We will be gating near the Dish at least 12 hours before kick off, so come on by and get an autographed picture for your grandchildren. Just listen for Billy's Ocean's Suddenly on glorious loop in the corner of the parking lot.
In the meantime, an olldie but goodie:
Aggie Fan has little in his life to celebrate, therefore any thimble of success is reason to collectively hold hands in solidarity as men in uniform and then later use that same grip to rejoice inside a ruminant. Chances are he’s got home and away Troy Aikman jerseys in his closet and plans to wear both of them at some point this week.
In every 32 Aggie Fans, there is Aggie Woman. A stocky female, forged from the hardened cowpies that litter the streets of Bryan/College Station, Aggie Woman shops for clothing in BBQ restaurants and has seen more trucker penis than a urinal off I35. Her nipples are like fighter pilot’s thumbs and she menstruates Pabst Blue Ribbon. Aggie Woman is like the white guy in a southeast St. Louis off-shoot of the Crips; you don’t know how she got there, but she’d cut her own mother’s throat out in the name of respect.
Grampa Aggie is a gentleman by nature, until game day when Kentucky Deluxe and deer sausage turn your family butcher/taxidermist into a belligerent maroon hurricane who vomits okra casserole on his dying wife whilst pridefully spouting antique racist slurs, not used publically since sometime around The New Deal. He’d dive head first into his burlap-sack-wearing pregnant daughter-in-law, if he thought it might help his team get a first down. Grampa Aggie attended A&M during the rapiest years of sheep raping, and still can’t be trusted around the family collie.
...should you ever be unfortunate enough to meet one of the aforementioned, simply place any visibly shiny objects on your person in a small pile and cover said pile with a mixture of Mint Copenhagen Long Cut, giblet gravy and nacho cheese, then run as fast as you can downwind.
Hook 'em
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