Checking in with the Het-O-Meter

Tom’s wife gave birth to twins (really hoping they go with my name suggestions of “Jeffgreen” and “Traveled”), the Stanimal is numb, and DoreonthePlains’ sunshine pump poured gasoline on itself and lit a match.

As such, you’re getting me for the recap. As always during Vanderbilt Feetball season, I will cede my time to the Oracle of Het-phi.

Oh great and powerful Khaos, first of the Protogenoi, thou hast in thy infinite capacity for pain and suffering gifted us with the Het-O-Meter, like Prometheus gifted our race with fire. Unlike Prometheus, though, our livers will not grow back nightly after being forced to live in a torturous loop that is Vanderbilt Feetball Fandom.

I do not question you, Khaos!

Not when you blinded me so I could truly see; not when you told us to “Have fun; expect to win;” not when you gave us the Old Bald Poach to tear us away from our Plato’s Cave of infinite losing seasons, only to rend him from us violently like a babe from his mother, and give us the defensive genius so as to amplify our torment; not even when you started the modern Prometheus himself, Stephen Rivers!!!

I did not question you then; I do not question you now.

We have offered upon you our Saturdays in autumn as sacrifice. Speak to me, oh Khaos, the sooth that is the Het-O-Meter!!!

Well. I don’t know what I expected.