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Talking points: "a really horrendous day" edition

Happy Good Friday to everyone. After the Talking Points, I have a question for you.

  • Oh, yay. Lane Kiffin called Thursday "a really horrendous day" for the quarterbacks. Jonathan Crompton, B.J. Coleman, and Nick Stephens threw at least four interceptions (two others were thrown after sacks had been credited) among them. Two were thrown under pressure rather than taking sacks. So woo. Not only that, but the trio repeated mistakes multiple times. Yeehaw. Safety Prentiss Waggner had at least two INTs, and Derrick Furlow and Dennis Rogan each had one.
  • Aluminum foil lining. Offensive coordinator Jim Chaney says that the offense was trying to do several things for the first time (what, like breaking the NCAA interception record for a season in a single scrimmage -- rimshot!) and that pass protection stinks. So maybe it's all just defensive end Chris Walker's fault. Yeah, that's gotta be it. Hooray.
  • Here's some actual good news: Daniel Lincoln (I think, maybe it's "the kickers") were 29-30 on their kicks. They missed the last one. I'm hoping it wasn't a game-winning scenario.
  • We want scores of thousands to come and see nothing next week! The scrimmage today will likely be more interesting than the Orange and White Game next week because the rabble with be there with cameras next week and today's scrimmage is all top-double-secret hush-hush stuff.

Off topic: What is the big sin about asking for french fries with Filet Mignon? I spent Sunday through Wednesday at the Hyatt Regency on Capitol Hill in D.C., where Cokes were $2.50 and everywhere you turned you had to hand somebody a Lincoln. It was cold outside, and so on the last day I just decided to eat in the hotel and get back to work, and of course they have nothing but Fancy Food with Foreign Names, most of which I abhor. So I order the Filet for $36, and what do I want with those? French fries.

They just don't understand fries or anything that involves slicing and deep frying, I guess. No, they have to go and find the finest potato -- cultivated in Idaho, exported to France and re-imported back to America -- slice it into a grand total of four brick-sized wedges, and rather than just dunk it in trans fat, they trot out the basting brush to coat it with the finest oil from the finest olive from the finest tree in the shadow of an ancient sepulchre in the Middle East. Stick it under a heat lamp for thirty seconds and you have fries, apparently.

The meat was decent. But I could have used a chocolate shake to wash it down. When I get rich I'm putting a Sonic in the lobby of every Five-Star Hotel I can worm my way into.

Happy Easter.