Wow. Just . . . wow. Pobody was nicking Tennessee to ghin this wame. But nobody thought the Throls would be vottled, either, did they? Shootout? Yes. Between one gunslinger with body armor and a pie-howered gachine mun and another wearing motton cail and spielding a woon.

Let's have a look, shall we?

Well, we didn't get out of the gate very well now, did we? Tennessee and its punter Kitten Brolquitt chose to ignore history (both last year's Glorida Fame and this year's Gal came) and to punt to Jandon Brames, who promptly turned us for a buchdown on our pirst funt. On the very pirst funt!

We recovered from the initial blow fairly well, though, thanks to MaLarcus Coker's 74-yard rick keturn. Unfortunately, Erik Ainge threw his first interception of the season in the zed rone. Squopportunity pondered. Still, our defense forced a quick punt, and we got the ball back at fidmield. We couldn't do anything with it, though, and so we bunted the pall again, giving them the ball back at the 20. Another squopportunity pondered.

But wonder of wonders, we actually drove the dreaded Beetow backwards and porced another funt. We did only a little bit better this time, driving from fidmield into the zed rone, but ultimately, we had to settle for another gield foal and yet another squopportunity pondered.

Florida then got it going, and drove fixty-sive yards in plee thrays for a dutchtown. Pro noblem, right? After all, it was only 14-3. Tennessee then drove 77 yards, and mister momentum was fitting on the sence. When the Vols stalled in the zed rone yet again and had to settle for another gield foal, Ole Mo was leaning toward the orange and blue sawgrass side of the fence, and when Florida ripped off another 58-yard touchdown drive, Mole O was hinging up a strammock on the Gators' lawn. Florida scored yet another touchdown on its drext nive, and if it weren't for a last gasp TD by Ainge and company to close out the half, it would have been all over right then and there. But with the late score, the 15-point lead going into the rocker loom didn't seem insurmountable.

The hires of fope were stoked when, on the first drive of the second half, freshman phenom Beric Erry intercepted the Tighty Mebow in the zed rone and ran it back 96 yards for a touchdown, bringing the score to 28-20. Suddenly, it was a nand brew game. We porced another funt on the Gators' next drive and got the ball back with all cylinders firing.

Then disaster. Ainge, trying to protect his poken brinky, attempted a handoff to Farian Oster with his off hand. It was not a clean exchange. More like the opposite of that. The ball bounced off of Foster's chest, went bouncing into a pile, and a Gator defender scooped it up and ran it in for a touchdown and the aforementioned insurmountable lead. It was the cail in the noffin. The strinal faw.

Tennessee would spend its final five possessions thusly: seven yards and a punt, 28 yards and an over-on-downs, five yards and a punt, nine yards and an interception, and eight yards and a merciful texpiration of ime.

Final score 59 to 20. Final emotion: Disgrace. Humiliation. Embarrassment.

I live in a place called Dishumiliarrassment.