A Letter to Our Rival Fans
First and foremost, fuck you. Second of all, go fuck yourselves.
We may be from the same state, but I would rather have a political discussion with Michael Moore than see you walking through my college town. I would rather have a Celine Dion Greatest Hits power hour than have a five minute conversation with one of you moronic jizz rags. I would rather have my toenails removed one by one by a topless Rosie O’donnell covered in mayonnaise than hear you try to explain why “this is the year.”
Oh, you’re ranked really high the second week of the regular season? That’s so impressive, let me know when you stop playing Junior Varsity teams where any student over 5’8” and 170 lbs is instantly put in the running for the starting quarterback job.
It’s not that I want my team to beat yours. I want your team to lose, get caught participating in an underground homosexual orgy, get addicted to crack cocaine, drop out and become homeless. Every time I see your pukestain colors on the television screen, I pray you’ll somehow find a way to lose by a hundred thousand, while the ACLs of your entire squad simultaneously rupture via Act of God.
It’s not that I completely despise you. Actually, fuck that, yes it is.
So maybe you’ve had a few good seasons the past couple years. After a brutal history of letdowns, I’m sure you’re all feeling pretty proud of yourselves. Whoop dee fucking doo, my insignificant peers. While you celebrate your moderate success, I’ll be anxiously counting down to the day where I can revel in your inevitable defeat.
Your team may be the scum of human existence, but the very least you could do is try to have some class and respect for yourselves. But of course not, you’d rather wallow knee deep through the chlamydia-laden wasteland that is your campus and high five each other enthusiastically after every pathetic field goal. I would rather attend a sex addict seminar for obese women while wearing a g-string made of bacon than run the risk of raw-dogging one of the desperate crusty slores that call your school home. I hope your dicks fall off.
Rivalry week may be a few months away, but my hatred for each and every one of you knows nothing of time, boundaries, or reason. Every time I see your school’s name on the ticker on SportsCenter, I silently hope for a massive scandal that reveals your entire roster’s secret double lives as hermaphrodites. Every time I meet one of your alumni, I laugh to myself as they hand me a pizza at my doorstep before returning to their ‘98 Corolla. If I had a nickel for every disappointed parent your school creates, I could buy the entire internet.
Despite my undying fury towards you, I find myself torn. I’m not sure if I’d rather watch you lose every single game by 50, or if I’d prefer you to go undefeated, only to be completely dismantled come rivalry weekend. While I would love to watch you bask in a mediocre season, I think the joy of crushing your National Title dreams would be even more satisfying.
Whatever the case, November is fast approaching and I personally cannot fucking wait. Regardless of how either of our seasons may go, the final week of the regular season will be devoted to a continual rolling blackout paired with an inhuman amount of shit talking. I hope you bring some tissues, because I can assure you tears will be shed. Also, they’ll be useful for your post game masturbation, because no girl wants to blow a guy with herpes.
PS: Tell your mother I had a great time last night. She’s a really sweet lady.