Listen here, I don’t care what the Bengals depth chart looks like right now, the biggest hit this fanbase took in 2025 wasn’t Ja’Marr’s drops in camp, it was Hooters ghosting the Ohio River.

That floating temple of wings and chaos sat on Riverboat Row for decades, fueling up fans before every kickoff. You knew the routine: grab a plate of Daytona-style, chase it with a schooner, talk yourself into the Bengals covering -3, then stumble right onto a Queen City Riverboat and ride across the water like a damn Roman emperor. Life was good.

Now? Poof. Gone. Yanked off the river like an old dock chair. Dismantled in Hebron. Another victim of corporate bankruptcy and whatever clown show is running Hooters into the ground. They didn’t just close restaurants, they nuked traditions.

Let’s talk fallout. Queen City Riverboats didn’t just lose a partner, they lost their whole game day economy. No Hooters paying the tab means no money to run three shuttles. So instead of a fleet, we’ve got one sad boat per Bengals game. Reds fans? Forget it. They shut that ferry down completely. Want to cross the river? Hope you’re a good swimmer, champ.

And prices? Fifteen bucks a head. Used to be ten. Inflation hits harder when your last wing stop before kickoff is now Applebee’s. You can’t tell me Newport wouldn’t rather see packed boats than empty docks, but nope, bankruptcy court’s got the land tied up like it’s Fort Knox.

Fans don’t care about “sub-leasing opportunities” or “municipal red tape.” We care about getting sauced, eating wings, and showing up at Paycor loud enough to rattle helmets.

So yeah, Bengals Nation lost more than a floating restaurant. We lost an artery to the game. We lost the buzz of hundreds of fans storming off a boat and into the jungle. And worst of all, we lost the last real excuse to eat Hooters wings without shame.

Pour one out, Cincy. Hooters is gone. The boats are cut. And if the Bengals don’t win 12 games this year, we might just burn that Purple People Bridge ourselves.

– Broadway UNC

You really can’t make this up. Before a single kickoff, Ohio State is already running trick plays — and not on the field. Nope, they went and banned Dave Portnoy from Big Noon Kickoff at The Shoe. Yeah, pizza-review Dave. Michigan’s loudest frat uncle. The man who thinks “one bite” means “six bites and a lecture.”

And honestly? It’s the funniest move of the offseason.

The Soft Wars Begin

Ohio State has been fighting the “soft” allegations for years now. Planting flags? Illegal. Noon kickoffs? Criminal. Now? They’re banning a pizza blogger. Congratulations — you’ve managed to make Michigan Twitter look like prophets.

The Shoe used to be a fortress. Now it’s a Charmin aisle at Walmart.

The Nacho Allegations

Let’s be real: nobody even knows the official reason. So allow me to speculate responsibly:

• He ate all the loaded nachos in the press box. Left boosters gnawing on dry chips like raccoons.
• Ryan Day saw him in the background standing on his tippy toes again and said “enough.”
• Or maybe the ban is just Ohio State’s version of load management: keep him out now so he’s fresh to troll them in November.

The Internet Meltdown

Reddit lit up like Michigan Stadium after a night game:

• “Pizza terrorist banned.”
• “THE Ohio Charmin University.”
• “And nothing of value was lost.”
• “Ban him everywhere.”

When Reddit, Twitter, and random uncles in SEC country are all on the same page? That’s a rare eclipse.

Dave’s Next Play

Here’s the kicker: banning him is literally the best thing you could do for him. He’s probably already outside The Shoe right now, eating a Papa John’s slice out of the box, filming a 47-minute rant titled “Ohio State Softest Program in America.” And it’ll get half a million views before halftime.

This is what he lives for. Dude’s like a troll vampire — every time you try to kill him, he gets stronger.

UNC’s Final Word

Only in college football do you wake up to headlines like this: “Pizza Blogger Banned From Stadium.” Not depth charts, not QB battles. Pizza.

The Buckeyes think they’re ending a distraction. Really? They just gave Dave Portnoy a Heisman moment in August.

Michigan-Ohio State is still months away, but the Soft Wars? They kicked off already. And Portnoy’s up 7–0 before the opening whistle.

The SEC finally sobered up and did it. Starting in 2026, the league is moving to a nine-game conference schedule. After decades of talking tough while playing Mercer in November, the conference presidents voted to actually earn those playoff bids.

Greg Sankey spun it the way only a commissioner can: “commitment to competition, preserving rivalries, blah blah blah.” Translation: ESPN cut a fatter check and the College Football Playoff committee said “enough with Charleston Southern.”

The New Rules of the Game

Here’s the deal:

• No divisions. Just one big standings free-for-all.
• Three annual opponents, so the “real” rivalries get locked in.
• Six rotating matchups so everyone eventually plays everyone.
• Every SEC team will face each other home-and-away in a four-year cycle.

And on top of that? Every team still has to schedule at least one legit Power opponent outside the league — ACC, Big Ten, Big 12, or Notre Dame.

So yes, Florida still has Florida State. Georgia still has Tech. South Carolina still has Clemson. But if you were dreaming of seeing Bama-Ohio State or Georgia-Clemson on the regular? Put that hope in a shoebox and light it on fire.

RIP Cupcake Week

The real funeral here isn’t divisions or scheduling models. It’s Cupcake Saturday. That sacred November weekend when Alabama played Western Carolina, Auburn played Samford, and Georgia let Charleston Southern pay their rent.

Those million-dollar buy games funded small athletic departments, new soccer fields, and maybe an espresso machine in the AD’s office. Now? Mercer’s athletic department is about to fire up a GoFundMe.

Quality Losses Incoming

This move isn’t about “competitive balance.” It’s about playoff math. The SEC needed to make sure a 9–3 Ole Miss still looks sexier than a 10–2 Penn State.

• Georgia loses to LSU? Quality loss. Still in.
• Alabama trips at Neyland? Quality loss. Still #3 on Tuesday night.
• A&M goes 8–4? Quality losses all over the board, baby.

Get ready for “quality loss” to be the new “it just means more.”

History Lesson

The SEC’s been playing eight conference games since 1992. Before that? Seven. Before that? Six. Before that? “Whatever the hell we felt like.” The point is, they’ve been padding the schedule forever.

Now? No more hiding. No more Mercer Week. No more excuses.

Final Word from UNC

So here we are. The SEC finally added a ninth game, not because it was the right thing to do, but because ESPN and the CFP said, “play another one or stop crying.”

Fans will call it “big boy football.” Coaches will call it “a grind.” And Vanderbilt will call it “a war crime.”

This isn’t about tradition. This isn’t about fairness. It’s about TV money, playoff seeding, and one more reason for SEC fans to yell “quality losses” at Big Ten Twitter.

Nine games. No Mercer. No Samford. No Citadel. Just more rivalries, more excuses, and more Ole Miss fans explaining why their 7–5 deserves a playoff spot.

College football has always been about pageantry, tradition, and doing whatever you can to convince fans to fork over another $64.99 at the bookstore. Notre Dame just leaned all the way into that playbook by rolling out sport-specific Leprechaun logos this season. Yep, the little green guy isn’t just fighting anymore. He’s apparently multitasking across every athletic department activity like a one-man Irish Village People.

The first drop? A football Leprechaun. Designed by Fighting Irish Media, he’s got a ball tucked under his arm, fist cocked, and expression locked somewhere between “ready for war” and “just found out his Guinness was warm.” This isn’t exactly Knute Rockne’s Notre Dame, but it’s sure as hell going to be a goldmine at the campus bookstore.

From Icon to Cartoon Franchise

The classic Leprechaun logo has been around forever. It’s one of the most iconic marks in sports. But in 2025, iconic isn’t enough. You’ve got to segment your audience, diversify your mascots, and turn your logo into a merchandising ecosystem. Oklahoma State has “Golfing Pete.” Minnesota’s got Goldy dressed for every sport short of cornhole. Louisville’s been doing this since Reagan was in office.

Notre Dame finally said: “Hold my holy water, we’ll take a shot at it too.”

So here comes football Leprechaun, with baseball, hockey, fencing, and God help us all, probably an esports Leprechaun still lurking on a designer’s hard drive. Imagine the little guy hunched over a Mountain Dew with blue-light glasses and a controller in hand.

Tradition vs. Transaction

The diehards on message boards will scream this cheapens the tradition. They’ll claim the forward pass was a mistake and Lou Holtz wouldn’t stand for this. Meanwhile, those same old heads will be the first in line to grab the “limited edition football Leprechaun” long-sleeve before it sells out.

That’s the duality of Notre Dame. They’ll write dissertations about “protecting the legacy” of the Four Horsemen, then casually spend $300 on bookstore swag because the Leprechaun looks like he’s about to truck a Michigan linebacker.

Merchandising: The Real Playoff

Here’s the harsh truth: Notre Dame hasn’t won a national championship since before half their fanbase was born. But they do win at balance sheets. The Shamrock Series uniforms? Instant cash grab. “The Shirt”? Annual sales juggernaut. Now? Sport-specific Leprechauns.

They don’t need playoff wins when they can sell playoff-themed hoodies. They don’t need another Heisman when Marcus Freeman’s sideline jacket is flying off the shelves. The Irish don’t rebuild, they rebrand.

This is the game. And Notre Dame plays it better than anyone.

Final Word

So get ready. Today it’s football Leprechaun. Tomorrow it’s hockey Leprechaun. By next spring, we might get “Track & Field Leprechaun” running a 4×100 with a shillelagh baton.

The Fighting Irish aren’t just rolling out logos, they’re rolling out an empire of little green ATM machines. And if history tells us anything, the fans will line up, grumble about “tradition,” and still swipe their credit cards faster than you can say Play Like a Champion Today.

Because at Notre Dame, the fight song might say, “Cheer, cheer for old Notre Dame,” but the real chorus is: “Merch, merch, and buy it again.”