keith_jackson_and_paste_separated_at_birth ever dumbening Keith Jackson: Welcome to the Rose Bowl in Pasadena, California, where the sunshine is made of sil-ky cot-ton candy dreams and football is not for the faint of constitutionary. paste!: that's right, keith, cocaine it does a body good, and no better place than goin back to cali, to watch the nebraska pornrustlers and the miami lessthanbrains dutchess it out for national squillo parallelogramcrackers. KJ: paste!, the Cornhuskers need to batten down the wickets and tell Granny to put on a pot roast, cause this Miami team has gotta steam train of muscle all lined up like the fifth panzer division we met in Heidelberg. p!: keith, I couldn't agree more, that nebraska secon-dainty will like up like a knot of hasheeesh on a hookah with loglungs livermore at the helm. you can't underserve the whitmanesque autobody shop that the miami wide perceivers put on the mesa verde. leaves that grass, X is rex, fumble-rooskie. KJ: Well, paste!, it looks like with less than two ticky tacky's left on the horologue the 'canes have this one wrapped up tighter than Ragu has the eye level shelf at IGA, Shnucks, Vons, Winn Dixie, AND Kroger. p!: sure as plaid, keith, but these ueberpflegers are still layin down the clytemnestrating hits on the pornrustlers' runny mites. turf toad nevermost quoth the candy-ringed ravie. and miami feels no malt beverage for these corner cancellers, not a cube of amnion for the redvines-clad, no-bra-skin fans. KJ: Hoist your cups of annihilation, Miami, you're the National Champions, and tonight, there's not a better bunch on this giant 49-penny gumball, not a sharper tack in the 4H pin the tail corral, not a more character crammed crew in the Loo-ney Tunes story board room than this Hur-ricane squad. So for paste!, I'm Keith Jackson. Good night. p!: cachuh, Keith 020103 ... paste! YES! luckily, i had some spare quaalitudes for that game. quite a few lottery pickles in that one, eh nostrademotee? 020103 ... squillo PANCREAS! 020104 ... ever dumbening Keith Jackson: Well, paste!, here we are again, like two natty goats grazing the same old teenager, back at the Rose Bowl. This time we're here for the scrum between the gimme-five-downs Buffalhoes and the pansily-clad Babybears of the University of California's Lower Achievers. paste!: hams to you, keith. KJ: That's right paste!, I couldn't have said it better, just like President Shrub can't spell "I". A fine fall day with the air crisper than a Costco sack full of Cletus Brand Pork Rinds. p!: right-o, keith. these phytokinetic brewin fans have set aside their nickel bags, strippers, and rocks-for-jocks textbooks to cheer on their padded neanderthal cirque du rolaids. KJ: Early in the first half the girdiron middle managers are already throwing around more reverses than a Volkswagen Beetle full of foreign policy wonks. p!: tru dat, k-dog. "bitch betta have my money" seems the call to tony armas of these three toad slots. underwhittle on offense, pour salicylically on D. at least that's what my cyborg parental unit espoused. chorkus rhomboid 43 narket, now THAT'S a play call. KJ: paste!, you hit the baby seal on the jugular, with alacrity. That Bruin defense is softer than two emo boys cuddling to their favorite Alkaline Trio MP3. The Colorado offense is eating up the yards with the reckless abandon of those Eastern-Bloc porn stars we met at TGIWednesdays. p!: i haven't seen weaker athletes since the visigoths lost coach tcKokTarr in the battle of Handiwipred. KJ: These boys are going to have to do more introspection during halftime than a two-bit coke whore with no blade, no spoon. Let's go drink some spit. p!: blood orange, blood sausage--i won't waffle, keith. 020921 ... ever dumbening Dan Fouts: Hey, what about me? paste!: cool it, fouts. you'll get yours. and _ferchrissakes, put away your NAMBLA membership pin when the chimeras roll. Keith Jackson: I'm itchin' for tomorrow more than an itinerant stucco worker on a thatch-stuffed mattress in Beijing. [stay tuned, the transcriptionist will be in the mountains until friday--e.d.] 030101 ... ever dumbening: calendar stylie [whoops, sorry keith, the game's on friday] 030101 ... ever dumbening Keith Jackson: Tempe, Arizona; Tofu, Arizona--whatever, it's all hot vegan hippy chicks wearing Naots, but today we're here for overgrown boys smashing heads for a chunky soup bowl full of pride. Dan Fouts: I like boys. paste!: christ, fouts, with the boys already?! keith, can we lose the tool? KJ: Done. p!: yeah, keith, the A.Z. finery is groove slice, but i wish the seminoles were in this one. i think all those chicks from that fake porn university go there. KJ: Check yer knee breeches, kids. We've got fewer defeats between these two teams than Stalin's army as reported in the state-run newspapers. It's the Ohio State Chestnuts versus the DNA lab rats we see every year. p!: tackle box, hot box, buckeyes, keith, buckeyes. 'canes in a romp, keith. solenoid grits can't stop a team with a coach named Coker. fer rizzle. KJ: Could be, Paste!. I reckon the Pecans chances are slimmer than fleas swimming in ephedra-ade. Parlez vous parlays? p!: sacristy, apse, narthex: the three offensive linemen of the apothecary. and you know i've got 10 quid on this one. KJ: Whoa, Nellie. That pass is more wobbly than pre-teens on a week long bender. p!: slaughter house five-alive citrus blend--PICKED OFF! milk is chillin' gizmo's chillin', keith. 2nd down, hut, hut, scurvey. like wrathful sandwich meats, keith, state's D is ballin'. KJ: Two picks. Tupac. Hiphop na-tion e-la-tions from the pretty Midwest cheerleaders. And now it's their O's turn. Stumblepuckey TOUCHDOWNSYNDROME O-hi-o State! And this game's more knotted up than a shoebox full of angsty chatroom teens. p!: mbutoruski. my hammy drops the pickle. who's the insouciant phospholipid now? bucks by a touch! KJ: Who'da thunk it? Corn-fed leading porn-fed at the half. Reminds me of canoeing on Lake Mass-a-pa-HEEK-wa with granny. p!: ocelot times these are, keith. KJ: Whoooeee, that Swanee is a buc-ket full o' stupid. Ohhh Sally, State's defense is hanging tougher than a Sizzler lunch special, but it's hard to keep the Mammies' offense down, like it's hard to keep cioppino down when overdosing on ketamine. Trust me. p!: k-hole and shiksa-lite stock options. put that in your search engines and burn. that's no middle linebacker, that's larouchefoucault. KJ: Well, well, Theisman city. You can kiss that knee goodbye. That hurts more than the 57-year old drill press operator opening his 401k statement. p!: wrenches. we're finally gettin ta hettin'. let's grab some charcoal--meat chunks's flyin'. KJ: OH MY, overtime and I'm more fresh out of home spun aphorisms than a litter of 17 kittens is out of teats. Let's go get shitty. p!: *teary eyed* a wordsmith good and true you are, pimlico pete. kampai! [With the booth empty, Dan Fouts sneaks back in.] Fouts: wHeEEEeee the buckeyes have pokemon stickers on their hats chargers win the pennant chargers win the pennant soooowweeeeeee 030103 ... ever dumbening paste!: keith. YO, KEITH. wake the fuck up man. the shizzle is hittin the fizzle. it's the rosary bead bowl, ya old sleepy goat. Keith Jackson: *mumble, snore* p!: whatever. we'll try again for the meshugenah bowl on sunday. 040101 ... ever dumbening: local bandwagon stylie keith calling a Cal game, wtf? ne'er have i heard stranger. might even motivate me to dust off the satirical mic come january. 041119 ... ever dumbening Keith Jackson: I'd better chill out, or else I'll have more strokes than Dick Clark and the New Year's Clock combined. I'm gonna go watch My Left Foot 2: Christy Brown Vs. Godzilla. Besides, we're listening to the game on the radio this year anyway. I'm out. paste!: what a game, keith. but yeah, some choads callin' it on the radio, online radio no less. it's like knockin' one out in a truck stop outside scahu. either way, it's all about crankin up the jam-to-scam ratio with some SC hoes. knowumsayin? KJ: paste!, I'd need more milligrams of Viagra than Vince Young has rushing yards. Yowee buckets of yams, that's some QB. p!: naphthalene, keith. a missed field goal, a missed field study, a missed period. i'm pregnant with scuttle buttin' raptors. but still the horny toads rape the grass pile. man am i hungry or watts? if i were a trilobite watching football, i'd think, man, i wish i weren't a trilobite. online radio choad: [insert phrase. repeat phrase. repeat.] p!: they fuckin pay you for that shit? KJ: Sadder than gettin nothin from a lawyer from SC. Sadder than a carton full of wet American Spirit yellows. Sadder than a skybox at the Yankees game and your girlfriend has an upper respiratory infection. p!: marmot-nuts suckin laminations, keith. horns win horns win horns win. now i must join forces with the borg to acquire some tequila. ray poe sah doe a deer a female a beer an argot an ingot a margot a '68 chateau margaux la feet. i just take one k-hole trip at a time and i couldn't do it without the lord, keith. lord calverts gin that is. so say we all. KJ: Now I can die happier than a greased pig in a corral full of malaprops. Trikey, paste!, trikey. 060104 ... ever dumbening first time having a tv in 7 years just might inspire the revival of the series. ducks/tigers ... yamobdere? tune in to find out. 101224 ... ever dumbening [*riiiing ... riiiiing ... riiiing* old-school, ghetto-ass answering machine picks up.] yeppers, you've reached the machine of johnny t, please leave a message, unless you're a racist conservative douche-sprinkle, then i'll just see you around town. *beeeeeep* Keith Jackson: paste!, pick up, my good acolyte of verbal parsnip stew. musburger is making my ears bleed more than the arms of those goth teens you were playing pinochle with last new years. [mumbling can be heard; a bong falls over, spills, breaks; two strippers are snapping each other in the ass with their thongs while the last of the blow trickles through their veins.] paste!: hchch, hhdhdmmmm, achmm. hello? keither slumberland? is that yoohoo? KJ: Spaghetti Monster, paste!, wake the fuck up, it's bowl time. The game is 3/4ths over, not unlike the chances of the democrat's hopes for, well, pretty much anything. paste!: hemp butter, keith. i just knobbed on the visual digitizer. good thing i didn't listen to the spudnosticaters--i took the under. 30 points after three? my mom scored more grams of buddha punj is ten minutes outside megamonkeymart just this morning. KJ: Yessiree, paste!, both team's D's have clamped down harder than a Michael Vick-trained pitbull on the nuts of America's heartstrings. p!: wonderpuckies, K-dizzle, you've still got the gift of gabba-hydroxybutyric acid, my aphorostic afrotastic old cracker homey. KJ: paste!, might I remind you that you're as white as I, as white as a trust fund Angelino girl's pearly whites are pre pearl necklace. p!: sorry, dog, i'm blacker in the 'morn, b'fo my java and my porn. okay, i'm done now. que sera seraiously, though k-spice, what's going on in this battle bot shack-up? KJ: My mad madrigal meister, we have been sold a bill of goods, like the average commercial viewing melt-minder watching (as you've already shrewdly pointed out with respect to the over/under). Nonetheless, Lord paste!-ing-ton, we've got a barn burner happening the likes of which we haven't seen since the Polish countryside lit up in September '39. Big plays, big breasts, big coaching egos, and lots of Oregon stoners huffin' big Bob Marley gnarlies in the parking lots. And for some reason the sub-plot so far is a slippery field?! The players are stumbling more than Phil Hellmuth does playing heads-up, no-limit holdem against Tom Durrr Dwan. p!: i got cashews for ya on that one, kilo-keith. i know it's my adopted altered state, but how does a domed stadium have slimy nori? i'm nortryptalized there, captain pandrogee. holy chipper shredders, k-t extinctionator, we gots a fumble, we gots a penalty, we gots a 4th long dong conversion, and now the quacksplats are at the golden gato. KJ: Hooooo, that's a spicy pretzel, TOUCHDOWN, OOOO-REEEE-GONNNN. Tack on a two-point conversion, like grandma used to tack on my Easter morning necktie and we've got ourselves a game. p!: slutty mudskippoi, the amotos_of_fire have been unleashed, and now it's a sprint to the flea circus. yamaha spike drops, instant reaper confirms it--fast man lands on fat man, run forrest run. now tigger, roo, pooh, and christine-fur robeson are in the snail hovel. KJ: Or are they? Moments later we return to the replay like the choir boys of St Ansegisus did to granny's nectarine pie. p!: or fout's bedroom, eh kato? KJ: So it's down to the foot of football yet again. Two clickies on PawPaw's timebox and here we go. Dunnnn! p!: the giants win the pennant, the giants win the pennant!!! peace oats, keyword, i've got whore to entertain. KJ: Sleep well, Prince of Poon, we've got Tostitos to snort. 110110 ... ever dumbening at least i don't have to retract my '04 commentary. stupid trojans. 110606 ... ever dumbening sorry kids, don't have the visuals or the mental fortitude this year. maybe we'll team up with andrés cantor for the copa do mundo. goooooooooooooooooooool. 140106 ... ever dumbening goodnight sweet prince. 180113 what's it to you? who go blather from