There's something about Lane Kiffin that makes otherwise sensible people do some really strange things.
Generally, sports bets take on the following formula: I'll do X if Y, if you'll do Z if not Y. But Kiffin's got folks actually gifting promises, which we will gladly accept:
Putting our cheese where our mouth is. This [the Great Lane Kiffin Debate] seems a bit ununsual to me–mostly because, logic aside, team biases all but ensure a universal declaration of failure for Future Lane Kiffin and his cyborg compatriots as they travel through time to decide the fate of VolManity. (”Come with me if you want to taste a luxurious buyout package in four years.”) Remember that it was a plurality, if not a majority of SEC folks who saw Urban Meyer’s system as not working in the SEC. If he’s yours, he’ll work; if he’s not, he’s a brave but moronic desert astronaut sitting with his button on the ignition of the JATO pack of FAIL strapped to his roof.
The crater will be spectacular, but let’s put some cheese on the table in the most literal sense.
We hate cheese. It’s not lactose intolerance, but rather a lifelong dislike so intense that our sister used to chase us with pieces of it. We can’t eat it on anything, and the smell of it cooking will drive us out of a room. It’s a minor form of madness, but heat up some parmesan in a room and we’ll show you some theatrical but genuine dry heaving. Cheese is bad milk that can walk around.
So, if Lane Kiffin is still coach at Tennessee in three years, we volunteer to eat a 6 oz piece of cheese on film to commemorate the occasion. The exact variety shall be left up to relevant experts, though really if Joel wants us to eat limburger so ripe it can hold up liquor stores at knifepoint after hotwiring a car, that’s what we’ll eat, even if we end up vomiting up a spleen over it. That’s how convinced we are that Kiffin will fail.
And Swindle's not the only one. Doug piles on:
Extend the bet to four years . . . and I will eat an eight-ounce block of cheese and drive around for one year with an orange-”T” front license plate on my car.
Well, Holly's got Doug's license plate covered, but because RTT members surely include at least one bona fide dairy expert from Wisconsin, I'm soliciting your help with the cheese.
So, dear readers, go. Scour the intertubes in search of the foulest of foul cheese. Three years will be here before you know it.
By the way, Swindle's serious, as he knows me well enough to know that while my aged and increasingly feeble mind may neglect to remember this little gift wager three years from now, my Remember the Milk account won't. Heh, whattayaknow? Dairy all around.