A chronology of events for Saturday, December 4, 1999,
and the early morning hours of Sunday, December 5,
1999:
6:00 Arise, play the Eyes of Texas and Texas Fight at
full-freaking blast
6:20 Get in car, drive to New Braunfels
7:30 Tee off (me and a buddy were the FIRST tee-time
of the morning)
8:50 Turn 9 (crack open first beer)
8:53 Crack open second beer
8:58 Crack open...(you get the idea)
10:30 Finish 18 (holes, as well as beers), sign
scorecard for smoooooth 95
10:35 Headed for San Antonio
10:50 Buy three 18-packs for pre- and post-game
festivities
11:10 We decide we don't have enough booze, so we
double-back to a liquor store and buy the good ol' 750
ml plastic bottle "Traveler" Jim Beam
11:50 Arrive at the tailgate spot. Awesome day. Not
a single cloud in the sky. About 70 degrees.
11:55 I decide that we're going to kick the shit out
of Nebraska.
11:56 I tell my first Nebraska fan to go fuhk
himself.
12:15 The UT band walks by on the way to the
Alamodome. We're on the second floor of a two-story
parking garage on the corner (a couple hundred of us).
We're hooting and hollering like wildmen. The band
doubles back to the street right below us and
serenades us with Texas Fight and The Eyes of Texas.
AWESOME MOMENT.
12:25 In the post-serenade serendipity, 50-100 grown
men are bumping chests with one another, each and
every one of them now secure and certain of the fact
that we are going to kick the shit out of Nebraska.
1:00 The Nebraska band walks by on the way to the
Alamodome. Again, we hoot and holler like wildmen.
Again, the band doubles back and stops right below us
to serenade us, this time, however, with the Nebraska
fight songs. Although somewhat impressed by their
spirit and verve, we remain convinced that we are
going to kick the shit out of Nebraska.
1:30 I begin the walk to the Alamodome, somehow
managing to stuff the "Traveler" and 11 cans of beer
into my pants.
1:47 I am in line surrounded by Nebraska fans. They
are taunting me. I am taunting back, still certain
that we are going to kick the shit out of Nebraska. I
decide to challenge a particularly vocal Nebraska fan
to play what I now call and will forever be remembered
as "Cell-Phone Flop Out." Remember flop out for a
dollar? The rules are similar. I tell this Nebraska
jackass that if he's so confident in his team, he
should "flop out" his cell phone RIGHT NOW and make
plane reservations to Phoenix for the Fiesta Bowl.
And then I spoke these memorable words: "And not
those damn refundable tickets, either! You request those
non-refundable, non-transferrable sons-of-bitches!"
He backs down. He is unworthy. I call Southwest
Airlines and buy two tickets to Phoenix,
non-refundable and non-transferrable. Price: $712. He is humbled.
He lowers his head in shame. I raise my cell phone in
triumph to the cheers of hundreds of Texas fans. I am
KING and these are my subjects. I distribute the 11
beers in my pants to the cheering masses. I RULE the
pre-game kingdom.
2:34 Kickoff. Brimming with confidence, I open the
Traveler and pour my first stiffy.
2:45 I notice something troubling: Nebraska is big.
Nebraska is fast. Nebraska is very pissed off at
Texas.
3:01 The first quarter mercifully ends. 9 yards
total offense for Texas. Zero first downs for Texas.
I'm still talking shit. I pour another stiffy from
the Traveler.
3:36 Four minutes to go in the first half: the
Traveler is a dead soldier. I buy my first $5 beer
from the Alamodome merchants. While I am standing in
line, a center snap nearly decapitates Major
Applewhite
and rolls out of the end zone. Safety.
3:56 Halftime score: Nebraska 15, Texas 0. I wish I
had another Traveler.
4:11 While urinating next to a Nebraska fan in the
bathroom at halftime, I attempt to revive the classic
Brice-ism from the South Bend bathroom: "Hey, buddy,
niiiiiiiiice cock." He is unamused.
4:21 I buy my 2nd and 3rd $5 beer from the Alamodome
merchants. I share my beer with two high school girls
sitting behind me. Surprisingly, they are equipped
with a flask full of vodka. I send them off to
purchase $5 Sprites, so that we may consume their
vodka. I have not lost faith. Nebraska is a bunch of
pussies.
4:51 No more vodka. The girls sitting behind me have
fled for their lives. I purchase two more $5 beers
from the Alamodome merchants.
5:18 Score is Nebraska 22, Texas 0. I am beginning
to lose faith. This normally would trouble me, but I
am too drunk to see the football field.
5:27 I call Southwest Airlines: "I'm sorry, sir.
Those tickets have been confirmed and are
non-refundable and non-transferrable."
5:37 I try to start a fight with every person behind
the concession counter. As it turns out, the
Alamodome has a policy that no beer can be sold when
there is less than 10 minutes on the game clock. I am
enraged by this policy. I ask loudly: "Why the fuhk
didn't you announce last call over the fuhking PA
system??!!"
5:49 Back in my seats, I am slumped in my chair in
defeat. All of a sudden, the Texas crowd goes
absolutely nuts. "Whazzis?," I mutter, awaking from
my coma, "Iz we winnig? Did wez scort?" Alas, the
answer is no, we were not winning and we did not
score.
The largest (by far) cheer of the day from the Texas
faithful occurred when the handlers were walking back
to the tunnel and Bevo stopped to take a gargantuan
shit all over the letters "S", "K", and "A" in the
"Nebraska" spelled out in their end zone. I cheer
wildly. I pick up the empty Traveler bottle and stick
my tongue in it. I am thirsty.
6:16 Nebraska fans are going berserk as I walk back
to the truck. I would taunt them with some off-color
remarks about their parentage, but I am too drunk to
form complete sentences. With my last cognitive
thought of the evening, I take solace in the fact that
if we had not beaten them in October, they would be
playing Florida State for the national championship.
6:30 Back in the car. On the way back to Austin for
the 8:00 Texas-Arizona tip off. We can still salvage
the day! I crack open a beer. It is warm. I don't
care.
7:12 We have stopped for gas. I am hungry. I go
inside the store. I walk past the beer frig. I
notice a Zima. I've never had a Zima. I wonder if
it's any good. I pull a Zima from the frig. I twist
the top off and drink the Zima in three swallows.
Zima
sucks. I replace the empty bottle in the frig.
7:17 There is a Blimpie Subs in the store. I walk to
where the ingredients are, where the person usually
makes the sub. There is no one there. I lean over
the counter and scoop out half a bucket of black
olives. I eat them. I am still hungry. I lean
further over the counter and grab approximately two
pounds of Pastrami. I walk out of the store
grunting and eating Pastrami. The patrons in the
store fear me. I don't care.
8:01 We are in South Austin. I have been drinking
warm beer and singing Brooks and Dunn tunes for over
an hour. My truck-mate is tired of my singing. He
suggests that perhaps Brooks and Dunn have written
other good songs besides "You're Going to Miss Me When
I'm Gone" and "Neon Moon" and that maybe listening to
only those two songs, ten times each was a bit
excessive. Perhaps, he suggests, I could just let the
CD play on its own. I tell him to fuhk off and
restart "Neon Moon."
sounds like a winner! 
