Rivalry Week

Here's a betting tip for you: if you know any bookies who accept bets on West Texas high school football, bet the house on Idalou in the Idalou vs. Post showdown tomorrow night. I say that with confidence because I'm going to freakin' be there, cheering the Wildcats wildly as they stomp mudholes left and right in the asses of the opposition.

Allow me to explain. My cousin Bryan is on the Idalou team, and Idalou vs. Post is the big rivalry in those towns. As an adopted Idalouian, I'm attending. I plan to bring with me several profane posters that forecast Post's doom, as well as a falcon that's been trained to attack Post's head coach. I'm saving the falcon for the fourth quarter. If I can slip it by the security guards at the airport, I'll also have a book of secret plays that I will only share with the Idalou Wildcats; they're written in crayola, most every page is caked with glitter, and some involve positions that haven't yet been invented, like Triangleback and Tacklemonster. It's this kind of attention to detail that will characterize our victory tomorrow night.

I'm trying to think now what else I'll need. I'm thinking now that I might need a cup too, just in case they need me to play QB in an emergency situation. "Go deep and break out an umbrella, guys, because it's about to start raining touchdowns," I'll tell them.

Bryan is affectionately known as Turkey Leg, and this is one of his last high school games, unless he gets kicked in the head by a mule and forgets how to read between now and graduation. People sitting near me: I expect you all to chant "MAKE EM BEG, TURKEY LEG" with me. Idalou will win, Post will cower, and I might end up in jail: that's the way rivalries work.