Got a nice note from Orson a few days ago that basically said that he was glad I was not dead, which of course is high praise coming from a Gator fan. As I was basking in his endearing words, it hit me. I suddenly knew the root cause of my recent illness.
You see, I've taken on the responsibility of gathering and compiling all of the aspartame that bloggers have been sprinkling on each other as they make their nominations for the 2006 College Football Blogger Awards, and in doing so, I've noticed a recurring theme:
|Orson, Orson, Orson!|
It's sickening, really. Orson, Orson, Orson.
I sat down last Thursday night ready to write something nice about Orson when, I kid you not, I was suddenly afflicted with severe nystagmus followed immediately by a marathon cack session to end all cack sessions. Now my household is not above having a bit of fun with vomit, but this was not your typical puke-for-five, break-for-ten, rinse-and-repeat-until-empty session. No, this was pure evil, undiluted and unbound by the temporal. I'm fairly certain that I still have a toenail wedged between my first and second molars.
I blame Orson, of course, so there will be no kind words or thoughts about our rival to the south. Okay, so maybe he's brilliant, but you won't hear it from me. He may well be more of a comedic genius than an all-time, all-star SNL cast, but such an opinion will not be aired here. Sure, he could win any of the best blog awards for which he is eligible, including the Mythical National Champion, and he would probably sweep all of the best-post categories if we let him, but I . . . will . . . not . . . think nice things about him.
Orson, Orson, Orson . . . makes me sick.
Got it? Okay, then.