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Run Ralphie, Run!

The best tradition in college sports does not reside with the dynastic Crimson Tide or the prominent fighting Irish. It is not unveiled on the court before the Blue Devils take the hardwood or paraded over the green grass before the intramural techies step onto the quidditch pitch. Instead it can be witnessed in the centennial state of Colorado, as the CU buffalos take Folsom Field, prepared to get undressed by the Trojans for the 12th consecutive year.

Fenced in with 4 stalky legs, the face of a Narnia nightmare - and chest muscles like Canseco’s - sits a horned beast of a bison, ready to ignite the Colorado faithful with every delusion under the sun of winning this football game. ACDC’s “Are You Ready For a Good Time” gets Ralphie in the mood as his hooves begin to scuff the turf ready for showtime. If you are fortunate enough to calibrate the double vision out of the drunk goggles you’ve been wearing since 9am, I shit you not, you will behold a full grown bison charging the length of the field, clocking in a combine-verified 4.6 forty.



Oh to be that buffalo for a day… the school would see its last Ralphie run. I’d b-line it for the dance team, nothing against them I'd just want to show Katie with the cans my hind-quarters and the sheer force and power I was packing...not to mention my fluffy dick. Before my hangover kicks in from the afternoon’s tailgate I’d need some fluids and send Jefferson the lemonade vendor from field section 115 all the way up to lodge box 557. Sorry Jefferson. Where’s Mrs. Davis? There’s Mrs. Davis! Mrs. Davis gets the horns for talking red pen shit all over my psych paper. Her epinephrine levels mirror that of a severe neural spike reaching incalculable thresholds. Pop over to the student section for a quick key from Jimmy and I’m back in the race. Time to go out in style as I’m sure an executioner has been ushered on to the scene wielding a tranquilizer capable of subduing two full grown African elephants. There he is. That furry white fuck face of a shetland pony they call "Traveler." Like an audible for a full back seam, I storm down the field impaling that show donkeys ribs on my keratin swords. Its glorified equestrian passenger missiles backwards 15 yards on account of a horse collar tackle.

A sharp pain in my nethers tells me the dart has found its mark and it's time to go. As I begin my ascension to the pastures beyond I look down at Folsom’s majesty, only to see the Trojans return the opening kickoff back to the house for 6.

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