A chronology of events for Saturday, December 4, 1999,
and the early morning hours of Sunday, December 5,
1999:
6:00 Arise, play the Eyes of Texas and Texas Fight at
full-freaking blast
6:20 Get in car, drive to New Braunfels
7:30 Tee off (me and a buddy were the FIRST tee-time
of the morning)
8:50 Turn 9 (crack open first beer)
8:53 Crack open second beer
8:58 Crack open...(you get the idea)
10:30 Finish 18 (holes, as well as beers), sign
scorecard for smoooooth 95
10:35 Headed for San Antonio
10:50 Buy three 18-packs for pre- and post-game
festivities
11:10 We decide we don't have enough booze, so we
double-back to a liquor store and buy the good ol' 750
ml plastic bottle "Traveler" Jim Beam
11:50 Arrive at the tailgate spot. Awesome day. Not
a single cloud in the sky. About 70 degrees.
11:55 I decide that we're going to kick the shit out
of Nebraska.
11:56 I tell my first Nebraska fan to go fuck
himself.
12:15 The UT band walks by on the way to the
Alamodome. We're on the second floor of a two-story
parking garage on the corner (a couple hundred of us).
We're hooting and hollering like wildmen. The band
doubles back to the street right below us and
serenades us with Texas Fight and The Eyes of Texas.
AWESOME MOMENT.
12:25 In the post-serenade serendipity, 50-100 grown
men are bumping chests with one another, each and
every one of them now secure and certain of the fact
that we are going to kick the shit out of Nebraska.
1:00 The Nebraska band walks by on the way to the
Alamodome. Again, we hoot and holler like wildmen.
Again, the band doubles back and stops right below us
to serenade us, this time, however, with the Nebraska
fight songs. Although somewhat impressed by their
spirit and verve, we remain convinced that we are
going to kick the shit out of Nebraska.
1:30 I begin the walk to the Alamodome, somehow
managing to stuff the "Traveler" and 11 cans of beer
into my pants.
1:47 I am in line surrounded by Nebraska fans. They
are taunting me. I am taunting back, still certain
that we are going to kick the shit out of Nebraska. I
decide to challenge a particularly vocal Nebraska fan
to play what I now call and will forever be remembered
as "Cell-Phone Flop Out." Remember flop out for a
dollar? The rules are similar. I tell this Nebraska
jackass that if he's so confident in his team, he
should "flop out" his cell phone RIGHT NOW and make
plane reservations to Phoenix for the Fiesta Bowl.
And then I spoke these memorable words: "And not
those
damn refundable tickets, either! You request those
non-refundable, non-transferrable sons-of-bitches!"
He backs down. He is unworthy. I call Southwest
Airlines and buy two tickets to Phoenix,
non-refundable
and non-transferrable. Price: $712. He is humbled.
He lowers his head in shame. I raise my cell phone in
triumph to the cheers of hundreds of Texas fans. I am
KING and these are my subjects. I distribute the 11
beers in my pants to the cheering masses. I RULE the
pre-game kingdom.
2:34 Kickoff. Brimming with confidence, I open the
Traveler and pour my first stiffy.
2:45 I notice something troubling: Nebraska is big.
Nebraska is fast. Nebraska is very pissed off at
Texas.
3:01 The first quarter mercifully ends. 9 yards
total offense for Texas. Zero first downs for Texas.
I'm still talking shit. I pour another stiffy from
the Traveler.
3:36 Four minutes to go in the first half: the
Traveler is a dead soldier. I buy my first $5 beer
from the Alamodome merchants. While I am standing in
line, a center snap nearly decapitates Major
Applewhite
and rolls out of the end zone. Safety.
3:56 Halftime score: Nebraska 15, Texas 0. I wish I
had another Traveler.
4:11 While urinating next to a Nebraska fan in the
bathroom at halftime, I attempt to revive the classic
Brice-ism from the South Bend bathroom: "Hey, buddy,
niiiiiiiiice cock." He is unamused.
4:21 I buy my 2nd and 3rd $5 beer from the Alamodome
merchants. I share my beer with two high school girls
sitting behind me. Surprisingly, they are equipped
with a flask full of vodka. I send them off to
purchase $5 Sprites, so that we may consume their
vodka. I have not lost faith. Nebraska is a bunch of
pussies.
4:51 No more vodka. The girls sitting behind me have
fled for their lives. I purchase two more $5 beers
from the Alamodome merchants.
5:18 Score is Nebraska 22, Texas 0. I am beginning
to lose faith. This normally would trouble me, but I
am too drunk to see the football field.
5:27 I call Southwest Airlines: "I'm sorry, sir.
Those tickets have been confirmed and are
non-refundable and non-transferrable."
5:37 I try to start a fight with every person behind
the concession counter. As it turns out, the
Alamodome has a policy that no beer can be sold when
there is less than 10 minutes on the game clock. I am
enraged by this policy. I ask loudly: "Why the fuck
didn't you announce last call over the fucking PA
system??!!"
5:49 Back in my seats, I am slumped in my chair in
defeat. All of a sudden, the Texas crowd goes
absolutely nuts. "Whazzis?," I mutter, awaking from
my coma, "Iz we winnig? Did wez scort?" Alas, the
answer is no, we were not winning and we did not
score.
The largest (by far) cheer of the day from the Texas
faithful occurred when the handlers were walking back
to the tunnel and Bevo stopped to take a gargantuan
shit all over the letters "S", "K", and "A" in the
"Nebraska" spelled out in their end zone. I cheer
wildly. I pick up the empty Traveler bottle and stick
my tongue in it. I am thirsty.
6:16 Nebraska fans are going berserk as I walk back
to the truck. I would taunt them with some off-color
remarks about their parentage, but I am too drunk to
form complete sentences. With my last cognitive
thought of the evening, I take solace in the fact that
if we had not beaten them in October, they would be
playing Florida State for the national championship.
6:30 Back in the car. On the way back to Austin for
the 8:00 Texas-Arizona tip off. We can still salvage
the day! I crack open a beer. It is warm. I don't
care.
7:12 We have stopped for gas. I am hungry. I go
inside the store. I walk past the beer frig. I
notice a Zima. I've never had a Zima. I wonder if
it's any good. I pull a Zima from the frig. I twist
the top off and drink the Zima in three swallows.
Zima
sucks. I replace the empty bottle in the frig.
7:17 There is a Blimpie Subs in the store. I walk to
where the ingredients are, where the person usually
makes the sub. There is no one there. I lean over
the counter and scoop out half a bucket of black
olives. I eat them. I am still hungry. I lean
further over the counter and grab approximately two
pounds of Pastrami. I walk out of the store
grunting and eating Pastrami. The patrons in the
store fear me. I don't care.
8:01 We are in South Austin. I have been drinking
warm beer and singing Brooks and Dunn tunes for over
an hour. My truck-mate is tired of my singing. He
suggests that perhaps Brooks and Dunn have written
other good songs besides "You're Going to Miss Me When
I'm Gone" and "Neon Moon" and that maybe listening to
only those two songs, ten times each was a bit
excessive. Perhaps, he suggests, I could just let the
CD play on its own. I tell him to fuck off and
restart "Neon Moon."
8:30 We arrive at the Erwin Center. My truckmate,
against my loud and profane protestations, parks on
the top floor of a nearby parking garage. I tell him
he's an idiot. I tell him we will never get out. I
tell him we may as well pitch a fucking tent here. He
ignores me. I think he's still pissed about the
Brooks and Dunn tunes. I whistle "Neon Moon" loudly.
8:47 I am rallying. I have 4 warm beers stuffed in
my pants. We're going to kick the shit out of
Arizona.
9:11 Halftime score: Texas 31, Arizona 29. I am
pleased. I go to the bathroom to pee for the 67th
time today. I giggle to myself because of the
new opportunity to do "the bathroom Brice." There are
no Arizona fans in the bathroom. I am disappointed.
I tell myself (out loud) that I have a "Niiiiiice
cock." No one is amused but me.
9:41 I walk to the bathroom while drinking Bud Light
out of a can. Needless to say, they do not sell beer
at the Erwin Center, much less Bud Light out of a can.
I am stopped by an usher: "Where did you get
that, sir?" I tell him (no shit): "Oh, the
cheerleaders were throwing them up with those little
plastic footballs. Would you mind throwing this away
for me?" I take the last swig and hand it to him. He
is confused. I pretend I'm going to the bathroom, but
I run away giggling instead. I duck into some
entrance to avoid the usher, who is now pursuing me.
I sneak into a large group of people and sit down.
The
usher walks by harmlessly. I am giggling like a little
girl. I crack open another can of Bud Light.
9:52 I am lost. In my haste to avoid the usher, I
have lost my bearings. I have no ticket stub. I
cannot find my seats. Texas is losing.
10:09 Texas is being screwed by the refs. I am
enraged. I have cleared out the seats around me
because I keep removing my hat and beating the
surrounding chairs with it. A concerned fan asks if
I'm OK and perhaps I shouldn't take it so seriously.
I tell him to fuck off.
10:15 After the fourth consecutive "worst fucking
call I have EVER seen," I attempt to remove my hat
again to begin beating inanimate objects. However, on
this occasion I miscalculate and I thumbnail myself in
my left eyelid, leaving a one-quarter inch gash over
my eye. I am now bleeding into my left eye and all
over my shirt. "Perhaps," I think to myself, "I'm
taking this a bit seriously."
10:22 I am standing in the bathroom peeing. I'm so
drunk I am swaying and grunting. I have a bloody
napkin pressed on my left eye. My pants are bloody.
I have my (formerly) white shirt wrapped around my
waist. I look like I should be in an episode of Cops.
10:43 Texas has lost. I put my bloody white shirt
back on my body and make my way for the exits. I am
stopped every 20 seconds by a good
samaritan/cop/security guard to ask me why I am
covered in blood, but I merely grunt incoherently and
keep moving.
10:59 With my one good eye, I have located the
parking garage. I walk up six flights of stairs,
promise that when I see my friend I will punch him
in the face for making me walk up six flights of
stairs, find the truck, and collapse in a heap in the
bed of the truck. I look around and notice that
traffic is lined up all the way around the garage, six
whole flights, and no one is moving. I take a nap.
11:17 I awake from my nap. I see my friend in the
driver's seat. I lift my head to look out the bed of
the truck and notice that traffic is lined up all the
way around the garage, six whole flights, and no one
is
moving. I am too tired to punch my friend. I call my
friend a "Stupid cocksucker."
11:31 I lift my head to look out the bed of the truck
and notice that traffic is lined up all the way around
the garage, six whole flights, and no one is moving.
I call my friend a "Stupid cocksucker."
11:38 I lift my head to look out the bed of the truck
and notice that traffic is lined up all the way around
the garage, six whole flights, and no one is moving.
I call my friend a "Stupid cocksucker."
11:47 I lift my head to look out the bed of the truck
and notice that traffic is lined up all the way around
the garage, six whole flights, and no one is moving.
I call my friend a "Stupid cocksucker."
11:58 I am jostled. The truck is moving. I lift my
head to look out the bed of the truck and notice that
traffic is beginning to move on the second floor. I
jump out of the truck, walk to the edge of the parking
facility, and pee off the sixth floor onto the street
below. My friend looks at me like I just anally
violated his minor sister. I turn around and pee
on the front of his truck while singing the lyrics
to "Neon Moon."
12:11 We are moving. We are out of beer. I jump
from the truck and go from vehicle to vehicle until
someone gives me two beers. I am happy. I return to
my vehicle.
12:26 We have emerged from the parking facility. We
make our way to my apartment and find Ed sitting on
the couch with a freshly opened bottle of Glenlivet on
the coffee table in front of him. We are all going to
die tonight.
12:59 We have finished three-quarters of the bottle
of Glenlivet. We decide it would be a wonderful idea
to go dancing at PollyEsther's. Ed has to pee. He
walks down the hall to our apartment and directly into
the full length mirror at the end of the hall,
smashing it into hundreds of pieces. We giggle
uncontrollably and leave for PollyEsther's.
1:17 The PollyEsther's doorman laughs uncontrollably
at our efforts to enter his club. "Fellas," he says
in between his fits of spastic laughter, "I've been
working this door for almost a year. I've been
working
doors in this town for almost 5 years. And I can
honestly say that I ain't never seen three drunker
mother fuckers than you three. Sorry, can't let you
in." We attempt to reason with him. He laughs
harder.
1:44 We find a bar that lets us in. We take two
steps in the door and hear "Last call for alcohol!" I
turn to the group and mutter: "See, dat wasn't that
fuckin' hard. Day don't fuckin' do that at the
Awamo...the awaom...the alab...fuck it, that stadium
we
was at today..." We order 6 shots of tequila and
three beers.
2:15 Back on the street. We need food. We hail a
cab to take us the two and one half blocks to Katz's.
The cab fare is $1.60. We give him $10 and tell him
to keep it.
2:17 There is a 20 minute wait. We give the hostess
$50. We are seated immediately.
2:25 We order two orders of fried pickles, a Cobb
salad, a bowl of soup, two orders of Blueberry
blintzes, two Reuben sandwiches, a hamburger, two
cheese stuffed potatoes, an order of fries, and an
order of onion rings.
2:39 The food arrives. We are all asleep with our
heads on the table. The waiter wakes us up. We eat
every fucking bit of our food. Most of the restaurant
patrons around us are disgusted. We don't give a
fuck.
The tab is $112 with tip.
2:46 I'm sleepy.
9:12 I wake up next to a strange woman. She is the
bartender at Katz's. She is not pretty.
HOOK 'EM HORNS, BABY!!! Out--
</td></tr><tr><td align="right">Associated Press</td></tr></tbody> </table> <!-- End Mack Brown home PC 120X144.jpg Image-->Ask who the best players in the Big 12 Conference are and you get fairly consistent responses. But ask who next year's coach of the year will be and hardly anyone can agree. So we found out as the Rivals.com Big 12 Network asked that very question. And the winner is none other than Mack Brown. Brown's teams have won 43 games in the last four years, and many feel this year's squad could be his best yet. Get a complete rundown of the voting inside.
