Looking for the SEC WARS: The Courtesy Flush? Right here.     We can dream, can't we?   Har-dee-har-har, you tutelaries of football goodness! We know you thought sending us a meteorological representation of Charlie Weis' peristalsis might be kindasorta funny, but you might have forgotten that the R'oll Ball Coach eats egg roll chimichangas under Whoppers malt syrup. Well, your crappy skywhirl of devastation can take our roofs, you can take our electricity, you can take our trees, you can take our gasoline to power the generators, you can take our homes and our jobs, but you can't take everything! Besides our patience, of course, and oh yeah, you got our calm, our mental health, our semblance of normalcy, hmmm...looks like you got those frozen pizzas, too. Damn. Oh wow - look at that, you took down that transmission line. Whoa, and that building, and those people's livelihoods. Jeez, guys...viscerally, you've given us the same feeling as watching a Crimson Tide family at a Golden Corral "Bear it up" by making a chicken tender "burger" where the buns are beef patties; a cupped webbed hand is then slid under the plexiglass slough-shield, and the gnarled relative-scented maw then plods into the large hotel pan of brown gravy, and hand-spoons the fulvous ooze over the entire mess, and the whole family then weeps when a napkin falls onto the plate because now all of a sudden there's a Shroud of Julio. We've been through this crap before, and after being rickclausened, we've decided that enough is enough. Somebody 'bout to get bit. What? Another one? Really? Where? Oh....oh wow...that's huge...did Charlie have a 10-pack of Krystals or something? Can we get the most powerful blowhard in all of coaching to maybe yell at it for a little while? Hmm...alright, then, Tante Nature. You and your weather took all of that...but you made a huge mistake...you put the wrong season at the forefront: YOU TOOK OUR FOOTBALL AND WE WANT IT BACK. This week, the Mean Green of North Texas leave one storm to come to another...that's right, Mean Green...it's time to face Hatchicane Lee, who will make landLaFell as a Coltdavidgory 3. The Ricky Jean surge levels are expected to be at least 3-4 yards, and we expect to see a lot of snapped limbs (legs, probably) and destroyed lines. When your QB drops back into darkness, we'll be able to see him get lit up by our Harry Coleman lantern. We know how to manage...we just wrap rabbit ears with Aceluminum Foyil so we can catch the game, and we settle down and remember Richard Murphy's law: "Whatever can go wrong, will go wrong, but don't be sad, just watch me bitchslap this linebacker, run over this corner, and juke this safety on my way over there." We spoke with Representative of the University of North Texas... TROUGH: Hey, you. You got any tarps or ice? RUNT: Pardon? TROUGH: You're military, right? Those MRE's...they come with anything good, like boudin-flavored gum? RUNT: Er...no...uh, we're in town to play a football game. TROUGH: Oh! Hey! Welcome to town! RUNT: Wow, the place looks pretty beat up. We're so sorry - must have been tough. TROUGH: Hmm...that's very "nice" of you...are you sure you're our opponent? They're supposed to be mean. RUNT: That's just a nickname; that's not really us. TROUGH: Oh, so you're saying you have tarps. RUNT: What? I don't understand. TROUGH: (blowing into their face) RUNT: [gagging] Oh, man - that breath, it's horrible. Why would you do that? TROUGH: To show you what it's like to be on the receiving end of a hurricane, with the fierce winds and insufferable aftermath. RUNT: Yeah, but hurricanes don't derive their strength by swirling over sewage treatment plants. That's what your breath smells like. TROUGH: Hey, poor man's Tulane, listen up: we haven't had power or internet or cable, and a steady diet of potted meat and pink soft canned sausages combined with this humidity and debris clean-up has left us more foul than an Auburn ref. RUNT: Seriously, you should get some help - really, that breath. TROUGH: Why do you think we asked for boudin gum? RUNT: Look, we'll sit over here. Now, you asked us to join you for a few questions - let's talk about the game. TROUGH: Why the "Mean Green?" RUNT: It's a nickname. You know that Mean Joe Green played for North Texas, right? It stared as a nickname and became the offical name after a student vote. It's a lot better than our first nickname - in the 1920's, we were called "the Normal Boys." TROUGH: Hmm..."normal"...as opposed to "the Abnormal Boys?" Like the chaps in Tuscaloosa, with their cloacas? RUNT: Cloacas? TROUGH: Yeah. You know, it's a reproductive and excretory aperture, conveniently located in one area and typically sealed with a flap. It's indigenous to the people of Tuscaloosa; you and I know it as a "mouth." RUNT: Uh...are we going to talk about the game? TROUGH: What game? RUNT: The one we're playing on Saturday night. TROUGH: Saturday night? Are you saying we have power? RUNT: Are you ok? TROUGH: Sorry Mr. Normal. It's been a crazy few weeks around here. We feel kind of cast aside and weird, like that guy in that movie Powder. That's us - a hypermagnetic albino, and the rest of the world is tanned and beautiful and has neutral polarity. In other words, Swiss. RUNT: I want to talk about the game, but it's funny you should mention "albino." We almost had a secondary mascot, an albino squirrel that lived on campus that supposedly brought good luck to students. The squirrel was killed by a hawk. TROUGH: Whoa, whoa, whoa...what are you, like a dumber Auburn? Actually, since you were considering as a mascot a genetic anomaly that's proficient in nut-snacking, I'd say you were more Alabama. Either way, it would be awesome if Auburn or Alabama's mascot could be killed by a hawk. RUNT: Aren't they the Tigers and Elephants or something? TROUGH: Yeah, so it's got to be a big hawk. Or maybe a flock of hawks, all coordinated. Like a whirling mass of hawks...all circling in the same direction, with like an eye in the middle. That strikes us a pretty destructive pattern. RUNT: Do you need someone to talk to? TROUGH: Is that code for "tarp?" RUNT: Look, I thought we could talk about the game... TROUGH: Oh yeah, that. Our guys have been cooped up like a bunch of massive hawks for 2 weeks, some of that time without power or tubed meats. Sufficed to say, they are ready to fill the team generator with victory gas and power some pain box fans and a freezer full of semi-thawed beatdown. We usually have a few squirrels, too. RUNT: This doesn't make any sense. Are you sure you're with an actual media outlet? TROUGH: Outlets! Those are the portals of yore, where the mystic energy juice used to flow from in the waywayback! RUNT: Maybe we should leave you...you sound like you could use some rest. TROUGH: Hmmm..."rest" - is that code for "tarp?" Hoop of hawks: 52 Pasty talon-eviscerated nut foragers: 13 Welcome to The Trough, a place that really gets to the meat of LSU's opponents. Ok, not so much the meat, but the sinewy gristle and thick connective tissue. We then feed these funbits through a grinder to get a coarse meaty bounty, and that's what is on display here. It should be a given that while The Trough is loosely related to LSUChicageaux.com, it's more like a Baton Rouge uncle than a Tuscaloosa cousin. In other words, what's in The Trough is obviously not endorsed by any official LSU entity. They've got better sense than that.