#like they still gotta pretend their debate performances were even on the same level

[biggest-bara-tiddies]

Watching ABC news's post debate commentary and one of the first thing they're talking about is that Harris didn't explain why she changed her policy positions instead of like the fact that she had to endure Trump questioning her race to her face and managed a coherent response that didn't involve physically attacking him. Like Trump spent the entire debate incoherently rambling about racist nonsense, making a complete ass of himself by flat out refusing to answer questions, attempting to spin his failures as president in the most pathetic way imaginable, yelling, and being a complete loon which all gets summarized as him being "angry and defensive"

[chuckling-chemist]

Everybody Needs Somebody

((They say a picture’s worth 1000 words so I wrote 3750 because I can’t draw and then rushed the gag itself. Also probably the only thing I’ve really written of all this that I’m posting, be it here or anywhere, since my interpretation of the ball being at a swanky hotel was incorrect, but also everything else is only like....debatably relevant? All 1.5 other pieces, that is. idk, might another short piece or two but this one was certainly a vanity project written in the early hours of the morning in post-Stardew Valley Christmas hazes that is only getting posted to make myself feel better, for some sense of “welp did the thing I said I was going to write 6 months ago and here it is” type of thing.

Anyway there’s a lot of silly references in here so kudos if you pick them all out))

Joilet tapped his foot impatiently from behind their practice room. He hadn’t meandered much around the crowd of the ball -- ignoring the current charges against him, high class crowds weren’t his scene -- but current security was still enough to make him worry. Brownblood host or not, he knew enough have true highbloods stalking around as guards. Bouncers who Joilet’s certain were watching him and recognized him the last time he did a sweep of the temporary hivestem. After their performance, Joilet and Akroid were going to have to peel out immediately.

At least they were paid upfront this time upon meeting him in person the night prior. In cash.

Though, to be fair, the Blue Brothers shouldn’t have been paid. A friend of theirs in similar line of work, a brownblood named Elliah Fagane, performed last sweep and she was slated to perform again. She was perfect for the job, a good little songbird who kept complaints she had about anything to herself and was the perfect paragon of elegance and grace -- lowblood or not. The Blue Brothers, meanwhile, were two midbloods (Joilet was a stocky cobaltblood while Akroid was a lanky tealblood) who both had a penchant for getting into trouble. Under normal circumstances, the two of them alone -- much less the whole band -- would ever be asked to perform for a traditional socialite of any caste. But, they needed the money and so Joilet was able to pull a quick favor from her to have her drop her spot while simultaneously recommending them as adequate replacements. He accepted, playing as if he knew who the two of them were the whole time. He told them how much of a fan he was of their “country and western band”, how Elliah “just wasn’t the sound he wanted”, and how excited he was to get some “representation of their own people’s music, in a more palatable fashion” in the setist. 

He was partly right: once they performed a cover of Stand By Your Rail at a dive bar, pretending to be an actual western band. He’s pretty sure this guy wasn’t aware of that, but an attempt was made. At least.

Their tight, uniform appearance also helped matters. Despite the different castes and heights, Joilet and Akroid looked the part of a two person midblood group with a backup lowblood band. Same black sunglasses that cover up half their face, same black fedora hooked onto their respective short horn (Joilet’s left horn, Akroid’s right), same unruly hair covered up by said hat, same black suit and skinny black tie. Sure, Joilet’s other horn broke off during his stint in prison while Akroid’s just hooked off again and Joilet’s sideburns were unkempt, but otherwise? Perfectly uniform. If the host had any questions of their legitimacy, they were quickly quelled after seeing the two of them in person the other night and, to Joilet, that spoke just as much as their actual skill level.

Joilet glanced over to Akroid. Damn teal looked as unflappable as ever behind those dark sunglasses. It was him who got them in this whole situation in the first place. Akroid, the idiot who picked him up from the big hive at the start of the perigee with a pipe dream of getting the band back together. The idiot who resisted arrest for public intoxication from the drones all because he was a former felon himself, starting them on this stupid honkbird chase in a desparate bid for cash. Akroid, the idiot who helped get his ass out of prison in the first place, all due to whatever strange desire for the other’s companionship they developed over the sweeps.

Fuck him.

Akroid must have caught his gaze because he gave a short smile and a thumbs up. “We’re doing good,” he said. “Remember, we’re on a mission from God.”

Right. The mission from God. Joilet found himself relaxing almost instantly. He distinctly remembered the out of body experience he had upon visiting one of those criminal infested freeports before departing; where, if he hadn’t talked to the God (Joilet didn’t believe the clowns held any sort of stranglehold on the concept of godhood), he certainly talked to a god. If nothing else, they made it this far without a single hiccup they couldn’t solve in their plans. It’s hard to believe someone’s not looking out for you when you escape a chase by driving through a busy mall and still make it out on top. Without their current employer hearing any of it.

“And what if God lets y’all get caught again?” their saxophonist, Marini, asked. He was a skinnier rustblood, long curly hair that went down to his mid back and oddly pointy teeth for such a red caste. “Leavin’ us high and dry again like when Joilet got hit.”

“We’ll be fine,” Akroid said. He shifted the sleeve of his suit, pausing in his speech to check the time on his watch. “Just follow our lead and look like nothin’s wrong.” 

The rustblood let out a huff with a brief shake of his head, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he asked, “How much longer do we have anyway?”

“Ten minutes,” Joilet answered. “We got ten minutes.”

“Well good.” He removed his saxophone off the neckstrap and set it on the stand. “I drank way too much Faygo. Gotta piss.”

“Then go piss!” Akroid’s stone face cracked into a distinct scowl. “Geeze, you don’t gotta announce everything. Just get back before we perform.”

Their drummer, another rustblood by the name of Barkay, stood up as well. He looked about the same age as Joilet, with curly hair partially that was obscured by his dark green visor. Barkay looked about as respectable as anyone of his caste could, with a dark red dress shirt and black tie.

“I’m goin’ with him.”

Joilet blinked harshly behind his sunglasses. “Okay? It’s the damn ablutionblock. Do what you need to.”

They apparently didn’t need to be told twice. The two trolls were out the door before Joilet had a chance to add anything else.

“You’d think his bulge was on fire,” Joilet finally said. His gaze swept around the rest of the band rapidly. They were quiet. Somber. Hell, if he didn’t know any better he’d have mistaken the lot of them going off to war, not performing for big money at some fancy gala-thing. “You think he’s gonna bail?”

“Marini? Nah. He was the only guy we didn’t have to pester who was workin’ at that diner. Been itchin’ to rip on that sax.” Akroid smirked wryly. “And doin’ it here? In front of all those rich pricks? I’d worry more ‘bout yourself. You gonna choke?”

Joilet snorted. “ ‘Course not. We’re in too deep.”

“Didn’t seem like that a few minutes ago.”

“Yeah well….” Joilet trailed off. Akroid wasn’t wrong. Joilet had panicked. It seemed like every jackass out to get them were outside waiting for them. And Akroid, bastard he was, simply reminding him that those jackasses hadn’t got them during the rest of the sweep brought him back. 

Not like he’d admit it out loud.

“Had a moment of panic’s all. Then I remembered this kid’s probably being a nervous wiggler about staffing with his first year. Nothin’ else.”

“Uh-huh.” Akroid’s smirk widened a bit, giving Joilet the sudden urge to punch it right off his face. But not now. They were too close to their goal.

They stood in comfortable silence for a few more minutes before a new figure came out from the curtain, an indigoblood with short, cropped hair in a suit matching his caste walking next to Manini and Barkay. That was the guy who’d be ushering them on, sure, but he’s almost certain it hadn’t been ten minutes. Did something happen?

He glanced back over to Akroid, who just shrugged. Figures.

“Are you ready?” the indigoblood asked. He had some smile plastered on his face in some attempt to be friendly, but it didn’t look friendly. The offset, sharp teeth broken off at odd angles gave off a distinct predatory vibe.

“I dunno, did they get their break?” Joilet said.

Barkay grinned, giving the two trolls a thumbs up as he walked seat. “I got what needed done. No worries.”

The indigoblood’s face split wider, if that were even possible. He beckoned Joilet and Akroid with an open hand, unmoving until the two of them actually started following him through the narrow hallway. “Excellent. Let’s get moving then. Your stage is set, guests are waiting...you wouldn’t want to disappoint such eager crowds I’m sure. They could get aggressive.”

Joilet refrained from mentioning he passed time in prison by performing old classics, and just how dangerous some of those trolls were. Hell, he even learned a few new songs thanks to an actual country musician of a brownblood involving being stuck in prison. Aggressive wasn’t a problem. It was authority. 

“Got it.”

“Good.” He stopped in front of a door, giving them a nod. “You can go ahead and enter through the door. Hopefully you don’t need any final warmups?”

“We’ll be fine,” Joilet said.

The indigoblood nodded. “If you’re certain. I shall return at the end of your set.” He opened up the door. “Best of luck.”

The two of them exchanged a look. “We don’t need luck,” Akroid said before disappearing through the door.

Joilet followed suit, giving the inidgoblood a curt nod of acknowledgement before adding, “We’re on a mission from God.” 

As he walked through the door, he was immediately greeted with a dark blue curtain in front of them with a short opening to the left of them where he could catch the smallest glimpse of the piano on a raised platform. Nothing else. The piano obscured most of the view of the crowd beyond them. He imagined it was exactly the same on the other side.

It was a small exit. But it would be perfect for escaping out.

He wondered if Akroid was thinking the same thing. Probably. There was no way to tell, no way to properly read his expressionless face their last moment of respite before their performance and subsequent frantic escape before anyone did a serious background check about who they were. Still, there was a twinge in his gut that his partner in crime agreed.

When they exchanged one final nod in solitude and took their places in front of two microphones, Joilet had a feeling he was right.

As soon as he made it, he did another quick scan of the room. It was blue. Blue tablecloths covered the guest and dessert tables. Blue curtains shuttered the ball off from the outside world. Blue lights in the punch bowl made the ice snowflake sculpture inside look blue. And if it wasn’t blue, it was white. White tree sculptures adorned with white lights twisted around each marble pillar. Vases of white flowers topped every table. A white rug ran down the center of the ballroom. Small, white lights dotted an otherwise dark ceiling to give the loose impression of stars or snowflakes down onto the dance floor.

Even the trolls did nothing to break it up. If the dress didn’t match the owner’s blood color, it was a distinct blue or white with sparkles or shimmers. White lacing and white boas perfectly match the white boots and white dresses. The flashes of gray due to the high cut of many of the dress slits managed to break up the coloration more than anyone matching caste color. 

Thankfully, the heavy blue-white combination made the distinct pinks, purples and blacks of those on their tail easy to spot. And oh boy, were they available -- even more so than earlier. Joilet wouldn’t be surprised if their host figured out about them at some point, but not early enough to cancel and reschedule so he let these brutes in instead. Burly indigo and purplebloods in suits stood along the edges, away from the crowds with their arms crossed in rapt concentration of the two of them. Standing next to the dessert table were a series of inidgobloods all dressed in formalized cowboy outfits, complete with stetsons, glaring at them -- the very same western group the Blue Brothers once impersonated. A few particularly annoying “seadweller master race” types in colorful gowns and military pinks stood in the back next to cobalts in military regalia, quite possibly from some local, non-drone law enforcement they managed to pick up to defend themselves. On the other side of the cobalts were a few subjuggalators who definitely were full into the “highblooded landdweller supremacy” in full face paint and religious purple clown robes. Both were groups the Blue Brothers have antagonized, whether it be intentionally with the seadwellers (they deserved it), or accidentally (turns out subjuggalators don’t like lower castes hearing the voice of their god, whatever god answered Joilet and Akroid notwithstanding). It was, however, the first time Joilet’s ever seen the two work together for a common goal. Traditionally the two groups go at it worse than a bad kismesis. He was almost proud that they were able to perform such a feat, though he wasn’t sure if the pride was directed at the supremacy groups or himself for bringing them together.

He let out a slow breath. Only one thing to do at this point. Start.

“One. Two. One, two, three, four.”

The band kicked off with the sound of upbeat horns while the two trolls gave a short dance around the mics for a few bars. After which, while the intro kept repeating, Akroid grabbed his micrphone and said, “We’re so happy to see so many of you lovely trolls here tonight. We would especially like to welcome the esteemed members of Kilran’s hired law enforcement who have chosen to join us at the 12th Perigee Ball here tonight. We hope you all enjoy the show and hope you remember that no matter who you are and what you do to live to try and survive, there’s still some things that make us all the same. You, me, them--” Akroid looked directly toward the back of the room toward the cobaltbloods assisting the supremacists with a disappointed shrug “--everybody. Everybody.”

And from there, it was Joilet’s turn. With the second mic in hand he started singing their opener, Everybody Needs Somebody to Love. It was a speedy tune, possibly a little too fast for what their host was intending, but they sounded perfect and that’s all that mattered. The band’s hits fell right within the pauses in Joilet’s vocals, and Akroid knew exactly when to come in to accent with his deep baritone. Each transition into the next part of the song was smooth, from pointing to various people in the crowd at the you, you, you, to Akroid seamlessly whipping out his harmonica to accent Joilet’s singing the pre-chorus.

There were a few scattered cheers of appreciation, but for the most part these people weren’t dancing. Only one way to change that.

As they gave a pause in vocals to allow for a harmonica solo, Joilet started through a complicated dance twisting around the band members, ducking and weaving through saxophones and trombones while he turned this way and that. It was finished with a cartwheel across the front end of the stage, landing him right in front of the microphone for the next verse.

It was the opening some of the trolls -- lower castes mostly, but he caught flashes of higherbloods in the mix -- needed. The dance floor segment had all sorts of trolls, be it single or paired off in some fashion, dancing in whichever way they fancied. Akroid must have led them into a rhythmic clap too, judging by the trolls unwilling to dance instead clapping and even chanting at every repeat of you, you, you. He caught the leader giving them a death glare. Joilet ignored it.

At the next verse, Joilet swung on his heel back toward the band. He pushed his outstretched arms down toward the floor in an overemphasized quiet down for the crowd, and every instrument dipped off except for a cymbal hat to keep time and the grooving bass guitar.

It was Akroid’s time again. He moved right toward center stage, mic in hand and announced, “You know people when you do find those special trolls for any quadrant, you gotta hold that ‘rail, hold that ‘sprit, love him, squeeze him, love her, please her. Signify your feelings with every gentle caress or angry glare. Because it’s so important to have that special somebody! To hold. To kiss. To miss! To please and squeeze!”

Akroid dropped into a kneel on the stage, as if enraptured with his statement, as Joilet finished out with the chorus. He didn’t stand back up until the harmonica came back in. He rejoined Joilet in the back for the end, and the two mimicked each other dancing on the balls of their feet as the band played out.

When the last note struck, the two of them landed simultaneously on one knee, head down with their hand holding the brim of their hats.

Two songs left. Then they bolt. They could do this.

Their performance of Soul Man was just as energetic. This song was pretty much entirely Joilet’s, so he let Akroid dance around the stage now. He could catch the other troll jumping up and down, legs moving so loosely and briskly they may as well be jelly. He only cut in for parts of the chorus, letting that deep baritone accent Joilet’s raspy vocals.

In only a few short minutes Soul Man ended and their final song, Sweet Home Gusthollow opened with swift guitar licks in a short solo. As the rest of the band kicked in and Joilet sang out the first few bars, Akroid raised his hands up to lead those listening in a clap. Barkay joined in as well. He raised his own drumsticks high above his head, tapping off the beats until those in the crowd kept time on their own.

As the first verse ended, Akroid took hold of Joilet’s mic. “Six and three is nine. Nine and nine is eighteen. Look there pupa partner and see what I’ve seen.” He nudged Joilet and pointed toward the cobalt in the back standing between the supremacists. Shit. Another look and Joilet realized he knew that troll. He was one of the wardens of the prison he was released from. But he also noticed at his angle, with the growing crowd of dancers and listeners, they might be able to slip away. After all, the stage wasn’t raised. The only reason he could still see the warden was thanks to the gaps down the main walkway.

The two of them waved confidently at him as they continued through the chorus. Even with the distance, he noticed the cobaltblood drag a thumb across his neck.

It struck Joilet numb for a few seconds. Good to know where he stands, he supposes. 

The two finished out the chorus with a flourish, letting the band take over. Joilet turned over to Akroid, offering out his hands to dance. The other troll accepted, and the two pranced right off the stage and into the crowd, swinging around as Marini moved center stage to crank out a solo. With the focus off them, they were able to swing right back onto the stage and through the small opening to the area behind the stage. He could still hear the band, but it was muffled. 

“You think that creep’s waitin’ for us back here?” Akroid asked. 

“I sure fucking hope not. Could do without running from his slimy ass too.”

Joilet whipped open the door, ready to run from whoever Kilrun left to deal with them back here. What they were greeted with instead was a troll leaning on the nearby wall wearing a tight, long sleeved red dress that pooled onto the floor. Yellow and orange flowers, though Joilet wasn’t sure what kind, outlined her skirt. A large, black wide brimmed hat wrapped outlined in string lights covered her whole face. When the door closed, they looked up, revealing a noticeable pair of fins and tyrian pink eyes. 

A fuschiablood.

“So...you must be the two trolls I was informed of.” She gave the two a grin filled with those sharp seadweller teeth, just as predatory as the indigoblood earlier, but for some reason it didn’t feel directed toward either of them. “Ran into your two bandmates earlier. He gave me a heads up you might be headed back this way before you run off.”

“Who the hell’re you?” Joilet asked.

“Call me Mayola. You two pissed off those buncha entitled rich fucks who think they’re better than everyone else right?”

Joilet and Akroid glanced at each other in silence. “What about it?”

“I’d like to bring you and your band on for Sandyhorn’s next festival. You two would make a great fit.” She pulled a thick envelope, quite obviously stuffed thick with cash, out of seemingly nowhere and handed it to Joilet. “Consider this a down payment. You’ll get the rest when I see ya there.”

Joilet thumbed through the money, eyeing her. This was a lot. More than he they could’ve gotten from this gig alone. “Yeah sure. Sounds like a deal.”

“Hey, just one problem.” Akroid jutted his thumb out toward the direction of the ball beyond them. “All those goons seem to have caught on our tail and we can’t perform unless we get outta here without goin’ to prison.”

Her face brightened. “Oh well that’s an easy one. Here, follow me.” She pushed herself off the wall and sauntered toward the door, that red dress almost appearing to shimmer in the dim lighting. With a quick motion of her wrist, she opened the door into the back of the stage. Only a few further steps in, and she leaned down and pulled at a small hitch in the floor. A trapdoor immediately popped up without a sound.  “Found this out the other day when I couldn’t sleep. Should lead outside without a hitch, though you might have to go through some sewers.” 

She looked up at them, eyes wild and filled with pride, catching the two troll’s equally bewildered and ecstatic expressions. “You’re brilliant!” Akroid exclaimed. “Amazing! Fantastic! Wonder--”

She held up a hand. “Save your praises for later. For now...just think of me as today’s savior.”

[auburnfamilynews]

  For 60 divine minutes, we had an answer. (90, if you count the first half in Starkville.) The question, of course, had hung in the Auburn air since at least the 2010 Arkansas barnburner, and maybe since Chris Todd was slinging darts in the rain against West Virginia: How good could a Gus Malzahn team be if he developed a top-tier, Tuberville-caliber defense to pair with a peak-performance offense of his own? 

Against Arkansas this past October, we found out. Kamryn Pettway and the offensive line ground the Hog defense to dust; Carl Lawson, Montravius Adams and the rest of Kevin Steele’s defense permitted the Hog offense less than nothing. The final tally of rushing yardage was Auburn 544, Arkansas 25. The final scoreboard read Auburn 56, Arkansas 3. Not even Cam’s national champions, not even the 2013 team in its white-hottest moments registered anything like the kind of scorched-earth obliteration of a bowl-bound SEC rival the 2016 team registered against the Razorbacks.

Which is why, when I took my seat in Jordan-Hare’s north end zone bleachers two weeks later for the Vanderbilt game, I fervently believed Auburn had a puncher’s chance to defeat Alabama, win the SEC, and possibly — it wasn’t totally crazy — get another national title shot. The defense hadn’t been as superb against Ole Miss, but Chad Kelly had made Alabama look silly for stretches, too, and they’d been due for an off-game, and the rushing game had been murderous anyway, and the freshman wideouts were coming along, and Steele would be more comfortable against pro-style offenses anyway, and, and, and, and. The ceiling was that high. This team had shown us. There was no reason it couldn’t keep on showing us.

Then, I don’t remember if it was just before kickoff or just after, my phone told me Sean White wasn’t starting.

I do remember watching John Franklin III take the field and thinking Uh-oh. And at no point for the remaining two months of the season was the status of Auburn football anything other than Uh-oh. That ceiling we’d waited six, seven years for our Tigers to touch? When poor White dropped back in the Sugar Bowl and uncorked the duckiest duck that’s ever ducked, man, that ceiling felt as far away as the moon.

It’s not a scientific assessment, but I’d judge Auburn fans as a whole to be more unhappy at the close of the 2016 season than 2015’s, an assessment that if accurate doesn’t make a damn lick of logical sense. Instead of going 2-6 in the SEC and finishing last in the West, Auburn went 5-3 and finished second. Instead of going 6-6 overall and playing the Birmingham Bowl, Auburn went 8-4 and played the Sugar. Instead of finishing 35th in S&P+ and 29th in Sagarin, Auburn finished 13th and 14th, respectively. And Auburn accomplished that improvement while breaking in its third defensive coordinator in three seasons, adding an eventual playoff finalist to the nonleague schedule and suffering the aforementioned crippling injury to its starting quarterback. By any rational measure, the future looks far brighter than it did a year ago.

So why do I feel like Auburn’s glass is half-empty, even when it’s clearly half-full? Why do I empathize with the criticism avalanche aimed at Malzahn even when I disagree with the overwhelming bulk of it? Why did a season that was so much better than the one before it leave us feeling collectively just as bad, if not worse?

The simplest answer is that the one thing we could expect 2016 to provide us was clarity. Was Gus the coach that in the space of one season brought a 3-9 team to within seconds of a national championship? Or the coach who without the security blanket of a JUCO superstar under center was incapable of even breaking .500? By year’s end, we’d know … except that, whoops, it turns out Gus can be both those coaches not only in the span of a single season, but over the span of a single month. (Auburn fans, you thought you got emotional whiplash going from 2010’s triumphs to 2012’s misery? For our team’s next trick, it’ll go from the Arkansas win to the Georgia loss in all of four weeks.) If you believed coming into this season Gus was the long-term answer, you got plenty of evidence to back you up. If you believed Auburn was better off moving on, you got plenty of evidence to back you up. 2016’s high points were high enough that the team unquestionably moved forward. But the low points were low enough that — much as it hurts to admit — there’s legitimate reasons to doubt how far forward it can keep moving under Gus’s leadership, too.

They’re not all legitimate, of course. There’s things it makes sense to be angry about. There’s things it doesn’t. In the interest of unpacking exactly how we came to be collectively unsatisfied by what should have been a satisfying season, here’s my list of those things, piece-by-piece.

I AM MAD ABOUT: LOSING THE GODFORSAKEN GEORGIA GAME. The Iron Bowl is the game I most want to win. But given the unfortunate state of Crimson Tide affairs these days, the Deep South’s Oldest Rivalry is the game I least want to lose. And that went double entering this year’s edition, what with the Dawgs a mediocre mess that narrowly escaped Nicholls State, lost to Vandy, couldn’t even compete with Ole Miss or Florida, still ranks 58 places lower than Auburn in S&P, etc. And that went quadruple, octuple, hexadecouple when the defense went into Athens and stuffed the Dawg offense in a sack.

I can’t make myself care about how injured White may or may not have been. Can’t about what he may or may not have told the coaches. Can’t about why or why not Franklin or Johnson never saw the field. If all you need from your offense to win the Georgia game is to score more than a net of zero points, for the love of everything holy find a way to score more than a net of zero points. Backup quarterbacks. All-Wildcat offense. Triple-reverse flea flickers. Just please, please, please don’t waste that defensive performance, in this game of all games.

I believe that if Gus’s team cobbles together enough offense not to, no one really much minds losing to Alabama or Oklahoma. But waste it they did. And I’m still angrier about it than any loss since Tony Franklin hit his nadir against Vanderbilt.

I AM NOT MAD ABOUT: GUS GOING 1-3 AGAINST ALABAMA. Quit saying “Malzahn is 2-6 vs. Georgia and Alabama, and almost lost in 2013, too.” The Tide’s rank entering the four Iron Bowls Gus has coached: 1, 1, 2,  and 1, and that No. 2 team won the national title. Gus won the greatest game in college football history in 2013, rolled up 630 yards in Bryant-Denny in 2014, and stayed kinda-sorta competitive in 2015 and 2016 despite starting Jeremy Johnson in both. Gus’s track record against Georgia is a major issue. His against the Tide just isn’t.

I AM NOT MAD ABOUT: “NOT BEATING ANYBODY.” Among the anti-Gus brigade, the most frequent method of dismissing Auburn’s post-Texas A&M, pre-White injury run seems to be dismissing the level of competition faced during said run. There’s a number of problems with that approach, first and foremost that ignoring a statistically dominant win over LSU — which is LSU, and which also wound up the SEC’s second- or third-best team, and a good deal better than that according to some — is the opposite of fair. Second, as has been noted already, it’s not as if 53-point home wins or 24-point road wins in SEC play have been commonplace even for the very best teams in Auburn’s recent history. Lastly, those margins-of-victory matter. No, they don’t change the win-loss record, and yes, LSU aside, the teams faced between A&M and Georgia weren’t the cream of the SEC’s less-than-bumper 2016 crop. But pretending a 56-3 win over Arkansas doesn’t tell us anything more about how good Auburn is than a 16-3 win over Arkansas hasn’t been in fashion since before Phil Steele first started tracking close-game records and yardage margins. In the early days of 2017, it’s straight-up willful ignorance.

How much credit to give Gus for a single month is (ahem) debatable, but don’t pretend that for that single month Auburn was anything less than a force.

I AM NOT MAD ABOUT: LOSING THE SUGAR BOWL WHEN SEAN WHITE BREAKS HIS ARM ON THE FIRST SERIES OF THE GAME. The moment White threw that “pass” — you know the one I’m talking about — the only question was how many points by which Oklahoma would win, and if Musberger could talk himself out of a job before the fourth quarter.

I AM MAD ABOUT: NOT HAVING A VIABLE BACKUP PLAN IN THE EVENT OF A SEAN WHITE INJURY. An incomplete list of people and/or creatures and/or objects that expressed concern over White’s durability this past offseason:

Auburn fans

Detroit Pistons fans

The ghost of Harriet Tubman

Squirrels

Atlas moth caterpillars

An asteroid circling the sun at a distance of 600 million miles from Earth

“White showed enough last year that Auburn might be OK with him as their starter,” a sapient paper clip told me last August, “but health-wise, I gotta see him last the year before I believe it. JF3 had better be ready.”

I’m assuming that, being football coaches and thus a good deal more knowledgable than most sapient paper clips, Auburn’s staff shared the same concerns. But in the end, did it make any difference if they did? Their efforts to address them amounted to “sign Franklin,” a decision that proved so successful Franklin 1. remained on the bench even as White’s arm transmogrified into pudding before our eyes in Athens 2. watched Johnson get the nod in the Iron Bowl, a move even the non-sapient paper clips could tell you gave Auburn the odds of winning I have of assembling my own Volkswagen.

Maybe that’s because Franklin proved incapable of running the offense. Maybe that’s because Auburn’s staff was incapable of teaching the offense*. Either way: Gus went into this past offseason knowing an injury to White had ruined a promising end to the season. And he still failed to prevent an injury to White from ruining an even-more-promising end to this season.

*The “Gus can’t develop quarterbacks” line you’ll hear trotted out in relation to this — or to express skepticism that Jarrett Stidham will alter Auburn’s fortunes at the position — is bunk. Tulsa’s quarterbacks got better under Malzahn. Chris Todd got better. Title game weirdness aside, Cam got better. Once-and-future defensive back Nick Marshall threw for 456 yards at Alabama. White’s gotten better every healthy game he’s started, to the point he was the most efficient passer in the SEC when he got hurt. If Gus couldn’t develop Johnson or Franklin into workable starting options, the evidence-to-date suggests that’s more a Johnson or Franklin issue than a Gus one.

I AM NOT MAD ABOUT: LOSING THE CLEMSON GAME. Those guys are pretty good, it turns out. Can’t wait to play them again in Clemson next year!

I AM MAD ABOUT: THE WAY IN WHICH THE CLEMSON GAME WAS LOST. Perhaps I should have let go of my anger over Gus’s Carousel of “Progress” by now. I haven’t. Not because it’s that much of an opportunity lost, really — if Auburn wins that game*, a 9-3 mark with a win over the eventual ACC champs vaults them all the way into … the Sugar Bowl — but because the remainder of the season made trotting out Franklin and Johnson alongside White as three-headed quarterbacking equals look stupid beyond all previously accepted measures of stupid. Could the gulf between White and his backups really be that obvious on the playing field and that obscure on the practice field? Is it too much to ask that if every fan knows this is Sean White’s offense to operate by Week 3, that Auburn’s offensive braintrust know the same before Week 1?

The charitable view is that Malzahn entered this season desperate, and desperate people sometimes do dumb things they wouldn’t otherwise do. The uncharitable view is that if the carousel itself was a one-time mistake, the A&M, Georgia and Oklahoma performances proved the resulting offensive implosion more feature than bug. And ultimately, that’s what makes me maddest of all. Let’s be clear:

I AM NOT MAD ABOUT: WHERE THIS PROGRAM STANDS GOING INTO 2017. Marlon Davidson and Derrick Brown are set to become the new Carl Lawson and Montravius Adams. Carlton Davis and Javaris Davis share as much All-SEC cornerback potential as they do a last name. If losing Alex Kozan and the dreadfully underrated Robert Leff will hurt, returning Austin Golson, Braden Smith and Darius James — oh, and Herb Hand — will heal. The freshman wide receiving crew won’t be the freshman wide receiving crew any more. Kamryn Pettway and Kerryon Johnson will continue to only make the other that much better. Kevin Steele knows what he’s doing, it turns out.

Then there’s Jarrett Stidham, likely the highest-ceilinged Auburn quarterback prospect since Cam, whose arrival means Gus now has — it’s worth repeating — the SEC’s highest-rated quarterback at midseason as his fallback option. Woody Barrett may not keep quiet, either. Auburn’s biggest problem for two years running has been its depth at quarterback. Its depth at quarterback now appears to be one of its biggest strengths. This alone should be cause for unalloyed optimism, even before discussing the positives from the paragraph preceding this one.

That even I can’t summon too much of that logically justified optimism speaks to how much of a toll the past two seasons have taken on our collective faith in Gus’s offensive acumen. Maybe there’s sound reasons for what we saw against Clemson, A&M, and Georgia, sound reasons to believe we won’t see the same things again at the worst possible times. But I can’t shake the feeling that the Gus of the Chizik era would have had his offensive identity on firmer footing before breaking out the Chandler Cox wildcat gadgetry, would have wizarded up something to salvage that trip to Athens, certainly would not have punted on fourth-and-damn-inches with a reeling defense in the second half of the Sugar Bowl. If the past two seasons haven’t felt anything like the Malzahn salad days in the win column, they’ve felt even less like it in terms of creativity, of chutzpah, of the damn-the-huddle-up-torpedoes mentality Gus brought with him from Tulsa. There wasn’t any shortage of spread gurus even in 2009, but as recently as 2014, all the evidence suggested Gus was cut from a unique — and uniquely talented — cloth, even among his HUNH peers. Far too often in 2016, it felt like Auburn was just another middle-of-the-road SEC team, like Gus has become Dan Mullen with better players.

There’s far worse things to be, of course. Mullen took Mississippi State to No. 1 and the Orange Bowl two seasons ago. If Gus giving up a portion of his old bravado was somehow necessary to put together the kind of defense we saw in 2016, it’s probably worth it. No one, myself included, gives a crap about how fast Auburn snaps the ball or how often it goes on fourth-and-short when it’s beating Arkansas 56-3.

I’m not mad Gus will get the chance to prove that performance is what the future of his Auburn tenure will look like. I’m happy 2016 gave us reasons to believe it will. I’m glad to enter 2017 with hope. But 2016 was supposed to take us past belief, past hope, to the point where we know — for better or worse — where Auburn stands with its head coach. I’m mad that it didn’t. And until that point is reached, it’s going to be hard to look back at this season and feel any other way.

Photo credit: @OUDailySports

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