Sound Off

It's hot. It's humid. And it's boring. Guest columnist Mike Williams tackles the Dog Days of Summer. "Preseason mags adorn the grocery store racks only to be sullied by slobbering minions. Who's number one? Who cares? It's JULY for crying out loud," Williams writes. Williams also offers his summer conditioning regime, Hollywood-style.

Yaaaaawn. These are truly the worst days of the year. No football (plenty of Futbol), no Haaky, nothing but the boring strains of "Take Me Out to The Ball Game" to fill the airways.

As I write, Seminole football players begin their annual ritual in preparation for another run at the most mythical, of mythical national championships (personally, I think the Sears trophy should have a Unicorn atop it). Preseason mags adorn the grocery store racks only to be sullied by slobbering minions. Who's number one? Who cares? It's JULY for crying out loud!

If we had a trophy for every number one rating we had during the solstice, the Moore demolition and subsequent expansion would have happened years ago. July is for suckers. Personally, I don't have time for prognostication, or any other kind of 'nostication, for that matter.

You see, I'm in training. That's right, just as Michael Boulware hoists the dumpster behind his apartment, just as Bret Williams urges a Taltran bus toward the Capitol, I too am preparing for the upcoming gauntlet.

Easy to be a fan, you say?

I chortle at the pure ignorance of such a proclamation. How many times do you think a player has had to sponge a Scotch, garnet paint, and sweat cocktail from about his cornea?

How many times has a player been shoulder to shoulder with fifty blithering fanatics, at the smoldering troughs of Doak Campbell Stadium? How about running out of rum midway through the second quarter as the setting sun sears your face like a Colorado State Forestry worker?

Easy? Shirley …You jest.

That's why I've started my season conditioning regime, early. I'm afraid I can't claim full credit for its invention. You see, in this time of summer blockbusters, I've "Mike Barnacled" a stew of elements from Hollywood.

It goes something like this:

Grass Drills at 0600 hours - From "An Officer and A Gentleman" (My wife sprays a water hose in my face and shouts obscenities, for effect)

A glass of four jumbo eggs yolks (with brandy) for breakfast - From "Rocky"

A full Garnet and Gold Body Painting (and waxing) before lunch - From "Goldfinger"

Three hours a day in a tanning bed with my eyes taped open - From "Ishtar"

Three blood doping treatments per day with V-8 juice, pureed celery, and grain alcohol - From "Arthur"

I've also scheduled several strategic surgical procedures to achieve Super Fan-dom! …

An eight-ounce flask is being implanted in the back of my head next week - From "Johnny Pneumonic".

I'm having my Brow extended by three inches to ward off sweat and shade the eyes - From "Frankenstein".

Bladder volumizer to accommodate 5 plus hours between relief's - From "Forrest Gump".

And last, but not least:

I'm having my knees permanently bolted straight (a la Oz's "Tin Man") so the slugs behind me can stop saying "Down in Front!" How about "Up in Back???"


I think I'm finally ready for the season (or the Oscars). Early, to be sure, but ready nonetheless. Now. Where's my Jock? - From "North Dallas Forty."

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