Over the last 60 days or so, my morning commute has been peppered with Bama flags and magnets everywhere. At every red light you could count on six or eight flags (including the obligatory goober in a dirty ass truck with three or four of the flags flapping off the toolbox), a couple of glaring magnets, girls with houndstooth shit stuffed in their back windows and a cornucopia of other assorted Bama gear surrounding you.
This morning? Nothing. I saw two flags and one magnet the entire drive. One of the flags was struggling in the breeze with the lower half torn away from the pole. The other was attached to the SUV of a dreadlock-wearing hippie white girl who had a big fuzzy white hat on her head. Doubt she'd know a football from a garden hose and had probably just taken her baby-daddy car that morning.
It's like the day after Christmas. All the lights are taken down, the wrapping paper is burned. It's over. And they won't be back unless Bama wins a couple of games again. Glory. Glorious day.
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