Big 12 Commissioner Bob Bowlsby is so proud of the new conference logo. We should let him enjoy it. After all, the poor man is absolutely terrified of Y2K.

The Big 12 officially unveiled their new logo this morning. I really have to give them credit for being original. While most organizations spring for high quality, high priced Adobe Photoshop designs for their brands, the Big 12 boldly settled on a simple piece of Microsoft WordArt. Frugal move, Mr. Bowlsby.

Well played, sir.

Who needs “sleek” or “modern” anyway? This isn’t the Pac 12 after all. This is the Big 12. The land of sexy tractors and achy, breaky hearts. If we had an official vehicle, it would be a 1997 Ford F–150. It might have 700,000 miles, but hell, it’s hung in there for all those trips from Ames to Austin and Lubbock to Morgantown. And now we can add a Big 12 sticker to the back window, right next to Calvin pissing on the SEC.

Some of our fans might decide they love the new logo so much they want it tattooed. It might clash with that upper-arm tribal they got when they turned 15, but screw it. BIG 12, MOFOs!

No doubt later this summer, Commissioner Bowlsby will announce that Dana Holgorson has to trade his Red Bull for Surge. Keep the mullet though, Holgo. That is beyond hip. He will also insist that Baylor rehire Chuck Reedy and Kansas State win 11 games, miss the playoff and lose the Alamo Bowl to Purdue.

Also, no playoff. BCS FOREVER!

The first 1,000 students to attend each Big 12 week one home game will receive a complimentary slap bracelet and Trapper Keeper combo. Week two student attendees will receive their choice of a brand new set of Big 12 branded Pogs or some special edition Lisa Frank school supplies.

Yes, the Big 12 is a 1990’s time capsule with a badge of honor to prove it. In the Big 12, the bow tie text effect is an acceptable graphic design choice, Bill Clinton is still president, some folks still drink Zima and all of these things are equally true.

It might ruin Bob Bowlsby if we tell him that it’s actually 2014. Let’s not tell him that he can have a cell phone that weighs less than a pound and that his iMac doesn’t have to have a colored backside. No one tell him his Tamagotchi died in 1998. He still carries it on his keychain and tries to feed it daily.

Don’t tell him.

Don’t tell his heart. His achy break heart.

I just don’t think he’d understand.

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