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Stuff and Shenanigans: The Brian Eno of Never Being Stopped

The key here is to not think too hard about if any analogy is accurate or even makes sense.

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California v Washington Photo by Steph Chambers/Getty Images

We’re about to have even less of an intro than normal.

Here it is.

There it was.

Moving on.

A 100% Accurate and 92% Sober Rundown of Absolutely Everything

We'll start out with a shameful* admission, which is that I didn’t watch mmmmmpretty much any of the game that actually mattered, because the only play that actually mattered was the first, I dunno, 10 minutes? Quarter?

During that time, I was playing hockey because, as we’ve established, the Jimmy Lake clusterf*#% era combined with the arms race enshitification of college football acted as a one-two punch reminding me to prioritize things that are inherently joyful instead of tying my mental wellbeing and liver health to the performance of 20 year-olds, the whims of TV executives, and the competence of middle-aged university administrators.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not missing the Oregon game or the Apple Cup, but Cal? You want me to set aside the one activity that always makes me happy to watch a historically cursed matchup (Washington-Cal) at a historically cursed hour (after dark) in a historically cursed weather system (rainy, possibly lightning-y)? Nice try, Satan.

I am simply a business lady running a business (My Sanity, LLC) and making a liability-minimizing decision based on an informed cost-benefit analysis.

*Not shameful at all, and anyone who thinks otherwise is a douche who’ll have a lot of hard realizations about their wrongfully prescriptivest tunnel vision on their death bed.

Now what I do know is that while getting changed, I did see one of our writers say in the slack group — and I quote — “I don’t have anything to say” followed by “just...speechless,” and, without having access to a TV, I naturally shat my pants assuming that Cursed Cal came to play and something awful had happened only to find out that this was just their reaction to the sheer magnitude of ass whipping that was going on after like 16 seconds.

Once I scolded them for being responsible for someone else’s stress craps**, they apologized while shedding a single tear and begging for my forgiveness, which I so generously bestowed upon them after they informed me we were already up 14-0. I think the perpetrator is Iyo, but I can’t quite remember and am too lazy to look up and confirm.

**band name?

Point being, that I’m in no state to write a well-informed, actually useful “analysis” (or whatever we call what I normally do) of last Saturday. I can and will write some general thoughts on the season so far at the end of this, but first, in honor of the writer’s strike reaching a tentative end and because I have no other choice but to simply imagine how everything went down, a script:




A LITERAL GOD (MIKE, early 20s) stands on the sideline in purple and gold, waiting for his game to start. A GIANT ADORABLE MUPPET (ROGER, 20) stands next to him. They’re lightly bobbing to the stadium vibes, getting in the zone.

We’re everything. They’re just Cal.

Yeah, and their job isn’t even beach. We’re gonna whip their butts. It’s gonna rule.

In the background, a dramatic LIGHTNING STRIKE. A silhouette is lit up. It’s ASA TURNER (early 20s). He takes a drawn out puff on a CIGARETTE.

“Just Cal,” you say?

Yeah — I mean, their defense is good but they’re just. Cal.

I’m awesome and left-handed, what’s there to worry about?

Another LIGHTNING STRIKE. RICHARD NEWTON (early 20s) appears by Asa.

(Also chain-smoking French cigarettes)
Everything. There’s everything.

A transparent overlay of Chase Garbers throwing over Kyler Gordon down the sideline fades in, briefly, and out. Richard has zoned out to this flashback.

He comes to and flicks his cigarette on the ground.

(In an apparently new French accent)
Godspeed, my children. And may He have mercy on your soul.



Mike jogs off the field, grinning, not remotely having broken a sweat. Richard and Asa stand on the sidelines, still unsmiling but less haunted.

Richard pats Mike on the shoulder.

It appears we may have been wrong. Congratulations, our dear chosen one. You have broken the curse. You have proven us wrong.


What curse? I still don’t know what y’all are talking about.

Asa puts his arm on Mike’s shoulders.

Oh to be young, innocent...

He blows a light smoke out from his cigarette, but accidentally chokes and starts hack coughing melodramatically.

I’m older than you...

Roger joins them. Since we’ve last seen him, he is now covered in comical amounts of blood from his victims.

Isn’t this great guys? Everything is going to be fully great, forever.

The SIREN SOUNDS. The scoreboard now changes to WASHINGTON: 3007 CAL: LESS THAN NO.

Wh— aren’t we on a commercial break?


As far as I’m concerned, that’s accurate verbatim and no amount of “fact-checking” by the lamestream media and/or comments here will convince me otherwise.

Will I still be scared crapless (or crapful, I suppose) until the Dawgs face an explosive offense? Oh you betcha.

Is the supreme “we are unstoppable and nothing bad will ever happen” that I felt driving home Saturday still there now? Oh good heavens no. We’re going to another cursed place next weekend; why on earth would I let any objective evidence convince me of my team’s dominance when said objective evidence can be countered with “yes, but have you considered the vibes in Arizona are Bad™?”

Still though...


The vibes are pretty good.

I’ve searched every neuron in my brain, and they all lack even in their wildest imaginations, the capacity to picture this offense being stopped. I simply lack the creativity. And not to brag but I’m like, really freaking creative***. Just the Brian Eno of imagining sports teams being stopped. (For those wondering, Michael Penix is the Brian Eno of not being stopped. That’s why this is so tricky. It’s not unstoppable force vs immovable object, it’s Brian Eno of picturing stopping vs Brian Eno of never stopping. Historic.)

So... Yeah...

Catch ya on the other side Cal. You’ve been real, for 109 years.

***All evidence points to this being false.

Lines of the Week

In this one, “Jonah” is “Cal” and “shot himself in the foot” is “by walking onto the field and agreeing to play a football game.”

Us to Michael Penix, but change “the White House” to “New York”:

Justin Wilcox:

I can’t elaborate, it just feels true.

On a separate note, I don’t usually mention anything about my shows on here because A) there’s more than are worth promoting and B) I dunno, it just feels weird and I hate it. That being said, I’ma break that trend now — there are two coming up that I’m producing that if you’re a fan of Generally Good Things you should come to.

  1. A series of standup gigs I’m producing for The Angry Beaver in Greenwood, because they oddly enough have a fantastic space for quality shows and as the local hockey bar there are days where the hockey ends by 7 PM since it’s all on the East Coast. For the fall, these are 10/16, 10/23, and 11/3 and every single lineup absolutely whips ass. I know because I booked it. I’ll be hosting at least a couple of these so you’ll see me but don’t... don’t come for me, come for everyone else. And their fried cheese curds. (And just to support Angry Beaver because they’re a community staple.) Tickets are here; I seriously can’t recommend all of these lineups enough.
  2. Wackronyms at The Crocodile’s Here After on 10/25. This is a panel comedy competition show, it’s gonna be chaotic, it’s extremely dumb— ya know, now that I’m saying it out loud, it’s essentially the same vibe as Stuff and Shenanigans. Anyways, that’ll be me and four other comedians who are much more accomplished (like, one guy is a frequent opener for Patton Oswalt and Brian Posehn and has four albums — that kinda accomplished). You should come to this too.

That’s all!

Do good things, don’t do bad things, and bow down to Washington.