Susquehanna Valley, bro. The soil. It's rich. Bro, I can put some carrot seeds down in that ground, water it a bit, and within three weeks, I've got carrots that taste like Yuengling combined with the glory of D-Day. No, seriously, that's what it tastes like. Yuengling combined with glory. Maybe combined with the ashes of George S. Patton too. Bro, these carrots are absolutely amazing.
I've got workers. Mexicans, Puerto Ricans, redneck white people, the works. I pay them fifty dollars an hour to pick watermelons. You know why I pay my Mexicans, Puerto Ricans, and redneck white people fifty dollars an hour? Because John McCain once said he'd defy anyone to go pick lettuce in Yuma for fifty dollars an hour. Wait, hold on......you know what? Screw it, I will pay my workers 75 dollars an hour to pick watermelons. And 80 for lettuce. They only get 30 dollars for corn though, because I don't like corn that much.
Hoss, my soil is so damn productive I could grow corn, tobacco, cotton, and Allman Brothers Band CDs from the same patch of ground three years in a row. Three years in a row, pal! No crop rotation. You know that crap you've heard about boll weevils and cotton and whatnot? Don't matter here, my man. No boll weevils, no stink bugs, no foxes eating my hens, none of that junk. They're all too afraid of me. You know why they're too afraid of me? Because I pay former Navy SEALs 250 dollars an hour to stand around and shoot pests with high-caliber rifles. Well, the stink bugs and boll weevils we shoot with .45 ACP, but still.
Holy crap, I've got so much ground I can reenact Waterloo. If I wanted to, I could probably reenact Stalingrad. Think about it: I could have Wellington accepting the surrender of von Paulus. Royal Scots Greys, bro. In Stalingrad. That's how much land I've got.
Sipping a mint julep, bro. With scrapple.
I can pay people to wrestle for me. Seriously, I am watching David Taylor wrestle a Russian bear right now. Not a figurative Russian bear, but an actual bear. Watch out for those claws, Dave. Oooh, slick Russian tie by the bear, but dang, Taylor gets out and goes for an ankle pick! Two points, Taylor! Smooth!
And I know you're thinking: how in the tarnation does Rambler grow cotton in Pennsylvania? Isn't the temperature too low?
You'd be right. But you know what? I bought the Kingdome. That's right. They didn't blow it up, I bought it and brought it here. And now I grow cotton in the freaking Kingdome. And you remember what happened to the Montreal Expos? That's right, they didn't just disappear into Washington. Nope. I bought all of their players, past and present, to grow my cotton in the Kingdome. Orlando Cabrera is driving around a tractor as we speak. Farmall, bitches. None of that weak John Deere malarkey.
Guns. I've got so many guns. 88 MM German flak guns. Deer comes walking out of the forest, and I'm hungry. So you know what I do? That's right: 88 MM German WW2 vintage vs. deer. Not a fair fight, bro.
Which reminds me: Syracuse = dead meat. I don't even care about college football anymore. At least not until I use my supply of money - which I believe I have already detailed to you - to literally buy the Rhode Island Rams. That's right: I'm going to buy the Rhode Island Rams. You think SMU was bad? I'm gonna make Providence or Quahog (or wherever that school is) look like Hell-on-Wheels combined with Five Points from New York City combined with South Boston. The head coach of the Rams won't be Bad, Bad Leroy Brown, it will be the guy who beat the hell out of Bad, Bad Leroy Brown at the end of the song. Rhode Island Rams: America's next great dynasty. We will make the 1976 Steelers defense look like 2010 Michigan. We will make Saban cry. We will have a rivalry game with Mississippi State just so we can play for Jackie Sherrill's testicles, which I will then feed to my hogs. And, of course, I've got hogs.
And I've got horses. Did you know I've got horses? I bought Man O' War's corpse and genetically engineered it. Winning the Triple Crown will be as easy as winning a state championship at Aliquippa.
And that's what Syracuse doesn't have: it doesn't have 28000 acres of the richest land this side of the Valley Nile, it don't have Man O' War's reanimated corpse and a bunch of kickass colts too, it ain't got no country music, and it sure as hell don't have this stat line from the 2008 game:
Play 2: 1st and 10 at PSU 36Curtis Brinkley rush for a loss of 2 yards, fumbled, recovered by PnSt at the PnSt 45.
That's right. And then later on, the score is - no joke - 35-6 with 50 seconds left. Pat Devlin has led two touchdown drives, which means Syracuse is so bad that Clark isn't even necessary. But you know what? That's not the end. Penn State isn't satisfied. Paterno sends Clark back in the game, and yells at him to go get more points. The Syracuse fans are as angry as a vulture surrounded by living creatures. Boom, field goal. 38-6 at the half. Running up the score on Greg Robinson. That's how we roll. No mercy.
The greatest pleasure in life is to humiliate Syracuse at home, clutch their women to your bosom, ride their fastest horses across the open steppe, take their money, and hear the lamentations of their bloggers.
Jim Brown cried because Lee Marvin, portraying Penn State, slapped him in the face.
I am going to steal the Carrier Dome and use it to raise more cotton. I will then make the cotton into thousands of black pearl snap shirts - all for myself, because why not?
Because I've got mo money, mo tradition, mo horses, and less problems than you, Syracuse.