The Stadium

Two loyal fans at their finest hour

After suffering through five days of mind-numbing classes, Saturday is finally upon us, and that means one thing: glorious, glorious football. Each season brings fresh hope to college fans everywhere, except of course for the Trojans, who have come to terms with the fact that USC will choke their way to the Rose Bowl once again this year after inevitably losing to an unranked PAC-10 team.

If you go to school in the South, it is likely that gameday has a rich tradition dating back decades. However, chances are this so-called "pageantry" has been largely lost, or dumbed down by the current generation into an excuse by the frat brothers to wear dress shirts and ties with shorts while drinking Natty out of red cups.

The Facilities

Most schools have a dry stadium, but college students will be damned if they're going to spend three hours sober on a Saturday. You will observe other students and discover inventive ways of smuggling liquor into the stadium, such as miniature flasks stuffed in underwear and Ziploc bags full of vodka taped to someone's chest. Or if your ticket is seat-specific, you might come in the day before and hide a 4-ounce bottle of Wild Turkey, but you run the risk that a groundskeeper will find it and take it to his poker night.

You will never, ever be comfortable at a game, because there are only two weather possibilities. Possibility A is that it is one billion degrees out with no cloud cover. Enjoy the festive school colors running into your eyes if you painted your face, and come Monday morning you won't be able to carry your backpack to class thanks to a blistering sunburn. Possibility B is that it is freaking pouring, meaning you get to watch the rest of the game on TV in the stadium tunnel. A white-out game increases the likelihood of possibility B to 95 percent, resulting in an amusing/erotic sight.

Let's hope you didn't wear flip flops gentlemen, because the men's restroom is two inches deep with piss. One wall is nothing but urinals an inch apart, or even worse, there's just a giant trough fixed to the wall that everyone pees in together. And the drunks rubbing elbows with you on your right and left will insist on talking about that last pass and giving high fives. Ladies, halftime results in a bathroom line that will lap the stadium. Twice. If you really have to go, you'll start handing out your number to random guys as a bribe to sneak you into the men's room.

The Fans

There are three types of people you will stand next to at the game:

1) The sorority girls. Ms. Tri-Delt and Ms. Gamma Phi are at the game in all their glory, sporting sun dresses, $200 cockroach sunglasses, and cute little stickers of the school's mascot on their cheeks. They will spend the entire time whining about the heat, texting, and asking what a false start means. They will take twenty-five pictures of themselves facing away from the field, all of which will be posted to Facebook so their friends know they were at the game. At the end of the first quarter, they will leave to go to a bar, which begs the question why didn't they just sell their damn tickets to someone who actually cares.

2) The drunk fat guys. These guys will insist on taking their shirts off and screaming in your ear at every given opportunity. They will armchair quarterback the entire game, hurling valuable pieces of advice like "throw the freaking ball" and "get him". They will know all the fight songs and get pissed if you don't sing along. There is a 75 percent chance they will get ejected from the stadium before the 4th quarter.

3) The alumni. Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Alumni decided to sit in the student section, which means you get to hear stories about how much the campus has changed since 1947. Or if Mr. and Mrs. Alumni are a younger couple, you get to be embarrassed the entire game after dropping your fourth f-bomb within earshot of their five year-old son.

Finally, should your team suck and lose a lot at home, you will have the opportunity to witness the indignity of certain fellow fans cussing out their own team as the players head for the tunnel, even though those beer-guzzling assholes can barely run a quarter-mile without having an asthma attack.