How could it be possible that my black-and-gold brain wouldn't be a mosh pit of maniacal meandering? It's not. It's hours away from being game day and I'm ready to pass the ravings on to you.
But first, I feel compelled to apologize for the buttermilk of belligerence that I spilt last week. So a gallon of guilt goes out to and for the following...
- To anybody who has taken their significant other to Arbys for their anniversary
- For sparking the debate on why Ruth's Chris steakhouse is actually named that way and for the implication that Ruth owns Chris like slave labor.