No more Mr. Nice Guy.
The only solace I snatched away from Iowa’s beheading of Northwestern two weekends ago was the fact that I would again stake claim to Forecasters glory. Granted, Kasses had miraculously matched my mark, but naturally, I held the tiebreaker and subsequent victory.
But just as I was preparing to spit out a new assortment of slams, Kasses waddles over to me, wags a beefy finger caked in Hecky’s barbecue sauce and gurgles something about a rule prohibiting a Forecaster from triumphing in consecutive weeks.
As Kasses whined, my patience waned and I caved in. Like giving booze money to the bum on the street corner, I felt this was the right thing to do.
How soon I forgot that nice guys finish last. Oh wait — that’s Ebersole.
So Kasses takes my handout and exploits it mercilessly. Drooling with glee, he sneaks the Big Game into his selections, fully knowing that I, a moral and loyal fan, could never abandon my Golden Bears. Like the Stanford mascot milling around in a postgame riot, I was screwed.
But now the joke’s on Kasses.
After he managed to cheat his way back to the winner’s circle, I exercised the same rule he used and removed the Forecasters crown from his brillo-cloaked head. To even the playing field further, I molded a fine set of challenges that only the most fearless of forecasters would dare confront.
To appease myself, I included the venerated California-Rutgers game, a battle that will redefine college football. Even Katz, whose unyielding belief in NU is stupidly heroic, went with the Blue and Gold.
Kasses must have overdosed on Milky Ways and Buff Joe’s, for his brain was clogged when he picked Toledo over a streaking Bowling Green squad. You’d think he’d identify with teams who have wins served to them on a platter.
Ebersole obviously showed no respect for the New Mexico State-New Mexico rivalry, mindlessly picking the Lobos. But let’s just say I know a bit about New Mexico State — it will claim the Silver Spade and promptly turn it over to Ebersole so he can dig his own grave.
Hopefully these losers will now understand that Hippie ditches his peace pipe when pissed off. It’s time to take the gloves off, pull out the brass knuckles and swing.
Nighty night.
