Tail-Greatness: Part 1

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With only a few days before Iowa State kicks off the 2012 season, we figured there was little else to discuss football-wise. By now, we've provided you with game-by-game predictions, depth chart analysis and highlighted the awesomeness of Steele Jantz.

What we've neglected to discuss though is perhaps Iowa State's greatest legacy - the best tailgating in the Big 12. Over the next few days, our writers and contributors will share some of their favorite and notable tailgating memories. We hope you enjoy these stories and feel free to share some of your favorite tailgating memories in the comments below. Warning: Some of these stories will not be safe for work.

Kicking things off will be Cylentbutdeadly's tale from the 2005 Houston Bowl, and Cyhawk's daring triumph from that same season against Colorado.

Cylentbutdeadly: 2005 Houston Bowl versus TCU

Let me tell you the story about how I shit my pants.

Driving to the game that morning, my hangover set in. I'd been up drinking and smoking cigars into the wee hours of the morning the night before. I couldn't have gotten more than about three hours of sleep, but the excitement and adrenaline of gameday helped me fight through the pain.

The 12 of us that had roadtripped down from Iowa were staying in my buddy's one bedroom, one bathroom apartment in Houston. Floorspace and bathroom time were at a premium and I didn't get much of either. Sleep-deprived, hungover and bowels full of beer and fast food is not a great recipe for an all-day bender in a foreign city.

On the way to the game, in a move that can only be dscribed as "tempting fate", I decided to devour several What-A-Burger breakfast burritos. The table was set.

Once in the lots, I caught my second wind. The beer bongs and shot guns were going down smooth, the gin bucket was providing some much needed vitamin-C and tailgating was fantastic in general.

So it came as an unpleasant surprise, with me chatting up some TCU fans, that what I thought was just going to be a "silent but deadly" fart (hence my name), turned out to be more. I sharted. Not knowing the severity of the shart I briskly waddled to the nearest port-o-potty, but the line was long and this turd had flipped on its turning signal and was getting off at the exit ramp.

I started pleading with people to let me cut them in line. Not a single taker. There was no way I was going to be able to hold it in. Off in the distance I saw a much shorter line but wasn't sure I could make it, but had to try. By now, the Houston heat was catching up with me, or it could have been the dump sweats, I'm not sure.

I made my way over to the line and plead my case to those waiting. One saint of a man let me cut him, but that was it. I went for broke and told the chick in front of me that I was literally going to shit my pants. The cold bitch would have none of it and my judgement day had come. So in a parking lot in front of Reliant Stadium, on December 31st, 2005, a 21-year-old college student shit his pants while tailgating for the Houston Bowl.

Luckily, the feces damage had been isolated to my underwear and did not seep through to my jeans. When I finally made it the port-o-potty I ditched my undies, wiped myself off the best I could and bare-balled it for the game. At one point in time, I remember thinking that there was no way in hell I would ever tell anyone about this. Then I continued drinking, told everyone and am now sharing this story with the world.

Oddly enough, I told this story to a fellow Cyclone fan at the 2009 Insight Bowl and he chuckled, then looks me dead in the eye and says, "that's funny, but it's probably only the third best pants-shitting story I've ever heard".

CyHawk: Colorado at Iowa State, 2005. The "Tornado Game".

"The Day I Stood on a Bus and Screamed at a Cyclone."

Really, it all started with the Homemade Bailey's Irish Creme.

Tailgating on the barren wind-swept plains of Iowa in late November requires a certain fire in one's belly; the sort that is fueled best by copious amounts of grain alcohol. While coolers full of ice-cold beer are the norm during the dog days of September, they are increasingly replaced with flasks and bottles as the season wears on.

Like most terrible ideas of the new millenium, I found the recipe on the internet. A handful of kitchen ingredients that would supposedly turn a bottle of Irish whiskey into Irish Creme. I mixed up a batch and tried it. Pretty good, I would have assumed it was at least knockoff Bailey's had I not known any better.

Then I discovered you could dump 3 times as much whiskey into the mix and it tasted exactly the same. So I mixed up a big batch of Jameson Thrice Irish Creme and walked down to the tailgating lots.

You meet some interesting people in the tailgating lots at Jack Trice. On this day, I met a group of Canadians with a bus. We exchanged pleasantries and I offered them some Irish Creme. They were impressed and gave me $20 for the recipe, which I then wrote in magic marker on the side of the Rubbermaid Trash Can they were using as a cooler for their Molson. Then, we all got completely shitfaced on Molson and whatever else we could get our hands on as it walked by the bus. We failed to notice the increasingly ominous clouds building in the distance.

At some point, the 30 MPH winds that had kicked up indicated that something may have been seriously wrong, but for whatever reason, I felt at peace. I was numb to all reason. I vaguely remember stadium sirens going off as I climbed to the top of the bus. I had transcended myself. I was going to meet my spirit animal.

"WOOOOO YEAH OH HELL YEAH FUCK COLORADO EAT A DICK GARY BARNETT FUCK THE HAWKSH"

I screamed incantations, and I saw it gather, off in the distance. At last, I was going to commune with my spirit animal. I spoke to the Cyclone touching down in the distance.

"WOOOO YEAH HOLY SHIT TORNADO! FUCK YEAH SHYCLONE POWER GO CLONESH WOOO"

Shortly after that point, the vision ended. I found myself in Hilton Coliseum several hours later, unsure of how I had gotten there.

Iowa State won 30-16.

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