Oh, the smell of Brie and Chateu de Blahdeblah

"It is nearly impossible to think anything but happy thoughts when eating a homegrown tomato," Lewis Grizzard once said.  Apologies to the late Mr. Grizzard (who, aside from an annoying proclivity for mangy dawgs dressed in silver britches, was a fine southern gentleman), I find, "It is nearly impossible to think anything but happy thoughts when your Tigers are 7-0 and you are heading to the Valley to hang out with 80,000 of your friends."

As true as that may be, this week comes with a certain amount of "environment nuisances" that will require yours truly to take a few extra Pabsts to my tailgate this week.

I speak, of course, of our dear brothers and sisters from Chapel Hill. 

I can almost smell the brie from here.

Yes, the Buffys and Chips and Thurstons will be out in "relatively" full force (those who actually believe there is a sport other than basketball) in the foothills this weekend.

My seats in the west endzone end of the north stands are the perfect vantage to develop enduring stereotypes of our various visitors.  I welcome them all.  From the brothers (Texas A&M), to the guidos (Maryland and BC), to the obscene (the U), the delusional (FSU and NC State), the rednecks and obnoxious drunks (Coots), to, yes, the clueless snobs (UNC).

I will, however, conduct myself with restraint.  I will be the perfect Clemson Gentleman.

I will remind them patiently at least 100 times that this is football season and that its perfectly legal to hit someone, and, no, they won't get any free throws.

I will not ask them to move downwind and will stoically resist being overcome with cheese fumes.

I will not point out that it looks damned silly to hold up your pinky while drinking from an orange stadium cup.

I will remind them that their coach's name is not "Roy."

I will not share with them that I will, on the day the NCAA drops the boom on them for their trangressions, dance around a campfire naked singing the alma mater.  I will not share that after that I will sustain myself on their tears.

I will not point out that only spineless, frightened weaklings call secret meetings to kick their "brother" when he is down.  I will not shout, "REMEMBER '82!"

I will not tell them that baby blue is not an acceptable color for a football player to wear.

Yes, I love Snobby Cheese Eat-,er, Backstabbing Bast-,er, UNC week!