Discussion in 'Football' started by TigerSmith 75, Aug 7, 2019.
Besides let’s be honest. Clemson has a way better football program and winning tradition than tech
It must really suck to be a dwag fan and have to hide under the banner of a better program.
Let’s be totally honest here. GT has a winning overall record vs Clemson BUT Clemson’s accomplishments and national respect is way higher than Georgia Techs idk why people here pretend that’s not true. Bunch of internet badassss
I always took the mom-banging jokes on here in jest, but there's no other reason I can think of for someone to be this triggered on a Sunday morning.
Whichever of you did it, next time put padding behind the headboard
I was in The Varsity before last season's GT - Clemson game. Although it was packed with orange, the fans were not objectionable. Not friendly, but not jackasses. Lots of families. I was pleasantly surprised.
I’ve never been around a bunch of Clem’s Son fans that weren’t extremely friendly.
Based on what, this decade? Sure. We have just as much tradition and national recognition as Clemson, maybe more. Our brand is known GLOBALLY! I don't think Clemson can share that same perception as a school. In football, you guys have done well consistently since the 80's getting good football players, but were serious choke artists after Danny Ford up until 2011. Tech still has more national titles, conference titles, and has been kicking that redneck school a heck of a lot longer than you guys. So don't come on here beating your chest like you just got laid for the first time. Do some research so you don't look like a dumbbass.
He's savoring the moment he had with his boy toy, so we'll let him gnaw on some dirty taint. Remember, a 'historical perspective' for these types equate to the proverbial "what have you done for me lately"....essentially the last 3-5 years.
Last night, I had a near death experience. No, it didn't involve a gun; although a gunshot wound may be more pleasant.
Until last night, I didn't understand the term "öööö storm" but let me tell you, after 10 minutes of reading Clemson fan posts.
Not 5 minutes.
Not 7 minutes.
But after 10 MINUTES OF CLEMSON FAN POSTS, I'm a brand new man.
Ever wonder what two homeless people fornicating on a pile of burning tires next to a pig farm on a 98 degree day with a 80% humidity level smells like? If so, go read posts by ClemsonIsPoetic- it's like a $4 bottle of magnesium citrate. Go ahead and book a baby sitter to watch your kids and lock yourself in the bathroom because you're about to star in your very own öööö show for the next few hours after reading his crap.
Just when you think it's over, when everything stops and you can finally wipe the tears and sweat from your face, that's when the party starts.
My soul left my body. Yeah. I pooped out my soul, but when I got to heaven, I got sent back because I brought the smell up there with me.
It was all a blur, but at one point, I was looking down on myself from Heaven watching all of my internal organs liquify and spray out of my ass like someone jumped on a balloon full of nutella.
And that was the end of it, right? You’ve finished Clemsoning, so you muster up what strength you have left, shaking and weak, you stand up and flush for the 18th time.
But wait, THERE'S MORE.
That's when you start puking. At this point, I was surprised there was anything left in me. Let alone the 20 piece boneless nuclear wings from Dan Radakovich's tailgate.
You know what orange sauce feels like when it's coming out of your nose, throat and ass at the same time?
I imagine it's the same feeling as spontaneous combustion.
After 5 straight minutes of puking and 4 straight hours of ööööting, I passed out on the bathroom floor for two hours only to be awoken by my dog licking me to see if I was dead.
Clemson literacy? More like a retard with a typewriter and rabbit juice.
In all seriousness, this stuff works. It cleaned me out so good, I even got a clear conscience. 10/10 stars for completely making me into a new man.
Between the crying and farting and dying and what not of Clemson Fans, it was one of the worst experiences of my life so far....
I like Clemson fans. They're too stupid to be mean.
Now, I know that there is a lot of embellishment that occurs on this group and I am aware that a small number of things are perhaps sheer fabrication, but I have a story to tell that is the absolute truth. Funniest damn thing that has ever happened to me.
A couple of weeks ago we decided to cruise out to the Clemson’s Athletic Association for dinner. It was a Wednesday night which means that macaroni and beef was on the hot bar, indeed the only night of the week that it is served. Wednesday night is also kid's night at Clemson, complete with Dabo the Clown wandering from table to table entertaining the little bastards. It may seem that the events about to be told have little connection to those two circumstances, but all will be clear in a moment.
We went through the line and placed our orders for the all-you-can-eat hot bar then sat down as far away from the front of the restaurant as possible in order to keep the density of kids down a bit. Then I started my move to the hot bar. Plate after plate of macaroni and beef were consumed that evening, I tell you -- in all, four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian ambrosia were shoved into my belly. I was sated. Perhaps a bit too much, however.
I had not really been feeling well all day, what with a bit of gas and such. By the time I had eaten four overwhelmed plates of food, I was in real trouble. There was so much pressure on my diaphragm that I was having trouble breathing. At the same time, the downward pressure was building. At first, I thought it was only gas which could have been passed in batches right at the table without to much concern. Unfortunately, that was not to be. After a minute or so it was clear that I was dealing with explosive diarrhea. It's amazing how grease can make its way through your intestines far faster than the food which spawned the grease to begin with, but I digress...
I got up from the table and made my way to the bathroom. Upon entering, I saw two sinks immediately inside the door, two urinals just to the right of the sinks, and two toilet stalls against the back wall. One of them was a handicapped bathroom. Now, normally I would have gone to the handicapped stall since I like to stretch out a bit when I take a good öööö, but in this case, the door lock was broken and the only thing I hate worse than my wife telling me to stop cutting my toenails with a pair of diagonal wire cutters is having someone walk in on me while I am taking a öööö. I went to the normal stall.
There was a replica of Howard’s rock in the bathroom. You’re supposed to rub the rock after you touch your cock.
In retrospect, I probably should have gone to the large, handicapped stall even though the door would not lock because that bit of time lost in making the stall switch proved to be a bit too long under the circumstances. By the time I had walked into the regular stall, the pressure on my ass was reaching Biblical proportions.
I began "The Move."
For those women who may be reading this, let me take a moment to explain "The Move." Men know exactly what their bowels are up to at any given second. And when the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological events occur that can not be stopped under any circumstances. There is a move men make that involves simultaneously approaching the toilet, beginning the body turn to position ones ass toward said toilet, hooking ones fingers into ones waistline, and pulling down the pants while beginning the squat at the same time. It is a very fluid motion that, when performed properly, results in the flawless expulsion of öööö at the exact same second that ones ass is properly placed on the toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that the choad is properly inserted into the front rim of the toilet in the event that the piss stream lets loose at the same time; it is truly a picture of coordination rivaling that of a skilled ballet dancer.
I was about half-way into "The Move" when I looked down at the floor and saw a pile of vomit that had been previously expelled by one of those little bastards attending kids night; it was mounded up in the corner so I did not notice it when I had first walked into the stall. Normally, I would not have been bothered by such a thing, but I had eaten so much and the pressure upward was so intense, that I hit a rarely experienced gag reflex. And once that reflex started, combined with the intense pressure upward caused by the bloated stomach, four plates of macaroni and beef started coming up for a rematch. What happened next was so quick that the exact sequence of events are a bit fuzzy, but I will try to reconstruct them as best I can.
In that moment of impending projectile vomiting, my attention was diverted from the goings-on at the other end. To put a freeze frame on the situation, I was half crotched down to the toilet, pants pulled down to my knees, with a load of vomit coming up my esophagus. Now, most of you know that vomiting takes precedence over öööö no matter what is about to come slamming out of your ass. It is apparently an evolutionary thing since ööööting will not kill you, but vomiting takes a presence of mind to accomplish so that you do not aspirate any food into the bronchial tubes and perhaps choke to death. My attention was thus diverted.
At that very split second, my ass exploded in what can only be described as a wake...you know, as in a newspaper headline along the lines of "30,000 Killed In Wake of Typhoon Fifi" or something similar. In what seemed to be most suitably measured in cubic feet, an enormous plug of öööö the consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy liquid came flying out of my ass. But remember, I was only half-way down on the toilet at that moment. The öööö wave was of such force and of just such an angle in relation to the back curve of the toilet seat that it ricocheted off the back of the seat and slammed into the wall at an angle of incidence equal to the angle at which it initially hit the toilet seat. Then I sat down.
Recall that when that event occurred, I was already half-way to sitting anyway and had actually reached the point of no return. I have always considered myself as relatively stable gravitationally, but when you get beyond a certain point, you're going down no matter how limber you may be. Needless to say, the öööö wave, though of considerable force, was not so sufficient so as to completely glance off the toilet seat and deposit itself on the walls, like what you would see when hitting a puddle with a high-pressure water hose; even though you throw water at the puddle, the puddle gets moved and no water is left to re-form a puddle. There was a significant amount of öööö remaining on about one-third of the seat rim which I had now just collapsed upon.
Now, back to the vomit...
While all the ööööting was going on, the vomit was still on its way up. By the time I had actually collapsed on the toilet, my mouth had filled up with a goodly portion of the macaroni and beef I had just consumed. OK, so what does the human body instinctively do when vomiting? One bends over. So I bent over. I was still sitting on the toilet, though. Therefore, bending over resulted in me placing my head above my now slightly-opened legs, positioned in between my knees and waist. Also directly above my pants which were now pulled down to a point just midway between my knees and my ankles. Oh, did I mention that I was wearing not just pants, but sweat pants with elastic on the ankles.
In one mighty push, some three pounds of macaroni and beef, two or three Cokes, and a couple of Big, Fat Yeast Rolls were deposited in my pants...on the inside...with no ready exit at the bottom down by my feet.
In the next several seconds, there were a handful of farts, a couple of turds, and the event ended, yet I was now sitting there with my pants full of vomit, my back covered in öööö that had bounced off the toilet, spattered on three ceramic-tiled walls to a height of about five feet, and still had enough force to come back at me, covering the back of my shirt with droplets of liquid öööö. All while thick öööö was spread all over my ass in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat.
And there was no toilet paper, so I used my georgia diploma, which is basically the same thing.
What could I do but laugh. I must have sounded like a complete maniac to the Clemson Fan who then wandered into the bathroom. He actually asked if I was OK since I was laughing so hard I must have sounded like I was crying hysterically. I calmed down just enough to ask him if he would get the manager. And told him to have the manager bring some toilet paper. When the manager walked in, he brought the toilet paper with him, but in no way was prepared for what happened next. I simply told him that there was no way I was going to explain what was happening in the stall, but that I needed several wet towels and I needed him to go ask my wife to come help me. I told him where we were sitting and he left. At that point, I think he was probably assuming that I had pissed just a bit in my pants or something similarly benign.
About two minutes later, my wife came into the bathroom not knowing what was wrong and with a certain amount of worry in her voice. I explained to her (still laughing and having trouble getting out words) that I had a slight accident and needed her help. Knowing that I had experienced some close calls in the past, she probably assumed that I had laid down a small turd or something and just needed to bring the car around so we could bolt immediately. Until I asked her, I'm sure she had no idea that she was about to go across the street and purchase me new underwear, new socks, new pants, a new shirt, and (by that time due to considerable leakage around the elastic ankles thingies) new sneakers. And she then started to laugh herself since I was still laughing. She began to ask for an explanation as to what had happened when I promised her that I would tell her later, but that I just needed to handle damage control for the time being. She left.
Dabo then came back in with a half-dozen wet towels and a few dry ones. I asked him to also bring a mop and bucket upon which he assured me that they would clean up anything that needed to be cleaned. Without giving him specific details, I explained that what was going on in that stall that night was far in excess of what I would expect anyone to deal with, what with most of the folks working at Ryan's making minimum wage of just slightly above. At that moment, I think it dawned on him exactly the gravity of the situation. Dabo went so far above the call of duty that I will be eternally grateful for his actions. He hooked up a hose.
Fortunately, commercial bathrooms are constructed with tile walls and tile floors and have a drain in the middle of the room in order to make clean up easy. Fortunately, I was in a commercial bathroom. He hooked up the hose to the spigot located under the sink as I began cleaning myself up with the wet towels. Just as I was finishing, my wife got back with the new clothes and passed them into the stall, whereupon I stuffed the previously worn clothing into the plastic bag that came from the store, handing the bag to my wife. I finished cleaning myself off and carefully put on my new clothes, still stuck in the stall since I figured that it would be in bad taste to go out of the stall to get redressed in the event I happened to be standing there naked and some little bastard kid walked in. At that point, I had only made a mess; I had not yet committed a felony and intended to keep it that way.
When I finished getting dressed, I picked up the hose and cleaned up the entire stall, washing down the remains toward the drain in the center of the room. I put down the hose and walked out of the bathroom. I had intended to go to the manager and thank him for all he had done, but when I walked out, three of the management staff were there to greet me with a standing ovation. I started laughing so hard that I thought I was going to throw up again, but managed to scurry out to the car where my wife was now waiting to pick me up by the front door.
The upshot of all this is that I strongly recommend eating dinner at Clemson’s Athletic Association. They have, by far, the nicest management staff of any restaurant in which I have eaten.
And to think that I thought Tigernet was out of control.
I guess sometimes you have to go to the other side to appreciate what you have in your own back yard. Here's to an injury free contest on the 29th. See ya!
clemson is a redneck school
Clemson message board software is a total joke
The proper term is “cow college”
For the most part, Clemson fans are a bunch of stupid, white-trash rednecks. The state is full of IPTAY morons who've never stepped foot into a Clemson 'classroom'. I don't get the love affair some of our fans have with these inbred öööö sticks.
I've gone up to that stupid place 4x to watch us play. Both times that we beat 'em (Jerry Mays going off for about 400 yards in 1989 and Godsey-to-Watkins in 2000) those ööööing pieces of öööö keyed my car and smashed my GT license plate.
So öööö Clemson, their fans, and their braindead coach.