[I received this from a friend I will call "The one handed bandit"]
It’s that time again. That horrifying event that takes place every two years, and from which there is no escape, only survival. But as hard as this is going to be, here goes … Fuck LSU!
The masochistic premature ejaculations we’ve seen this fall could give a heart attack to the guy who invented co-ed junior high. Every week, we try to hold it in for the full 60 minutes. We try to hide our mistakes with football’s Kegel exercise – the wideout reverse - but every game it’s the same sad story: we somehow make it to the 3rd quarter, but we already blew our wad onto Nick Brassell’s butterfingers. Our enemy laughs and punches us in the taint. WAOM.
Meanwhile, the Louisiana State Thundercats or whatever are severely constipated. This team, with this coach, doesn’t do undefeated. Not like this. They need to crap themselves…badly. The general terribleness and faux-French-douchebagery of everything LSU remains painfully visible, even from the other side of the world. But where are the insane 4th down decisions? Where are the inexplicable play-calls and fake punts? Where is the crazy? We haven’t seen ANY of it this year, but rest assured, it’s there.
But how can we possibly win? I’ll tell you how: WAOM! That’s right, WAOM is how. Over the past 2-3 years, this team has exhausted the entire list of ways to shoot itself in the face, and there is nothing left that could embarrass me about this football program. Nothing. But, like a law of physics, WAOM mandates that no matter how well our fans are prepared, no matter how numb we are to embarrassment, we must still leave the stadium angry and confused. For once, this will work in our favor.
And here’s why: will a victory over LSU really make you feel that much better? Will seeing all that this team could have been change anything? For me, for the first time in my life, the answer is “not really, it’ll probably just piss me off even more.” We won’t leave the stadium embarrassed, just mad.
WAOM at its deadliest . . . victory is certain.
So turn up the Benny Hill music and welcome the WAOM. Embrace the confusion, embrace the embarrassment, embrace the frustration, the anger, the rage. Invite the madness, reject rationality, and love the crazy. But most of all… deal out the hate!
* * *
I want you toked-up, coked-up, and ready to slam pinecones down the cock-starved throats of these purple-trousered shitheads. I want us reaching into the bowels of yesteryear and extracting single wing offenses and 9-2 defenses. And I want you stuffing rabbits of rage so far up those coons’ asses that Houdini calls the humane society. Trust me, they deserve it!
Can’t run a single wing in modern football? Fuck It!
Can’t win without a passing game? Fuck It!
Can’t succeed without a good QB? We don’t have one so . . . Fuck It! And Fuck You!
If you’ve got the nuts to call yourself a man, then you’ve probably based your entire life on a simple mantra: “I’ve got pussies to lick and asses to kick!” So if you wake up Saturday morning anywhere but Hate-town USA, guess what? You’ve got asses to kick!* If you’re going to Oxford, drive up there like Jordan Jefferson just fucked your mom. GODAMN YOU JORDAN JEFFERSON! Bill, Ruben Randle says Italian is for nancy-boys! Sam, Eric Reid just called your mustache prepubescent! Bring the Hate! Bring the Pain! Bring your war-face to the watch-party, and your butcher knives to the man-pile.
And lest we be under inclusive, Fuck Louisiana! REAL STATES HAVE HILLS YOU TEXAS WANNABE! The mere presence of these heathens in God’s Country is an abomination to all that is good and holy in this world. So don’t hold back. Screw niceties! To hell with hospitality! Chivalry be damned! If they toss you a compliment, destroy them with insults. If they offer you a beer, you’ve got hate on tap. Be angry. Be loud. And be very, very mean. As windowless shed enthusiast Mike Leach would say, swing your motherfucking sword.
So use your voice, use your fists, use your brains, and use your dicks. That conveniently placed blunt object next to the smelly Cajun asshole from Plaquemines? USE IT! That little boy from Hammond wearing their shitty pro-combat jersey? Soak it! And steal his pom-pom. Those god-forsaken anybodies from Lafayette with their $2 beads and king-cake scarves? Bedazzle their Azzhole. YOU ARE THE ONE PERCENT YOU PIECE OF SHIT FANBASE!
I want “Fuck It” to be the battle cry. I want chaos. I want confusion. But most of all, I want violence! I want to take the Honey Badger, throw it in a burlap sack, and have Dog Brewer beat the shit out of it with a 2x4. I want D.T. Shackelford on a triceratops playing polo with nun-chucks. I want Damien Jackson blitzing on ice skates to see if these cocksuckers really bleed purple and gold. I want blood, guts, and glory, and I want pure, one-sided, capitalistic hysteria to bring that concrete and metal madhouse to the ground.
And WHEN we win, I want a thousand international altercations on the square. I want you to Favre-blast dick-pics from Baton Rouge to Bristol, so that nothing short of Rachel Nichols’ carpet and mismatched drapes can hide ESPN’s collective blush. I want German reparations from the First World War to look like a recess spent in timeout. I want the grove, the square, the campus, and even the highways to be on ridicule lockdown, because it is an obligation, a duty, to rub it in.
Yes they are inherently evil people! Yes you are allowed to poopoo all up in their gumbo! Yes you are allowed to invade New Orleans! And even if you weren’t, who fucking cares? Do it anyway. TSWRA! Yes, they suck, yes we rock, yes we party, and yes they don’t – not without your permission. SO FUCK LOUISIANA! FUCK LES MILES! FUCK THE LETTER “X”! FUCK HONEY BADGERS! FUCK #1 RANKINGS! FUCK THE COLOR PURPLE! FUCK MY LIFE! AND FUCKITTY FUCK ASS MONKEY FUCK LSU!