The Case of the Burnt Orange Media Conspiracy and Jake blowing the lid off of it. My name is Scroadman…..Jake Scroadman. Little Jake only to my mom or to anybody else looking for an *** whooping. I’m five feet four and a buck fifty-seven of fury that makes Yosemite Sam look like some wussy Smurf, excepting for the whole blue skin thing. I’m a friendly sort, but I don’t take a fancy to all that Longhorn deception and subterfuselage bullcrap that gets my maroon blood a boiling. That’s right, I’m an Ag, but not just any Ag. A sophomore criminal justice major that decided to take matters into his own hands and blow the cover off the Burnt Orange Media Conspiracy in a case I like to call, The Case of the Burnt Orange Media Conspiracy and Jake blowing the lid off of it. This is my story. A private dick on his own dime has a hard time scraping together the coins for a hot cup of java, much less a Route 44 Cherry-Limeade, but I just had to get my daily fix of Melvina at the Sonic. She was some dame all right. She had legs that went all the way up to her ***. A sassy broad with an attitude and a scabbed over zit on her left nostril that when the sun hit it just right looked like one of those ruby studded nose rings those wild hippie chicks in Austin wear. The kind of broad you can’t seem to get out of your head. The kind that makes me dream about pressing the little red button on the menu board and having her walk out to my truck with her own extra-medium milk shakes tucked under her wool sweater and commence to making my coney disappear. I could have filled the back of my truck with all the tater tots I ate before I got the gumption to ask her out to the Chicken. When I did, it was all over for me. She was the kind of woman that drove you to order the tuna fish puffy tacos at El Azteca when they weren’t on special cause they reminded you of her and then romantically etch her name in the bathroom stall 20 minutes later while trying to pinch off a steaming loaf. Looks, smell, wool clothing, reliable transportation, a good job, Melvina had it all. Right then I needed her reliable transportation, cause I was on an undercover case and my 12thMan stickers on my ride might blow my cover. I was on a case that brought me to the far reaches of the underworld and the eastern side of Travis County. I pulled in Austin with just my highly trained mind and a crumpled copy of a rag called The Daily Texan I had found in the back seat of Melvina’s Impala, which I had figured out was published weekly in Austin. The Daily Texan had been writing some stories about Chrissy Simms and those pesky sophmore wide-receivers that RC didn’t offer without even a mention of Mark Farris and Bethel Johnson. That was my first clue that something smelled fishy in Austin, although I couldn’t completely rule out the seatcovers in Melvina’s Impala. The Daily Texan sounds like the name of a newspaper that would be for all Texans, but just by skimming through it my highly trained mind tells me it is just another one of the many media pawns in the Burnt Orange Media Conspiracy talking about Longhorn this and Longhorn that. It might have made a normal man violently ill just reading the garbage, but Aggies have a high tolerance for garbage. I figure that the kingpin behind it all is wealthy Longhorn Tom Hicks, the mastermind behind most of the burnt orange evil, so I drop a dime (five of them, actually) in the pay phone and dialed up The Daily Texan. When they answered, I used my Boss Hogg voice from The Dukes of Hazard to sound like a big shot and ask right out to speak to Tom Hicks. I knew they were on to me when they said there was no one by that name there. Dang! Time to go to plan B. People have a hard time lying to me in person cause I am so physically imposing, so I decide to show up in person at The Daily Texan and do a little interrogating. I can tell these guys aren’t no rocket surgeons cause they locate their lair right smack dab in the Burnt Orange compound. The joint has a nice ambulance to it, considering that it is located in the belly of the beast. I saunter in and size up my prey. A cute little outfit in jeans that fit her like a pair of pants. Chicks dig me cause I’m an Aggie, but I can’t draw that saber this time because I am what you call incongnizant. That means undercover for you laid people. It was time to turn on my charm and invoke the magic word that has led more folks in Bryan County to loose their virginity than any other. Scroadman: “Howdy.” Cute girl: “Excuse me.” Scroadman: “Howdy, sweet thang”. Cute girl: “What do you want?” Scroadman: “I would like a little info, cutie pie.” Cute girl: “How about this info. You talk to me like that again and I will have you thrown out of here.” Scroadman: “Woooa there missy, I didn’t mean to get you all riled up.” Militant Lesbo B-itch: “I’m busy. What do you want?” Scroadman: “Do you have any articles planned about Mark Farris and Bethel Johnson.” Militant Lesbo B-itch: “Who are they?” Scroadman: “They are only the premier offensive weapons in the entire football galaxy and the pride of the Aggie nation. Mark Farris is the reincarnation of Kurt Warner and Bethel Johnson is the best wide-receiver RC Slocum has ever seen.” Militant Lesbo B-itch: “Kurt Warner isn’t dead, you idiot, and we don’t cover Aggie football. This newspaper is staffed by students of the University of Texas and is targeted at its student body.” I suggest you go to College Station if you want to read about Aggies.” Scroadman: “Thank you, I will. You have been most helpful.” There you have it. The Daily Texas is nothing but another puppet rag whose sole purpose is to promote the t-sips. That Lesbo probably didn’t even know she let it slip she was in such a state of confusion over her homosexuality after seeing me standing there like some delicious maroon popsicle she always had a hankering for but that daddy’s 75 cents couldn’t buy her. Case closed and I’m back to Agrivana. That’s College Station to you laid people. On to my next case that I will call, the case of how the heck did that dang sip Daily Texan rag got into the back seat of Melvina’s Impala. Jake out.
Stan ignore the cold river, your post is fantastic. I'm still torn at which line made me laugh more: "The joint has a nice ambulance to it..." or "That means undercover for you laid people."
Stan, that rivals the Maroon Ninja Scouting Report for laughs. That was great work. It should join the Maroon Ninja on the Classics Board. Hope to see you at the tailgate Saturday.
Studley, I'm still waiting for my ride in your maroon chariot. I believe you said it was a maroon lowered mini-truck with mini wheels. In any case, I want my ride. BTW, funny stuff. See you Saturday.
Hey Stan- Tell Jake to check out some good reporting, as epitomized by this article out of a small town in Montana. I'm betting Jake would be more than willing to take a reconassaince trip to see this event in action. The Running of the Sheep
Frio, you need a cold one, dude. This is a classic even amongst the classics. This is parody at a high level, well executed and with clever wordplay.
I know it is inappropriate to ttt your own thread, but I wanted to make sure my friends over on texags that seem so interested in my posts didn't miss this one.
Stan, thanks for the ttt. I hadn't seen this. Particularly liked: "...something smelled fishy in Austin, although I couldn’t completely rule out the seatcovers in Melvina’s Impala." A classic for sure.
Thanks for this. I especially appreciated "legs that went all the way up to her ***" and "jeans that fit her like a pair of pants." Made me laugh. Hook 'em.
