrowed his brow before realizing that he would be dead before UF played Miami again.  Nobody said anything, because they knew.   

The Gators never did have Miami’s past, but at least they had the present.  Now they don’t have shit, except attendance titles and a quarterback that looks like Sloth from the Goonies.

 

It’s been a great run, Gator fans. Pour yourself a nice, warm glass of milk. Winter is coming, and the snow is coming from the top.