Obviously, not been up to much. The most I have managed has been lying in bed, listening to Jack Davenport reading Eoin Colfer's The Supernaturalist. I'm going to have to listen to it all again though, because I've been in and out of sleep during it. Ah well, no biggie! (Bleurgh, Mumbles is cooking bacon and the sickness is rising...)

I have lots of catching up to do on tutor group forums and actually doing some writing. I have done nothing since Sunday. *Slaps self on wrist* I suppose that has something to do with feeling very dodgy when sitting in an upright position. Hopefully I can get some stuff done today, and start planning out the first TMA. Haven't even thought about that and it's due in about three weeks time. Not good. I'm so going to fail this course :(

But on an up point... The ankle is much better. In fact, I think it's the best it's been since Principessa was born. Interesting. (And another up point, Principessa has been a little star while I've been icky. She is so the bestest!)

I guess I would not have it any other way.  OU number 1 and Texas number 5.  I just hope the best team wins.

General Admission tickets are $14 so think of it as a cheap concert ticket, because you'll still have to buy tickets for food and rides once in the fair. But events such as the auto show, pig races, Total Digital Home, a techno-light show you probably shouldn't bring grandma to, the BMX bike show and the L'oreal exhibit. Oh, and my personal favorite--butter sculptures. This year we will finally see the "long-anticipated" 800-pound King Tut masterpiece.

And if you're too poor or unlucky to get an OU ticket, you can watch the game on TV screens throughout the park or just listen to the yells and cries from the nearly dilapidated Cotton Bowl.

[He's really crying because he missed the pig races.]

ayer fue cuumple de mii ermOozoO

fue super

jajaj

lo kieoOo un buen ok

En pensant à l'œuvre d' Alex MacLean
Dans Le Compost, voir [Une Terre (à vivre)]

So I constantly find myself arguing with friends all the time about the reckless shyt they do just to get some pooon tang. With that being said let me paint the picture for you (c) Jamie Foxx. 

After a late night of drankin, kicking it, and all that jazz-----> fast forward to the next morning.

Quiet on set-----"action"

Scene: a young elegant lady mixed with gorilla an panther walks down the stairs and proceeds to take the walk of shame. 

me: blank stare

the homie: Nigga what?

me: smirk.....ummmm yeaaaaa so you beat?

the homie: Yes sir!

me: blank stare

the homie: What? She had that blazing dome plus to my surprise the pussy was as warm as morning breath.

me: shakes head...I can believe it! I mean she was built like a elephant on hgh.

the homie: Yea only downfall was I couldn't find a strap so I had to take that dive with no parachute. 

me: blank stare....Eshhhhhhh, you better than me! No lie I would jack before beating something that disrespectful.

the homie: Huh! Did you say jack? Hellllllll nah! At the end of the day something is better than nothing right? 

me: Nigga, first thing comes to mind is diseases, kids,  and public humiliation. None of those things cross your mind?      

the homie:  Nahhhh! Who thinks about that before you smash?

and so the story begins-- (read more after the jump)

You know I never supported the whole "Some way, some how Im fucking something" campaign. Every since I could remember I've always had pride in my dick. Its been like that since I first started having sex back in the 7th grade (we will address that in another post..lol).  

Now just to be clear when I speak on having DP that doesn't mean every girl on the resume was cute...lol....definitely was not the case. What it means is that I never lowered my standards or ignored responsibility all for the sake of busting a nut. In high school for the most part I never knowingly went raw (sticking the tip in doesn't count). So when there was no condom in site I immediately called a audible (c) Peyton Manning and went to the back up plan.

Plan B-use the little plastic sandwich bags my mom used to pack lunches with.

No sandwich bags, no problem

Plan C-good ol glad saran wrap,

if that failed

Plan D-plastic grocery bag

Say what you want but at the end of the day you cant say I wasn't resourceful and I wasn't practicing safe sex...lol. I've never been that type of dude that could just fuck anything. I remember one time this cutie was all over me. She was intelligent, funny, and her body was crazy (small waist, donk, hips, d cups). Not too mention she was ready and willing do whatever but there were a few issues:

1.) Strangle enough a couple of her bottom teeth were missing (which made me wonder if she was a recovering fiend)

2.) She was still rocking a S curl in 2001 

3.) Breathe smelled like spoiled hot dog water.

And because of those issues listed above I had to shoot her down. Shocking? Maybe to others but to me nah not really! Its not hard to turn down pussy (for valid reasons of course) but for others its damn near impossible. What makes it impossible for most men? Well that can be answered with one word THIRST.

Thats right my friends (c) John "The Walking Corpse" McCain most men suffer from a disease called THIRST. Its one of the most deadly epidemics sweeping this nation. Trust me when I say once it sets in all logic goes out the window. A girl could be coughing, have a odd smell, and a tat that says "enter at your own risk" and a nigga would still find excuses to justify beating.  Heres a example of a timeline of a club night (c) beg convo of this post:

Goin to club!

10:45pm--starting to get dressed (unless you have a spare vagina you gotta get there early).

Thinking: "I hope find  someone cute, Intelligent, funny, classy, somebody that I could really vibe with. Get my bake on."

11:15pm--in line about to get in.

Thinking:"Yeaaa it might crack tonight. I need to find a classy vagina whos on it and not about games."

12:15am--Inside, drankin, kickin it: (thirst begins)

Thinking:  "Ehh forget all that boo stuff. Im trying find a cutie to take home and dump dick on""

12:50am (thirst grows, lowers expectations)

Thinking: "Ummm she kinda favors craig mack but fuck it she got a fat ass."

1:45am (thirst sets in)

Thinking:"You know shes really not that big. A little fluffy yes but I could work wit it. Atleast she smells good though. Didnt know they had a perfume with the bbq ribtip scent. 

2:15am (thirst takes over)                                                    

Thinking: "Damn shes got the face of death! Is that a adams apple? Could be, oh well she got some sexy ass knee caps."

MEN LIE, WOMEN LIE, NUMBERS DONT

1 in 4 Adults in NYC Have Herpes-NY Times

1 in 20 people in Washington, DC live with HIV or AIDS. 

Washington, DC has the highest HIV/AIDS in the US 

African Americans account for 48% of new HIV infections

The number of women living with HIV has tripled in the last two decade

^^^^^^^^

And this why I said in the beginning I would rather jack before diving in. This aint the 70's early 80's its real out here. Like Katt Williams said "just jack off one time and see if you still want to take the bitch home." Thats right niggas jackin could save your life. Its the best way to stay clear of the those 3 letter words (c) HIV, STD, KID. Im saying learn from others mistakes (c) niggas pushing strollers. Its nothing more crucial than that first nut because after you let that first one loose it brings about a moment of clarity. Besides youj just cant do anything unprotected in this day in age not even hold hands. So all Im sayin is dont let the thirst get the best of you, always think things thru and most importantly do the right thing (c) Spike Lee....

Tonight’s the first time we’ve all seen each other in a few years now.  We grew up in Laredo and then started ‘bout ten years back at the University of Oklahoma, but none of us made it through.  Ben moved back to a little town outside of Laredo after droppin out and has come to visit Craig for a few days.  Craig was all set to get hitched to his sweetie from Norman, but ended up callin it off a little after he found this run-down shack on this enormous plot of land here in Thomas, just a few hours away.  I’ve mostly been shufflin along with my dad, settlin down for a few months at a time wherever there’s work.  Tonight, we’ve ended up in Thomas on our way to Colorado.

I gotta piss somethin fierce, but the stories these boys’re shootin around are killin me.  I don’t wanna miss ‘em.

“Ever since I moved out, my ma just keeps buyin dogs,” Craig says. He’s got one leg up on the banister, his knee pulled up to his chest.  His other foot’s planted on his porch. “She’s got at least fifteen of ‘em—dachshunds, dalmations, labs, poodles.  Last time I visited, I was takin a shower, hummin a tune real loud.  I turned ‘round to grab the shampoo and nearly slipped and broke my neck when I saw three of those pups with their heads poked ‘round the edge of the curtain.”  He runs his hand through his thick brown hair.  “I threw it back and yelled my lungs bloody, but they just kept starin.”

I imagine a naked Craig, his bony body slick with soap and water, lecturin an attentive audience of hounds—pink tongues hangin out, marble eyes wide, tails waggin—and I start howlin.

“Well what’d ya yell at ‘em for?”  Ben asks, sittin up for the first time in hours.  His pudgy red face is twisted into a look of worry.  “They’re just pups.”

“I wanted to know what in the hell they were doin peekin in on a man’s shower,” Craig says.  He starts tappin his foot on the porch nervously.  “I can’t get a moment’s peace in that house.  It’s been converted into a regular dog motel.”

“What’s your pa think of all those additions to the family?” I ask between bouts of laughter.

“The old man ain’t around no more,” Craig tells me.  Our eyes lock, then he takes a swig from the slender silver can in his hand.  He turns his head to look out at the shadows.

That, of course, gets Ben started on his old man.

“Every three weeks the damn fool calls me up,” Ben says, eyes concentrated on the beer can he’s slowly spinnin between his thick fingers.  “He tells me the garage door’s busted and asks me to come out and help him and his neighbor repair the motor. I fight it, but I always end up makin the three hour drive out to Laredo.  You’d think they’d learnt to fly, the way they whoop and holler when they get that piece of junk stutterin up and down.  But I always know it’s gonna break down again.”  He stops spinnin the can, then takes a swig from it.  He shakes his head in long, sweepin strokes.  “There ain’t even anythin special in that garage. Just Dad’s rusty, pukewater colored pickup.”

Craig mutters something.  His head’s still turned to the shadows.

“I ain’t been on a proper date in months cause every third Saturday I’m out there foolin with that door,” Ben says.  He flicks a rock across the porch and I listen to its hollow skitter.

“Every third Saturday leaves you an abundance of free ones,” I remind him.

“Yeah,” he says, then pauses. “But those ain’t never the ones I got dates lined up for.”

We go quiet for a moment.

“You boys remember Wesley White?”  I ask.  They nod.  “There’s a crazy family.”

Ben stretches out and lays back down on the stringy wooden planks of the porch.  He rests the can of beer between his grizzly hands upright on his wide belly.  He starts laughin and it starts bobbin.  I sit there with a stupid smile on my face, my eyes wildly trying to follow it up and down.

“His dad, ol’ Rayford… that man had a temper,” Ben says.  “’Member when we all went huntin and he couldn’t get a shot off on that buck?  ‘I’m so mad I could eat blood!’ he kept yellin.  If I weren’t so frightened I believe I woulda pissed my pants in laughter.”

“You pissed your pants anyhow,” I say, wipin a tear from my eye.

“Well, it was a damn fearful sight,” Ben says.

“The man certainly had a penchant for tradition,” Craig says, turning his head back to the conversation. “Remember when we all quit football after talkin ‘bout it bein our senior year?  About how the thought of not havin any free time depressed us?  Rayford said to Wesley, ‘Well, boy, football’s depressin, but it’s life.  I played it and your grandpappy played it, and believe me, it’s made a melancholy man outta finer folk than us.  There ain’t been a happy man in the history of this family, and you ain’t gonna go changin things now.’”

“Then there was that deal with him and jalapeños,” I say.

“Jalapeños?” Craig asks.

“Yeah,” I say.  “Remember that story I told you, ‘bout the burgers?”

“I ain’t never heard that one,” Ben says.

“Don’t believe I have either,” Craig says.

“Oh, come on, sure you have,” I say.  “When ol’ Wes went out to pick up lunch for him and his old man.”

“Nope,” Craig says.  Ben shakes his head.

“Oh, boy,” I say.  “We were in about the 10th grade, and Wes had just gotten his license.  It was one of them unbearable summer days we used to have back in Laredo.  Every AC unit in town was busted, so Wes and me were just sittin on that dingy tan couch in his family room, feelin too hot to do much of anything.

“’Course ol’ Rayford starts orderin Wes around, and he tells us to go pick up some lunch at Griff’s burger, but for once he gives us a little cash to get somethin for ourselves.  He tells us he wants a triple Griffburger with onions and three helpins of jalapeños.  We drive out to Griff’s in Wes’s truck and order.  I scarf my burger down on the ride back, but Wes hasn’t touched his when we get home.  He sets the burgers down, yells to Rayford that he’s back, then heads to the crapper.  I’m sitting there on the couch feelin’ doubly miserable, what with the heat and a greasy Griff’s sittin like a sack of horseshoes in my gut, when Rayford walks into the room.

“‘You eaten already, son?’ he asks me.   ‘Yessir,’ I tell him, and he grins and nods.  He lifts the bun of each of the two remainin burgers to see what’s on ‘em, then takes one and sets down in his recliner on the other side of the room. He begins eatin real slow.

“Couple minutes later Wes walks back into the room, grabs the last burger, and falls back on the couch.   I’m still sprawled out on my end, but I see him unwrap his burger and take a big ol’ bite out of it.  His chewing slows, then his face twists up in disgust.  He looks like he’s about to spit his bite out, when Rayford rushes across the room, scarin the livin shit out of me.  He slams one hand on top of ol’ Wes’s head and one hand under his chin.

“‘Now you listen here, boy,’ Rayford says to Wes, keepin Wes’s head firmly between his hands.  ‘I been tryin for 16 years to get you to eat a jalapena pepper, and ever since you was a baby you wouldn’t so much as open your mouth for one.’  Wes looks scared out of his mind.  His arms and legs are flailin and he’s layin some pretty good hits on Rayford, but Rayford don’t seem a bit phased.  ‘I knew that one day an opportunity would present itself, and I knew that when it did, I’d grab it,’ he says.

“Wes’s flailin stops after a bit, and he’s just breathin real deep.  I watch his chest shudder up and down.  He tries to talk but his mouth is full and Rayford doesn’t let up.  I see a tear well up in Wes’s eye, then leave a trail of wetness on his cheek as it scurries downward.

“‘Now you listen, boy,’ Rayford says.  ‘We White’s are mighty fond of the jalapena pepper.  You’re the last male in my family line, and I ain’t gonna let tradition die with you.  Now chew.’  I watch as Rayford’s hands let up a little bit, then Wes’s mouth starts to move.  More and more tears race down his face, then his Adam’s apple bulges as he swallows.

“‘There ya go, boy,’ Rayford says softly.  ‘Now when I let go, are you gonna finish that burger without any assistance?’  Wes wiggles his head between Rayford’s grip, then Rayford retreats back to his recliner.  I stay frozen as Wes eats the rest of the burger bite by bite, cryin in broken, choky sobs the whole time.

“And that’s about how it happened,” I say.  I take a swig from my beer.

“Goddamn,” Craig says softly.  He’s facin inward now, sittin straight up on the banister with both feet planted on the porch.  Ben’s sittin up again as well, holdin his knees to his chest.  His beer’s by his side.  Neither says anything for about a minute.

“Yeah, well, like you boys said, weird fella, that Rayford,” I say.

We all stare blankly in different directions and our conversation is replaced by the soft swish of the wind through the grass.

“Well if you’ll excuse me, I been meanin to relieve myself for about an hour now,” I say after a couple of minutes.  I get up and weave my way through the tall blades of yellowin grass ‘til I find a patch of dirt and start makin water.  I hear Ben yell somethin about the sound of a cow pissin on flat rock, then his shrill giggle echoes out over the plain ahead of me.

I smile a little, but as I’m zippin up, I notice my trail of wetness, speckled with shimmers of glittery moonlight, flowin in a thin stream over the cracked earth. As it trickles toward the grassline ahead, I catch sight of the bleached, brittle bones of a squirrel half-buried in the dirt.  Its cheekbones look soft and thin as a sheet of paper and its spine is separated down the middle, probably from where a hawk snatched it.  I watch the sparkly stream move through the rift in the fragile thing’s frame. I feel a heavy weight in my chest.

When I get back to the porch, Craig’s cussin about his dad and how heartbroken the old man left his mother.  I ask him if he’s heard from his old sweetie, but he pretends not to hear me.  Ben says he’s gotta fly back into Laredo in a couple days.  Says he’s sure that garage door’s ’bout ready for another round of repairs.  I ask him whether he’d rather do that or go out with a lady friend, but he doesn’t seem to hear me either.

I suddenly don’t wanna be here anymore, but I shudder when I think ‘bout gettin up in a few hours.  Me and Dad are headin for Colorado at 7.

]]> http://upteniq.wordpress.com/?p=413 Sat, 04 Oct 2008 21:05:51 +0000 Up Ten iQ http://upteniq.ro.wordpress.com/2008/10/04/092/

Haiku the first.

Twisted ankle:
Pain flares at frayed synapse
serotonin released.

Haiku the second.

Wind-whispered bounty;
birds ravenous for berries.
The Elder; harvested.

I've always suspected I needed alcoholism or a troubled past or even just a nose piercing to become a great writer. All the great writers had problems--mental, substance, marital, and otherwise--and I've often fretted that my outlook was too sunny to ever allow me to access the ranks of the greats. But do I want to be a great writer enough to take on some life problems? Isn't being far-sighted enough?

This particular workshop is being lead by a man getting his PhD at the University of Houston, and he's fantastic. He's obviously passionate about writing, and his passion is infectious. At the end of the first workshop, he handed out a short news clip from the Houston Chronicle. The clip was a follow-up to a previous story about two boys who were killed after being run over by a train. This clip was simply stating the district attorney had ruled the boys' deaths suicides. Our assignment was to choose someone involved in the story and tell it from their perspective.

After class, I hopped along on my merry way and decided to write from the perspective of one of the boys' girlfriends. A girlfriend wasn't even mentioned in the story, so I congratulated myself for my fantastic creativity. I wrote the story, and showed up to class on Wednesday to sit right beside the teacher, the better for him to see the creative juices dripping off the page as I read my work to the class.

When class started, the teacher asked for volunteers to read their work. Up popped the hand of a retired teacher sitting at the end of the table, someone who mumbles so severely that I've yet to understand anything he's ever said. My self-congratulating continued as he cleared his throat and pulled three typed sheets from his notebook. My work would look even better following this guy.

Before he read, he explained how he'd done some research before writing his piece, research that involved actually driving to some train tracks and lying across them to contemplate what the boys must have felt like in the moments before they were run over. He then took out his tape measure and measured the space between the rails to calculate where the train would have run the boys over. After all this, he read from his story, which told of exactly how the boys had done it. I quietly folded my high school love gone wrong story and shoved it to the bottom of my purse.

On the ride home, I couldn't believe how ridiculous I'd been. It had never even occurred to me to lay across train tracks. What was wrong with me? Clearly I don't have the natural instincts to be a writer, I thought. And then I chided myself for taking another of these workshops where no one understands me. I don't want to write about suicide. There's plenty of real suicide going on, obviously, since we were working off an actual newspaper article, so why do we need a bunch of fiction writers making more of it up?

I pulled into our driveway and marched inside, ready to regale Drew with the batch of depressives I'd just spent three hours not identifying with. Drew is always the best at assuring me I do have a place in the writing world, that I'll make it some day, even without suicidal tendencies or drug abuse problems.

"Would you believe it, this guy in my class actually trekked outside and laid himself across real train tracks to see how it felt. It never even occurred to me to do that!" I raved. Drew thought about it, and then missed the point completely.

"T, there's plenty of train tracks near our house for you to lay on!"

What a Lovely day today is. I woke up this morning, the sky was perfect, the sea breeze was crisp, sweet, and delicious and Tweetie bird was chirping along. But as great as I am feeling, I know a few fellows that are probably having better days than myself. Lets face it Internet, every day there are hundreds of college football players who walk around like they are reincarnations of Jesus, Buddha, and Walt Disney combined. They dont have to buy meals, kids ask for their autographs, and they get more high fives and girls number's then Brad Pitt. And who is at the top of this lucky list? Tgemayels Heisman Hopefuls of course.

Leading My Heisman Hopeful's list is Mizzou Quarterback Chase Daniels. Chase has been flat out spectacular so far this season. He has completed 101-of-133 of his passes for 1,412 yards. He has also thrown 12 Touchdown and has only thrown 1 Interception Daniel's has even added some rushing yards with 14 rushes for 74 yards. Daniels is currently my front runner for the Heisman but he and the Tigers have some challenges to overcome this season If he wants to hold onto first place. The Tigers have to head down to Texas to play the Quarterback Colt McCoy and the #5 Longhorns in what should be a huge game. If the Tigers can pull out with a win in Texas, and beat Oklahoma in the BIG-12 Championship game, Mr. Daniels will be known as Mr. Heisman, and The Tigers may very well be on their way to a national championship

[caption id="attachment_383" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="Oklahoma's Sam Bradford"][/caption]

Meet Norman's most eligible bachelor, Sam Bradford. Oklahoma's Heisman Hopeful is only a sophomore but as Tim Tebow proved last season, age is nothing but a number. Bradford sure has produced Heisman like numbers. In just four games, Bradford has completed 83-of-115(72.2) of his passes for 1293 yards. He has also tossed up 16 touchdowns and thrown only two interceptions. Oh, and his OU Sooners are also ranked #1 in the nation. Its only September though, and Bradford still has to knock off #5 Texas, #7 Texas Tech, and #16 Kansas. As if that isn't tough enough, the Sooners will also most likely have to play a Mizzou team that has revenge on it's mind. If the Sooner's can make it through their incredibly tough schedule, I will hand Sam the Heisman myself.

[caption id="attachment_384" align="alignleft" width="200" caption="Michigan State's Javon Ringer"][/caption]

Last and my overall favorite on this list is Michigan State Running Back Javon Ringer. Internet, every Saturday without fail, Javon Ringer gets it done.I don't know how Javon Ringer get out of bed on Sundays? How is he still able to walk, let alone play football the next week? You take any man and hand him a football that often and he would be in a wheel chair already. He has carried the ball 143 times in 5 games. That is almost 30 per game. The closest running back to matching his carries is 30 behind. Internet, that means Ringer could take a Saturday off, and probably still lead in carries. Ringer has rushed for a total of 699 yards and 11 TDs. He also has 4 receptions for 37 yards and 9 kickoff returns for 200 yards. This kid does it all. If Michigan State can piece together a few signature wins, this kid deserve the Heisman. His body deserves the Heisman. I'm putting it out there right now Internet, and you take it or leave it, but no single football player is as important as Javon Ringer is to Michigan State. None. Not Tebow. Not Beanie. Not Sanchez. Ringer is so involved in the offense that even T.O. would be satisfied.

I hope to use this space as a sandbox for my writing; be it haiku, short-story, chapters from a novel or just plain free-writing for my A215 colleagues to come and criticise.

I would also like to extend the offer of critiquing my work to you all...please feel free to comment on anything; whether it makes you feel sad that I've wasted money on the Creative Writing course or if my words have made an indelible mark upon your conscious mind - I'd like to be in on that either way.

So for now, back to my studies and more from me later.

Thanks,

Ian Collings.

• Mummy, don't speak at me when I'm drinking my orange!

Little monster! I know she's feeling better because she is more prepared to talk about food today, although finding out what she wants to eat is a bit like pulling teeth.

• Me: You need to have some vegetables with your dinner.

• Princi: I don't want vegetables.

• Me: You need to have vegetables as they provide vitamins to help your body get better.

• Princi: No, I don't want vegetables.

• Me: OK, then what vegetables do you want with your dinner?

• Princi: Tomatoes.... Cucumber (suspicious looks between Grandand and I)... Oh, no, I don't like cucumber!

At least she gave me a laugh during a tense food situation!

I'm still struggling (spelled stuglling at first. What is up with me?) to get into any writing, so last night I thought I'd do some reading to help inspire me. I dug out my Norse mythology books, as there are always stories that kick-start the imagination in there, and also because one of the tenuous links that appeared in a cluster happened to be the Norns. If ever inspiration needs to be found, the Norns are very helpful! Anyway, after reading about the Norns, Yggdrasil, and Nidhoggr, I ended up reading the story of Sigurd. I'd never read Sigurd before, but it's easy to see where Tolkien found his inspiration for Lord Of The Rings. So I think I will do some more mythology reading today, as I can feel the dusty cobwebs beginning to dislodge.

I really need to get into the habit of writing more every day, but I feel that I've broken something in my thought processes trying to do things in the way the course was designed. Does that sound stupid? It  doesn't work with my thought processes, or maybe I am putting too much pressure on myself and not relaxing into it? I don't know. But right now it feels like my brain has dried up and gone on holiday, giving me the bird as it disappears into infinity and beyond. I need a creative brain massage. Ho hum.

Ah well. Off to vegetate, and hopefully it will rejuvenate the thought processes.

EDIT-----------------------------

I've just read this post back, and oh my god, did I really mention the term thought processes so often? Awful, awful writing! Just shows where my poor brain is at the moment, in the Bog of Eternal Stench!

Imagine if you will.

OSU takes care of Texas A&M on Saturday, and they should by all accounts. Mark my words: Neither Iowa State nor Baylor is the worst team in the Big 12.

So, I'm fulling expecting the Pokes to win this game.

However, next comes Missouri in Columbia. And while Chase Daniel and company look formidable, what if the Pokes sneak out with a win? For one, I think this is a more likely possibility than it was for Oregon State to have beaten USC this past week. The way the Beavers played Penn State a week or two before, it was hard to imagine an upset of the magnitude that happened.

But, I can see OSU beating Missouri. This is not a slam dunk for Mizzou.

And if Oklahoma State wins that game, they'll likely crack the Top 10 or be very close to it. Following that logic, the Pokes are at that point a national title contender.

So, while OU fans rightfully celebrate their team's return to No. 1, just remember that OSU is a couple big wins away from being in the same exact position Kansas was last year -- as a darkhorse for a shot at a national title.

Think Bedlam might be big this year?