TODD HORNE | Crazy Days at LSU: The Remake

By TODD HORNE, EXECUTIVE EDITOR

If LSU’s athletic department were a soap opera, it’d be canceled for being too implausible.

But no, this is real life — or at least the fever dream version of it unfolding in real time.

In the span of less than two weeks, LSU has fired its football coach, watched the governor hijack the hiring process, axed its athletic director, installed an interim replacement, and then, in a plot twist worthy of M. Night Shyamalan, elevated him to permanent status before immediately walking it back amid whispers of old scandals. It’s not just chaotic; it’s a masterclass in institutional self-sabotage. And if you think this is bad, dust off your VHS tapes: it makes the “Crazy Days at LSU” of 1986 look like a quaint family picnic.

Stand by for another update from Louisiana Silly University … Incoming president Wade “Wrong Way” Rousse tried to correct his previous mistake when he sounded like AD Verge Ausberry was interim again. “He’s the acting AD,” Rousse told WWL. … Acting is same as interim, sir. https://t.co/PS8zxd709O

— Glenn Guilbeau (@SportBeatTweet) November 6, 2025

Let’s rewind the tape — or, more accurately, fast-forward through the blur. On October 26, after a humiliating 49-25 thumping by Texas A&M, LSU pulled the plug on Brian Kelly’s tenure. The man who bolted Notre Dame for a $100 million, 10-year deal in 2021 — a contract so bloated it could double as a hot air balloon — was shown the door with a $53 million buyout dangling like a golden parachute from hell. Kelly’s Tigers hadn’t sniffed a national title since he arrived, and the fanbase’s patience, thinner than Tiger Stadium fog on a humid night, finally evaporated. Fair enough. College football is a mercenary business; coaches are hired to be fired.

But enter stage right: Louisiana Governor Jeff Landry, whose idea of crisis management apparently involves turning a university scandal into a personal vendetta. Barely had the echoes of Kelly’s exit faded when Landry went full scorched-earth on LSU’s athletic director, Scott Woodward. In a move that screamed “I’m the boss of everything,” the governor publicly declared that Woodward — the guy who inked Kelly’s Faustian bargain — wouldn’t be touching the next coach search with a 10-foot pole “Hell, I would let Donald Trump select it before Scott Woodward,” Landry quipped, because nothing says “statesman” like outsourcing higher ed decisions to reality TV alumni. It was a bizarre flex from a governor whose day job involves, you know, running a state, not micromanaging football hires. Yet here we were, watching Baton Rouge’s political circus collide with Death Valley’s gridiron drama.

Three days later — because why let a good meltdown breathe? — Woodward was out. Resigned under pressure, or fired, or mutually agreed to part ways; semantics matter less when the exit door is revolving at warp speeds. Enter Verge Ausberry, LSU’s longtime deputy AD, slapped with the “interim” label like a temporary tattoo. Stability, right? Wrong. Fast-forward four days to November 4, when freshly minted LSU President Wade Rousse — sworn in less than six hours earlier after a months-long search that felt like it was directed by a malfunctioning slot machine — sits down with Ausberry and yanks the “interim” tag faster than you can say “buyer’s remorse.” Rousse, a McNeese State transplant thrust into the purple-and-gold hot seat, apparently wanted to project “business as usual” amid the coaching carousel. Noble intent, if you ignore the fresh blood on the floor.

Then, less than 24 hours later, reality bites back. In an interview with investigative reporter Piper Hutchinson — the kind of journalist who doesn’t flinch when universities start sweating — Rousse admits he’s “not aware” of the “sensitive Title IX issues” lurking in Ausberry’s past. Ausberry, you see, was neck-deep in LSU’s infamous mishandling of sexual misconduct complaints during the 2010s, a scandal that led to federal investigations, lawsuits, and a $4.5 million settlement in 2024. He was deposed, criticized for stonewalling victims, and yet here he is, teetering on the edge of permanence while Rousse plays the wide-eyed newcomer: “I’ve still got to assess things.” Assess? Sir, this isn’t a midterm; it’s a Title IX minefield, and you just handed the shovel to the guy who helped dig the hole.

It’s almost poetic in its absurdity. Rousse’s honeymoon lasted about as long as a Saints season opener win streak. And the governor? He’s loving every minute, having already claimed Woodward’s scalp as a trophy in his war on “woke” athletics spending — or whatever bogeyman he’s peddling this week. LSU, once the envy of the SEC for its football machine, now looks like a reality show where the prize is institutional embarrassment.

Flash back to 1986, when the original “Crazy Days at LSU” earned a Sports Illustrated cover that read like a tabloid fever dream: a basketball scandal involving Tito Horford (yes, the father of Al), and AD Bob Brodhead bugging his own office out of paranoia. Brodhead was fired mid-season, coach Bill Arnsparger bolted for Florida, and the Tigers somehow still went 9-3 on the field while the off-field circus raged. It was messy, but it had a certain chaotic charm — the kind that births legends over crawfish boils.

Today’s remake? It’s less charming, more cringe.

Back then, the scandals were homegrown follies; now, they’re amplified by Twitter-fueled outrage and gubernatorial tweets, with Title IX ghosts haunting every decision. If 1986 was a drunken tailgate brawl, 2025 is a boardroom implosion with real victims in the crossfire.

So what now? LSU needs a coach who can rebuild a program gutted by mediocrity and mistrust, but good luck luring one when the AD gig looks like musical chairs and the governor’s got veto power from his mansion. Rousse, bless his heart, should hit pause on the promotions and dive into those Title IX files (if there are any) — not with blinders, but with the transparency victims deserve. And Landry? Maybe stick to potholes and SNAP decisions and let the university handle its own housecleaning. Or not — because if history teaches us anything, it’s that Tigers gonna tiger, and crazy gonna crazy.

But wait — here’s the plot twist no one saw coming, the “what if” that turns this remake into a full-blown horror-comedy. Picture this: It’s Saturday night in Tuscaloosa, and Louisiana loses its collective mind as interim head coach Frank Wilson — the running backs coach and recruiting guru thrust into the spotlight after Kelly’s ouster — engineers a spine-tingling upset over No. 4 Alabama. The final score flashes 27-24, Tigers on top, in a game that has SEC fans questioning their life choices. Back in Baton Rouge, the party fever hits fever pitch: bonfires blaze on the Mississippi River levee, purple-and-gold rivers of beer flow, and even President Rousse, swept up in the delirium, joins the fray. Grainy cell phone footage captures him hoisting a Solo cup, two-stepping with wide-eyed freshmen to the thumping bass of “Neck,” that unhinged anthem of funk revelry. In the heat of the moment, mic in hand at a impromptu rally, Rousse booms over the roar: “Frank Wilson is our man! Permanent head coach, right here, right now — with a contract loaded with incentives that’ll make SEC rivals weep!”

The crowd erupts. “LSU! LSU! LSU!” Victory laps, viral TikToks, and for one glorious, blackout-drunk hour, LSU feels invincible again. Until Monday morning’s hangover hits like a freight train. Buried in federal court filings from the endless Title IX saga — the same web of lawsuits that snared Les Miles and tangled up half the athletic department — resurfaces a bombshell: Four different former LSU employees had accused Wilson of sexual harassment years back. And there’s Wilson himself, under oath in a deposition, swearing up and down that LSU had launched a full Title IX investigation into the women’s claims. A probe that, poof, never actually happened. No records, no reports, just echoes of stonewalled complaints vanishing into the Baton Rouge politicocracy like so many uninvestigated whispers.

Cue the walk of shame: Rousse’s victory dance scrubbed from social media, the incentive-laden contract shredded before ink could dry, and another round of emergency meetings where “assess things” takes on a whole new, desperate meaning. The governor tweets fire emojis — or maybe pitchforks — while victims’ advocates sharpen their pens for the next lawsuit. Wilson? Suspended pending review, his dream job evaporating faster than the dew on a Tiger Stadium blade of grass. Just win, baby? More like just wait — for the other shoe, the subpoena, and the sequel nobody asked for. In LSU’s endless remake, the credits never roll; they just glitch and restart, one scandal at a time.