(Don’t Look At Me Just Figure That Shit Out For Yourself.)

What does all of this mean?

They’re message board abbreviations. And it’s college football season. So make like Nicholas Cage and decipher that shit ASAP.

'LMAO.' 'ROTFL.' 'IMHO.' 'STFU.' If these aren’t the caps-lock ramblings of a deranged lunatic, well then just what in the fuck are they?

It starts out innocently enough. You log on in search of inside info on USC’s new 13-star quarterback signee. You click on a thread that catches your interest, and – boom – it’s like you’re playing scrabble with Gary Busey.

No one knows, but in the midst of logging on to your team’s message board and trying to find legit info, you’ll want to find out. Because entering a message board as an abbreviation-virgin can be like the real thing: painful and confusing.

What in the name of monogrammed towels is going on?

WTF does any of this mean?

She just doesn’t understand. She’s a woman. And women are irrational. Women are so irrational they don’t understand why you spend 15% of your salary on season tickets and love your starting quarterback and hate your starting quarterback and love your starting quarterback and let the actions of 19 year-old strangers dictate your mood for one-fourth of the Caesarian calendar.

She’s right. You are fucking crazy. You’re bat-shit. And you know it. Then again, it’s the fall. 90,000 other people in hundreds of American cities go bat-shit every Saturday.

Somewhere between the broken remote control and you shouting repeated obscenities at a 37”-inch Samsung LCD TV, it’s bound to happen.

Uh huh. And you could bag them all.

21 year-old girls now are hotter than 21 year-old girls were in the ancient bygone era of 1998-2002.

All of them. You have to say it. It's a rule. It has nothing to do with the fact that you’re used to working in an office all day with 35-year old women with tank asses and titties that look like Zip-loc bags full of water.

Oh, and all the girls now are hotter than they were when you were there.

Because if you could do it again, you would be fucking Pierce-Brosnan-with-the-cameras-rolling. Your dick would be so active, it would have a resume. You would fuck until '1-UP's starting popping up over your head. You would would fuck like Star Power.

Nevermind all the times you got shot down in front of the entire fucking bar, took home the fatty, or got too drunk to spit game and was turned down by an army of 3 A.M. Plan B’s.

Never mind real life, and all the times you went home empty-handed and jerked it to Windows-Media-Player-porn.

If you were still in college, parents would send their daughters to school with fucking wrought-iron panties. Dads would order their daughter's va-jay-jays to retreat to Helm's Deep to avoid being ransacked by the massive armies of your cock.

‘Man, do you know what I would do if I were still in college?’

You would smash ass at such an record-shattering pace that it would lead to televised Senate hearings. See that hot girl? You would tap it. That blonde? You would crush it. The curly-headed one? Your id just fucked the shit out of her id. Doggystyle.

If you were still in college, you would get so much pussy.

9) Going back to campus and exaggerating how much ass you'd re-get in college

When you were in college, 50 Cent was a rapper. When he was in college, 50 Cent was a damn good salary.

You’ll never see eye-to-eye. And not just because he’s bent over like an on-duty prostitute. Because you’re from two entirely different worlds.

And before you know it, you have General Longstreet’s superior officer coming at you with an AARP seat cushion like he’s Sonny Corleone by an open fire hydrant.

‘Listen old man, it’s 4 th and 1. Either stand up and watch, or just imagine the shit like you did during the golden era of radio.’

You pay it no mind. You glance back. Finally, the smuggled sock-bourbon forces it out of you:

Then, at some point, the grey-hairs in the back start bitching. And rightfully so. The way they see it, they didn’t see their buddies die face down in the Battle of Antietam so young whippersnappers in zoot suits could stand up and act all uppity.

You’re bound to hear it. You’re at a game. You stand up. You cheer. And, mostly, it goes by unnoticed.

‘Sit down.’ ‘We can’t see the game.’ ‘I pay money for these seats.’ ‘I like Ike.’

10) Getting into it with 'The Greatest Generation'

6) Breaking the spirit of the irritating small-school fan

You know that guy in your office, who invariably went to some non-BCS school, that’s more of an annoying cunt than Gilbert Gottfried in a full vagina outfit? You know, the guy who cheers for the impossibly mediocre program yet has unbearably high expectations at the start of every season?

“Man, I don’t know, I just have this feeling this year. If our transfer JUCO QB can come around and the 12 freshmen on our offensive line can step up, I think our brand-new inexperienced coordinator will have a lot to work with and it won't really matter than our only scholarship running back runs a 23-minute 40. Shoot, we might surprise some folks in the [insert conference of choice].”

No, you aren’t surprising anyone. Your team's mascot should be Danny Devito. Your favorite team is a legalized midget. And yet every year you display the same fuck-me-in-the-brain hope syndrome.

And last year only made things worse. Giving these assholes the parity-driven ‘07 season was like handing a homeless guy the keys to a non-existant Jaguar. False hope abounds.

South Florida. Boston College. Appalachian State. Kansas.

Thanks Football Gods. Now, dumb assholes everywhere think teams like the Tulane Green Wave are going to pull a BCS six-peat.

At the start of the season, these small-time dreamers are more annoying than big-school blowhards.

But, come October, when their team is sporting a fat 3-loss lip, the bounce in their step has been replaced by cold, hard, satisfying reality.

If you have a state university coffee mug, this is the time to bring it to work.

5) Making hung-over Fantasy Football decisions

If you’re a true college football fan, you don’t give a proper fuck about the NFL. You watch it, you like it, you follow it. But you don’t really give a fuck about it. To true college fans, the NFL is like the show that came on HBO after a really good episode of The Sopranos. Just because it’s on your TV screen, doesn’t mean you care what happens.

And so, in the choice between Saturday night and Sunday morning, Sunday morning gets run over like a fleet-footed possum.

The after-effect of this concrete fact? Fantasy football shame.

Should you go with Marshawn Lynch against the Patriots D or go to the bathroom and puke straight vodka?

Did you sleep in? Did you get lucky last night? Were you two up until sunrise playing 'Tag, you're it' with your pants down? Good for you. Hope you enjoyed it. Because while she might have been the one getting pounded last night, once 12:00 P.M. strikes, it’s your turn Cinderella.

And in your sad state, you're fucked. Your clothes smell like the Zoo. Your hair smells like Afghanistan. You aren't fit to lead a group of men onto the football field. You aren't fit to lead a group of men to Waffle House.

And when you come around to your senses at 8:34 P.M. with your fantasy team down 42-116, you have only your college fanaticism to blame.

What were you thinking sitting Edgerrin James against the SF D/ST? Why did you think Eli Manning was a must-start against the BYE?

Because you didn’t know what the fuck you were doing, that’s why.

Because your left eye was shut like the door to George Wallace’s guest house.

Because you couldn’t see straight. Because you couldn’t see at all. Because your face looked like Rocky Balboa's at the end of Rocky IV.

Because you needed a bald sweaty black guy over your shoulder yelling “Start the one in the middle!” to even have a fucking chance.

Because either set your fucking fantasy line-ups during the week, or get Clubber-Langed. Fool.

4) Mooching the tailgate HD

There are some things that are just meant to be mooched. WiFi. Cigarettes. Domestic fridge beer. And campus-tailgate HDTVs.

You know. You’re tailgating it up in a grass field full of tents as far as the eye can see. You were too lazy to get into town early, but you know a buddy who knows a guy who knows a guy who has a tailgate. And an hour after you roll into to town, you roll by the tent.

The HD is just sitting there. Big, bright, shiny. Go ahead. Mooch it. Ask the score. Squint. Lurk. Who gives a fuck if you don't know the tent owner from Adam? That's not what's important here.

What's important here is that it's 6:48 left in the 4th and Ole Miss is about to go up on Georgia.

'Hey, does anyone know the Ole Miss-Georgia score?'

Yea, the guy with the giant fucking TV knows it. Now quit asking questions and go mooch the HD.

The owner of the HD wants you to mooch it. The HD itself wants you to mooch it.

It’s like a girl in a hoochie skirt at a nightclub. Do you think she spent all that time picking out her slut-gear and putting on her slut-gear and hiking-up her slut-gear and setting up her slut-gear... so that guys WOULDN’T stare at it?

Of course not. She wants you to stare at it. And not just one or two guys. Every guy who walks by it. She brought it out in public for that exact reason.

Sure, you stare at it long enough and she’ll turn around and give you a look. Don’t be fooled. She loves it. She loves the attention.

It’s the same way with tailgate HD. Mooch and mooch hard.

And before you start to feel guilty, remember, there’s nothing wrong with just lookin’.

The best way to HD-mooch is to just glance at a TV screen that’s naturally within your view/conversation. So long as you’re not stealing chairs, no one should give a fuck.

And if they do, fuck them. Keep staring. Or, just go find another one to stare at. There are plenty of fish in the HD-tailgating sea.

If a 37-incher wants to play hard-to-get, fuck that bitch. Go find a 40-inch.

But don’t just go for one just because you’re desperate. If there’s some box with fucking rabbit ears sitting under a near-empty tent, don’t just make a beeline for it, no matter how desperate you are for the Ohio State score. Use your fucking cellphone if you want it that bad. Or, just pound a few beers and say ‘Fuck it. TV’s TV.’ We’ve all been there.

Haven't found one yet? Relax. There’s bound to be a 47-inch HD beauty nestled somewhere in this grassy Saturday paradise.

Remember, alumni are rich as shit. How else do you think college football players make so much? Now go find you some damn HD.

Walk by. Look. Stare. Mooch. Mooch the HD. Hell, if you’re close enough, mooch the Fritos.

3) Dreaming about being Kirk Herbstreit

Don’t sit here and fucking lie. Don’t even act, for one second, like you’ve never gazed into the handsome wonder that is Kirk Herbstreit’s face and thought ‘That guy gets more skirt-warmth during one commercial break than I got my Freshmen-to-Junior years.’

Go ahead. Stare. It isn’t gay. It’s actually quite the opposite.

Imagine showing up for work and your boss saying:

“OK (your name), what we need you to do today is to go to a college campus full of hot pussy and be good-looking on national television. Oh, and be sure to watch plenty of football, talk about plenty of football, and hang out with plenty of uber-famous football coaches. Anyway, here’s your hotel key and a few extra copies for any big busty sluts that happen to throw themselves in the general vicinity of your cock during the upcoming Thursday-Sunday time frame.”

You love you some Herbstreit. And please, no comments about the gelled hair. You aren’t fooling anyone. You’re jealous. You’d gel your pubes with hot kitchen grease if it meant taking Kirk Herbstreit’s job for 15 minutes.

Why do you think your girlfriend lets you watch College Gameday, you dense fuck? Because while you’re busy geeking out over which cartoon-animal-face Lee Corso is going to put on top of his head, she’s going for an imaginary ride on Kirk Herbsteit’s pelvis.

You think you’re jealous? How do you think other former mediocre Ohio State quarterbacks feel? How fucking pissed would you be if you were Craig Krenzel? While Herbstreit is out smashing on hot Big-12 puss, you’re sitting at home jerking it to the 2002 calendar year and having wet dreams about phantom pass interference calls.

Coming to movie theatres this fall: Being Kirk Herbstreit. ‘Three college-football fanatics find a secret portal to Kirk Herbstreit’s head and discover an endless world of fame, college football, and hot sex as they embark on a spiritual journey of vaj-pounding across ACC/SEC/PAC-10 country.’

2) Chastising Wal-Mart jerseys

Much like sixteenth-century Britain, in the world of college football, there are social classes. Hierarchies, if you will.

And grown men in Wal-Mart jerseys are the fucking indentured servants of college football fandom. Everyone looks down on them. And for good reason.

Because if you could afford season tickets, Miller Lite, a wife, and the gas money to get to your favorite college town, you can afford a real fucking jersey.

Not a fucking Wal-Mart jersey.

We all know Wal-Mart jerseys. Those hideous team-oriented nylon beasts ugly enough to double as a future throwback for the 2046 Cincinnati Bengals.

We all know them. And we all hate them.

For instance, there is perhaps no jersey in college football as simple and elegant as the white-on-red home uni of the Alabama Crimson Tide. And what better way to show your home-game allegiance to an old-school masterpiece than by trashing it up with white zebra stripes, 3D numbers, grey shoulder squares and D-cup-sized elephant logos?

No matter what your education-level, job-status, career, salary, athletic ability, talent, house-size, dick-size, primary-TV-size, or ass-getting ability, you may forever look down on anyone in a jersey purchased from the king of Everyday Low Prices.

You could be a janitor with a two-inch dick, a GED and a publicly visible STD, and so long as you’re a college football fan, you have total social permission to chastise any man in a Wal-Mart football jersey.

It doesn’t matter if he’s the CEO of the fucking Northern Hemisphere. His jersey looks like something a Chinese Rugby team would wear. To practice.

You could put the King of England in a Wal-Mart jersey and he’d immediately be labeled a redneck douche of epic proportions.

Wal-Mart jerseys. The college football equivalent of a fanny-pack.

1) ESPN will be out to get you.

ESPN hates you.

And more importantly, ESPN hates your team.

ESPN will go to any length to diss your team. Any length. You know that LSU coozie you used to have but can’t seem to find? ESPN took it. Because ESPN hates LSU. That is, if LSU is your team.

It has nothing to do with you being too passionately involved in both liking your team and hating other teams. ESPN just likes to fuck with your head. That's why when Mark May says something like 'LSU has question marks at quarterback. Watch out for Florida in this one' you get pissed. Sure, you just read the same thing in the Times Picayune. But the Times Picayune isn't ESPN - who clearly is having a love affair with Urban Meyer and the Gators while simultaneously throwing the LSU Bengal Tigers under the bus every chance they get.

Unless you're a Florida fan. In which case the time that Chris Fowler made that dig about Urban Meyer's 28-point loss to Alabama is clear evidence of an ESPN-wide plan to, in fact, shut the UF football program down.

Remember that time ESPN ran a story about your favorite player getting arrested? Nevermind that he actually did get arrested. That's bullshit. ESPN is bullshit. And it is obvious that, by running timely stories about factual events, ESPN is biased against your team.

It doesn't matter who you pull for.

Whoever your favorite team is, ESPN hates it. ESPN hates anything you love, and loves anything you hate.

ESPN hates your dad. Unless you hate your dad. In which case ESPN loves your dad.

If you love bread, ESPN is 'anti-sandwich.' If you hate end-pieces, ESPN will run a special about end pieces. Mark May will hold up two hard, crusty-ass end pieces and hype the shit out of them all year long. Bob Ley will run a special called ‘Outside The Loaf.’ Ivan Maisel will write a column with a pun-filled headline like 'The piece to the end puzzle' and mind-force you to read it and then email him in anger about it.

If you were for the Union, ESPN was for the Confederacy.

If you had a Sega Genesis, ESPN had a Super Nintendo. If you had a Super Nintendo, ESPN had Sega Genesis.

If you liked like Tombstone, ESPN liked Wyatt Earp.

If you preferred Use Your Illusion I, ESPN preferred Use Your Illusion II.

If you pulled for Dan, ESPN pulled for Dave.

If you think OJ is guilty, ESPN is black.

ESPN hates everything you stand for. Unless you stand for something else. Then ESPN hates that too.