Tech Gold to be revealed tomorrow

He should’ve just chose straight hobbit gold as our color and none of us nerds would’ve ever complained again
 
Deke said:
I would pay money to hear the bigcries if the team came out for warm-ups in the bubble wrap jerseys.
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But what if we come out in these.....

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ThisIsAtlanta said:
Dangerous and irresponsible. Relocate to section 223 immediately.
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He speaks true horrors, no doubt. But it is nothing compared to the reality we face. My source in the GTAA tells me Stansbury and adidas have invested multiple dollars and several batches of ayahuasca in the secret planning of our opening day uniform reveal event. The High Noon Hootenanny, they're calling it. Word is that several companies have turned down the contract for providing security at the Alcorn State game. Supposedly Securitas was very close to signing on, but once they saw the designs for the Ashlanta Old Grey jerseys and matte Sherman Smoke helmets, they could not back out fast enough.
 
The Jacket said:
He speaks true horrors, no doubt. But it is nothing compared to the reality we face. My source in the GTAA tells me Stansbury and adidas have invested multiple dollars and several batches of ayahuasca in the secret planning of our opening day uniform reveal event. The High Noon Hootenanny, they're calling it. Word is that several companies have turned down the contract for providing security at the Alcorn State game. Supposedly Securitas was very close to signing on, but once they saw the designs for the Ashlanta Old Grey jerseys and matte Sherman Smoke helmets, they could not back out fast enough.
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"Sure, man," he said, then held the telephone receiver away from his face and, with his other hand, attempted to stifle a giggle. Stansbury was an ordinarily reserved man of considerable flannel and unorthodox bacon, but he had found himself in an unusual countenance this evening. After some controlled breathing, he brought the phone back to his ear, "Aya gonna hausca any more questions?" This time, the evidence of his crime was not concealable, nor would he have wanted it that way; the snort which erupted from him immediately would have been embarrassingly loud under other circumstances. Under these strangely perverted circumstances, it was almost certainly the CEO and board of Securitas on the other end of the line who faced the lion's share of the egg. Stansbury put the phone down on the desk and engaged the speaker mode, urging Jack and Mark, who were in the room with him to, "get a load of this" in an expert but hallucinogen-fueled miniature round of charades. Over the speakers poured out an ocean of uncomfortable silence; papers shuffled, throats cleared, and a weak suggestion was made by a junior staff member in the Securitas room that the images from the email attachment were almost finished downloading. Indeed, this was the moment Stansbury had been playing at, and waiting for, since the first of the crates had arrived from the nearby Tama Tribal Town, been opened and consumed, and mysteriously vanished from the room that evening. If, that is, they had actually vanished; nobody in the room could have accurately told you whether it was so.

"What the öööö." was the first full phrase to penetrate the dancing stillness in the office air, followed in quick succession by a chorus of "Oh my...", "Well...", and other phrases of more gentle exclamation. All three men in the athletics office immediately lost control. The moment was too magical. The laughter they produced was outrageous, and, not just in the bent minds of the men who had just completed their own personal spirit quests, seemed barely human. They produced shrieking laughter like hyenas, roaring laughter like elephants, howling laughter, hooting laughter, and what seemed like a pretty full nomenclature of the entire practice. In between that and gasps for air, Stansbury managed to top off the excitement with a few more jabs, "Did you see how the type face for the numbers subtly looks like dicks?" he asked in hysterical fashion. In reality, it was less that than there was a crudely edited photo of another team's ugly grey uniforms with an actual photograph of a human penis overlayed onto the numbers. Whether he was cognizant that he had done this or not, since the whole scheme had been hatched about a crate-and-a-half into the night's epic bender, Stansbury, even in his current state of mind, had held on to one central truth; he had a point to make at all times, even in times like these -- especially in times like these. There was something about uniforms that would have been impossible for him to forget, no matter what was coursing through his veins.

"Still better than that Russel öööö," he practically gasped into the air, as he fell over backwards in his office chair with a colossal noise. The call was ended from the other side without another word.
 
ThisIsAtlanta said:
"Sure, man," he said, then held the telephone receiver away from his face and, with his other hand, attempted to stifle a giggle. Stansbury was an ordinarily reserved man of considerable flannel and unorthodox bacon, but he had found himself in an unusual countenance this evening. After some controlled breathing, he brought the phone back to his ear, "Aya gonna hausca any more questions?" This time, the evidence of his crime was not concealable, nor would he have wanted it that way; the snort which erupted from him immediately would have been embarrassingly loud under other circumstances. Under these strangely perverted circumstances, it was almost certainly the CEO and board of Securitas on the other end of the line who faced the lion's share of the egg. Stansbury put the phone down on the desk and engaged the speaker mode, urging Jack and Mark, who were in the room with him to, "get a load of this" in an expert but hallucinogen-fueled miniature round of charades. Over the speakers poured out an ocean of uncomfortable silence; papers shuffled, throats cleared, and a weak suggestion was made by a junior staff member in the Securitas room that the images from the email attachment were almost finished downloading. Indeed, this was the moment Stansbury had been playing at, and waiting for, since the first of the crates had arrived from the nearby Tama Tribal Town, been opened and consumed, and mysteriously vanished from the room that evening. If, that is, they had actually vanished; nobody in the room could have accurately told you whether it was so.

"What the öööö." was the first full phrase to penetrate the dancing stillness in the office air, followed in quick succession by a chorus of "Oh my...", "Well...", and other phrases of more gentle exclamation. All three men in the athletics office immediately lost control. The moment was too magical. The laughter they produced was outrageous, and, not just in the bent minds of the men who had just completed their own personal spirit quests, seemed barely human. They produced shrieking laughter like hyenas, roaring laughter like elephants, howling laughter, hooting laughter, and what seemed like a pretty full nomenclature of the entire practice. In between that and gasps for air, Stansbury managed to top off the excitement with a few more jabs, "Did you see how the type face for the numbers subtly looks like dicks?" he asked in hysterical fashion. In reality, it was less that than there was a crudely edited photo of another team's ugly grey uniforms with an actual photograph of a human penis overlayed onto the numbers. Whether he was cognizant that he had done this or not, since the whole scheme had been hatched about a crate-and-a-half into the night's epic bender, Stansbury, even in his current state of mind, had held on to one central truth; he had a point to make at all times, even in times like these -- especially in times like these. There was something about uniforms that would have been impossible for him to forget, no matter what was coursing through his veins.

"Still better than that Russel öööö," he practically gasped into the air, as he fell over backwards in his office chair with a colossal noise. The call was ended from the other side without another word.
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of course the t-shirt contest ended in exactly the opposite way it should have, proving once again, GT has no style.
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