The frat bros who allegedly butt chugged must have been bored, too. What's left after numerous games of beer pong, beer 30, shotguns, shot o'clock, belly shots, keg stands, ice luges, beer helmets, and Edward Fortyhands? Only some overused beer bong tubing and the next logical step.

The group wants Rover as its luxury marque and MG as the performance car.

He seemed—somehow—younger than I had ever been, and blonder and more beautiful, and he wore his masculinity as unequivocally as he wore his skin.

Horseshit every match matters and Alex Ferguson would drag his players out of the club by their Jacobs if they made such a statement.