Every fan down in Lincoln liked bowl games a lot. . .

But the Commish, who lived far south of Lincoln,
Did not!

The Commish hated Huskers!  The whole Big Red nation!
His disdain it ran deep, like a slave for plantation.
It could be that his head wasn’t screwed on quite right
It could be, perhaps, that hookers overcharged him for just half a night.
But I think that perhaps the most likely reason of all
May have been that his. . .
(*Author’s Note: Must keep PG. . .must keep PG. . .)
“Brain” was 2 sizes too small.

But, whatever the reason,
his “brain” or his hooker disaster,
He stood there on Bowl selection night
Hating Nebraska.
Staring out from his mansion, in his Texas Longhorns Onesy
At the warm lighted windows where Nebraskans ate Runzy’s
For he knew every Husker in all Big Red Nation
Was hanging their flag and manning battle stations.

“And they’re wearing their red,” he sneered with a snarl.
“They’ll be cheering on Bo, they’ll be cheering on Carl.”
Then he growled with his crackpipe-singed lips drooling
“I must find a way to keep bowl season from ruling!”
For, soon, he knew. . .

All the Husker boys and all Husker girls would abandon their fears
The moment they awoke they’d start chugging their beers.
And then!  Oh, the cheers!  Oh, the cheers! Cheers!  Cheers!  Cheers!
That’s one thing he hated!  The Cheers!  Cheers!  Beers!  Cheers!

The Commish’s head was reeling, like a horse without reins
He’d repeatedly shouted “cheers” in anger as meth coursed through his veins.
He wanted the Huskers to look bad at the least.
But who could he pit them against that would fall flat like bread without yeast?
“They’d have to play defense, that Burkhead’s a beast!
He’s a Beast!  Beast!  Beast!”

And after this bowl game and the Big 12 North Ring
They’d do something the Commish hated more than anything.
Leave his lame-ass conference to pick up more bling.
Make more cash, Ka-Ching!  Ka-Ching!  Ka-Ching!

The more the Commish thought of Husker domination
The more the Commish, banged his head in frustration.
“Why for most of 3 years I’ve put up with it now!
I must keep NU from a good bowl, it’s my infatuation.
But how?!?”

Then he got an idea!
An awful idea!
The Commish got a wonderful,
awful idea!

(*Author’s Note: Not as bad an idea as moving the Big XII headquarters to Texas, but still pretty bad.)

“I know just what to do,” the Commish laughed in his throat.
And he threw on his $4,000 dollar suit and his Italian sports coat.
And he primped and he preened, and stuck on his toupee.
“I look sexy as hell” he said, “Thanks to Mack Brown’s bribing pay.”

“Now all I need is a team, and a shitty bowl game,”
Then it came to his ass, “why I’ll just go with ‘same’.
I’ll give ’em the same bowl, in the same damn location
I’ll screw ’em over again, like they’re in College Station!”

Then he sexted DeLoss Dodds, said, “Sup Boo? Wht u wearing? 🙂
ROTFL!  Cn u hlp me out w/ Nbr-ass-ka’s bowl pairing?”
Sugar Daddy DeLoss, forked over some cash
from a Cayman Island slush fund, that he called “his stash.”

And with this hush money, the Commish he did pay
the Bowl selection committee, they weren’t hard to sway.
With a pile of unmarked bills laying at their Gator-skin-shoe laden feet
They paired up Nebraska with a team they’d already beat.

The Commish slunk to Qualcomm Stadium, he took the Huskers’ season.
He took their Pelini pudding, with Prince he committed treason.
He cleaned out the fans’ hope of season-ending excitement.
An evil mastermind that avoided indictment.

And as he climbed all-aboard into his G6 Jet,
He thought he heard a throat-clear, an uttered, “not yet.”
He turned around fast, saw a magical man not-Houdini,
It was Head Coach Bo P. the press called him Pelini.

Pelini said, “Why, Commish why?
Then he snapped out of it, “Who in the F do you think you are, guy?”
But you know that Commish was one smooth talker.
And he lied through his teeth, that dirty mother-falker.

“Why my dearest Coach of my favorite team,
Please wait just a moment before my ass you do ream!
The Holiday bowl, well it isn’t so bad
There isn’t any reason to get so damn mad.”
Pelini wasn’t sold, he pulled out his patented finger-point-meanest
And hammered the Commish with F-Bombs like he was Taylor Martinez.

The Commish, well he panicked and ran for his plane
And his undies ran brown like a broken sewer mane.
Pelini he spat and he clawed and he cursed
The Commish girlishly screamed and clutched at his purse.

His plane, it took off, like a thief in the night
Pelini flipped him the bird as his plane took to flight.
And from up on high, the Commish he looked down
And saw that he couldn’t stop the Huskers from coming to town.

Every Husker down in the Nation, the chicks and the dudes
Were still pumping their kegs like an oil well pumps crude.
They were standing and clapping and cheering, “Hooray!”
The Commish hadn’t stopped Bowl Season from coming that day.
And they danced in the streets to the raps of Flo-Rida
and shook their fists in the air and said, “At least we’re not Iowa!”

Well the Commish, his wallet shrank three times that day
The Big XII without huskers is like a horse without hay.
Starving, malnourished, meager and weak,
the Commish soon realized that his finances had peaked.

He slunk off into the sunset like a chastened old fool.
Who knows where he is now, perhaps dead, face down in a drained pool.

FIN

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Comments
  1. Sue Tolles says:

    that was very good.

  2. madhat says:

    BP, you really did a great job matching this to the original. (One of my favorites!) We fans did rise for the occasion. I sure wish it had turned out better.

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