Sorry for the Belated Rose Bowl Post.  This is my Experience up to and after the Four Horsemen of games.  It is somewhat raw and may not be suitable for youth and sexually ambiguous readers.

So I arrive at the Mondrian Hotel in West Hollywood with my dick in my hand.  The Bloody Mary lifestyle that I have been living all morning, and in the friendly skies, is catching up with my creative banter and I call Matt Leinart a "turd".  This homosexually adorned hotel is the LA hotspot that stows the notorious SkyBar.  I Entourage my way up to the rastapharian bouncer and flash my room key to get in and hopefully impregnate Nikki Hilton; without words, I get the finger point of rejection towards the restaurant bar, where a lake of orange has sieged the vehemently expensive and not as swank SeaBar.  I man up next to some personnel in my party and the 50 year old Title company owners all call me a pussy for ordering ice and water in my $20 Scotch.  After three jiggers of Black Label, its time to creep on to the Longhorn Foundation Fiesta.  
    The taxi door opens and I break into the Century Plaza like an obese child into a Little Debbie Oatmeal Cream Pie wrapper: sticky and all in one motion.  The three levels of Burnt Orange, year highlights and cold beverage stands keep me dizzy as I tailspin to the loud basement and meet/greet the financial elite of Austin. After a short 2 hour stay and a few hundred dollars worth of drink tickets, lead singing this five piece band, I escort my aging party towards a cab.  Taking a brief look at the dominating line of peasants waiting for the glimpse of a hope taxi to take them back to their respective motor lodges and Ramadas; I executively decide that my group is straight-cold better than this.  I skulk next to one of the vans inching up to the front of the cabby stand, "You ready to go Chief?"  I ask my soon to be Eastern European chauffer.  Before he can point to the front of the line, my comrades and I have commandeered the yellow minivan and the wealthiest one is waving a $50 in Mikhail's bearded mug.  A few people, standing behind Janet Jackson's Velvet Rope, drop jaws and let out disapproving sentiments.  Window down, I condescendingly throw my horns at them, letting them know who The Ruling Class really is, as our van cuts hard out of the line and chirps over a painted curb.  
    Next to our hot-shit hotel is a sexy steak place called Boa Lounge.  No reservation is quickly remedied, with a folded bill and inappropriate kiss on the hostess's exposed tan shoulder, by the oldest member of our group.  Almost all entrée's are priced Market, and most of the guys blink the surf and turf to our waiter; I follow suit, like I wouldn't have it any other way.  Yeah, the lobster-fillet masturbated my taste buds, even though the meat extracted from this red crustacean couldn't fill a thimble.  For me the night ends here, and I walk back to my hotel and crash fully clothed.  
Next morning, I awake to 2 screwdrivers, which free me of any resemblance of a hangover.  We bus it to Pasadena and the TexasExes Tailgate, only to arrive along with the cheerleaders and their 5'1" gloriously pallor frames.  I walk, over a sand trap, to the tented beer corral and tip the Chicana behind the stand to give me a four banger worth of Bud Light and a smile.  I walk a mile back to my party and I can't even see the end of orange shirts in any direction.  When I return with my other word for pirate treasure, I narrate a theory behind the talent beseeched to Vince:
"All season Vince has been shackled by peg-leg Greg to only perform the task of game maintenance, the straight QB option is only run on third and 5's and here and there to flash it a little.  Ball and chained, by Davis's own sexual inadequacies, then when Texas is in a bind, Ok State for example, Mack's like `Okay put on the tights Green Lantern and fucking roll.'  Even against Ohio State, our defense was doing well enough for Mack to be like not yet Vince; get out of the phone booth and finish this shit up like Clark Kent, and he did."  I am telling this guy I just meet, "But for this game, Greg Davis is going to sit Bruce Wayne and let Batman play the whole time.  That's it, Texas doesn't want everyone to know that they have a fucking superhero taking snaps until its time to win the National Championship, so the opposition forgets the Kryptonite."  This old guy is trying his best to listen to what I am saying, but he can't be blamed for the tight ass-in-jeans that hypnotizes him to the tune of "Dreadful Selfish Crime."  
    It is so great that Texas alumni can just show up for a game, and be like, we want to completely fuck up the back nine of your adjacent golf course.  Send Deloss the bill.
Walking from the Tailgate, I have to give an award for the best sign:
"Sometimes even Trojans Bust"  
Best Shirt goes to "I dated OJ and lived"
I am sitting by myself out of tunnel 10, but make friends with the fist 40+ Longhorn with a gold Rolex to ensure that I get served free beers for the first three quarters; his name is Woody.  Woody and I watch the game and I live and die with each play as usual; whilst giving Woody some inside info; how all USC players wore OJ's bloody glove because Pete Carroll believes in the ancient art of Wicca and the blood of a Heisman winner's murdered ex-wife and lover unleashes the power of eternal undefeatedness.  How Robert Killabrew won the pre-Kinder State Wrestling Title at the tender age of 2 and beat a 50 pound 5 year old named Surge in the final match 8-0.  How Mike Griffin has the power to freeze time, like Evie from Out of this World, and it only looked like he teleported to nab the interception.  Woody thanks me for the passed along knowledge with a Bud Light and some nachos.  I tell him to bring a churro and two cokes next time, for this boot flask of Jim Beam needs a chaser.  
    I am sort of embarrassed to be a Texas fan, only because the two spiky haired late 20s Horns behind me are constantly quoting Napoleon Dynamite and these somewhat thick USC girls keep asking me if all Texas guys are fags; to their question I inquire "Where are we staying tonight?"
    The Game: you know what happens.  I actually cried both down by 12 with 5 left and when all the white and orange uniforms stampeded the field.
I slap the ass of the blaxican bus driver as I enter a 50 passenger shuttle to the pissed off faces of old women all wishing that I could tell time and had made it to the bus an hour earlier, for its initially scheduled departure.  
    Back to my chic Urban Living inn, and this time the Jamaican in front of SkyBar, allows me to insert myself into the vagina entrance of this Biosphere of gorgeous women and champagne wishes.  After a few celebratory Hi-5s, I plop down on a huge white pillow next to a brunette with an ass that could only be described as adolescent.  She is from Japan, originally, and her name can only be heard or spoken by aquatic mammals, so I call her Sammy.  Not usually interested in Asian women, I figure I might want to try two things today, which only happen once in a lifetime.  Much like Reggie Bush, I undeservedly get the Heisman from Samantha after I listen to her 30 minute accented diatribe on why LA is a great place to live and respond with "You have bigger tits then most Asians, are they fake."  If that kind of shit pisses this girl off, then she is way too uptight for me or my follow-up question which is "Can I taste them?"  The music and orange painted faces Usher most of the usual beauties out of this bar so circa 1am, its time to find a different boner point.  
We cream down the street to Body Shots for a 4 hour money ejaculation, but on the bright side, it was a strip club and Tammi told me that I had soulful eyes.  As a side note, a 25 year old sitting with his wasted dad and respective business cohorts in a topless joint isn't quite as fantastic as it might sound.  
    I wake up in the morning and lay in bed thinking about Tammi and that if a 10.6 hits LA, I will crumble to the ground smiling, with the knowledge that Texas owns an ADT crystal football.  I couldn't see the tower from the plane, as I arrived into Austin, but I could imagine it and it was breathtaking.
Thank you Texas Football for making my life complete.

A few quick notes about the whole experience:
Never has a sporting event lived up to the media and my intracranial hype as this game did.  
I now believe in angels and miracles.
Mike Vick dreams about the kind of quarterback Vince is
Reggie and Matt are amazing competitors and deserve every accolade they received over the past two years for their performance on the field and class off it.  
The USC fans are pretty awesome, just not as well assembled or outright wealthy (per capita) as the Texas faithful.
If she asks you if you want a Gladd wrap BJ, don't assume it's complementary.
Texas Pride

Tbone Stallone