A letter to our Longhorn brethren
(I intended to post the following on ShaggyBevo, but then learned you have to run a veritable gauntlet to gain posting privileges there, which I have neither the time nor the inclination to do. If anyone has posting privileges there, feel free to share it with our esteemed opponents. Their audacity cannot go unchecked. Although I think those prudes don’t allow profanity, so would need to call the shit "poop.")
Greetings. We wanted to take this opportunity to introduce ourselves and express our excitement over the upcoming football game. Now let us dispense with the pleasantries.
We’re reasonable fans, patient individuals. We can abide most anything. When each year you send your borderline illiterate spawn, too stupid for admission to UT, to Oxford to spend daddy’s money while driving daddy’s truck and sporting their Texas flags and Texas belt buckles and rooting for UT and making sure everyone knows they are FROM TEXAS BY GOD AND EVERYTHING IS BIGGER AND BETTER IN TEXAS, we gladly cash your checks and then go about segregating them into the more obscure fraternities and sororities and other irrelevant social organizations.
When you inundated our fine city last year with your gaudy burnt orange apparel, your ridiculous cowboy hats, your second-rate actors and women, we smiled and politely offered you our cold chicken tenders and backup bourbon and pretended to enjoy your company. When you relegated our upcoming game to your irrelevant and fledgling Longhorn Network, thereby destroying the only incentive we had to schedule you in the first place (national exposure), we complained for a little while before ensuring we would still be able to watch the game.
But now you’ve gone too far. This we cannot abide, so let's get this straight right now: You do not shit the bed. WE shit the bed. Read that again. Repeat it. Tell it to your friends. We scoff at your pedestrian attempts at bed shitting. So you got blown out by BYU. Well bully for you. Now you think you get to run around whining, lamenting the fact it’s been eight years since your last national championship and predicting a loss Saturday and calling your program a dumpster fire, a bed-shitter? On behalf of legitimate bed-shitting programs everywhere: How dare you.
Take it from us. We know a thing or two about shitting the bed. We’re recognized far and wide as experts on the subject. If there is one constant, one universal guiding principle of Ole Miss athletics over the past 50 years, it is this:
Just when the stars appear to be aligning, just when we begin to hesitantly lower our defensive shields of cynicism which we have carefully cultivated over many years of bitter disappointment and unfulfilled expectations, just as we begin to hope against hope that maybe, just maybe, things will be different this year, that perhaps this will be the year the sports gods smile upon us, it is exactly then that we drop a malodorous, festering poop diaper of epic proportions, the kind that overwhelms the flimsy little elastic barrier as a river of foul excrement merrily rushes forth, leaving behind a shocked and poop-stained populace.
You want to talk about shitting the bed? Please. There was a time when the sports gods had the decency to crush our hopes with new and exciting methods of unforeseen misery, but lately they’ve become so very boring, so predictable. Perhaps you were surprised when you lost to BYU in such embarrassing fashion. We were not. It is all part of the set up: “Texas gets trounced by BYU and now a feisty 2-0 Ole Miss team which has just entered the rankings for the first time since 2009 (that’s right, 2009) travels to Austin for a winnable game against a prestigious but vulnerable program in the midst of a coaching controversy with an inept defense and a new (but still shitty) defensive coordinator and an angry fan base.” We're supposed to be getting our hopes up right now, but we're old hands at this. We know how this movie ends.
Our history of epic collapses is so ingrained in our athletic culture that we have a four-letter motto which neatly summarizes our perpetual bed-shitting propensity: WAOM. We Are Ole Miss. This is neither a rally cry nor an expression of optimistic solidarity; it is a sad and collective acquiescence to our fate, that we are Ole Miss, so whatever collapse we’ve just endured should have been expected; best gird yourselves for the next one.
So say it with me now: Ole Miss will shit the bed Saturday. We do not know the precise method of our downfall, but rest assured that the bed will be shat. The conventional wisdom among more rational Ole Miss fans is that Bo Wallace will throw between four and seven interceptions in the first half before his surgically repaired rotator cuff implodes and he’s replaced by Barry Brunetti, who will promptly begin pitching forward laterals directly to your fastest defenders before stepping aside gallantly like a torero facing an oncoming bull, while Ash/McCoy lights up our defense, turning in the highwater performance of his otherwise mediocre career. Our offense will sputter, our play calling will be nonsensical, our defense will look like, well, like it did last year, our best players will get injured, etc. We know the drill.
Remember this prophesy Saturday night as the clock ticks down to zero and you’re smiling down upon the field and your newly revived football season, wondering how it all came to pass. Your lackluster attempts at bed-shitting are embarrassing, you bunch of wannabe cowboy, faux-hippie, bed-shitting amateurs. Prepare to see the real deal. We shit beds like you for breakfast.
Last Edited By: Jughead Sep 11, 2013 4:12 PM. Edited 1 time.
|A letter to our Longhorn brethren||Sep 11, 2013 4:03 PM||Jughead|
|Holy shit that's awesome||Sep 11, 2013 4:20 PM||WAOM|
|Brilliant||Sep 11, 2013 5:08 PM||Aelyn|
|Well I couldn't convince any of them to start a thread...||Sep 11, 2013 6:25 PM||WAOM|
|Jughead is my mascot.||Sep 11, 2013 7:03 PM||maxfisher|
|Re: A letter to our Longhorn brethren||Sep 12, 2013 1:51 PM||Johnkenn|
|Did not want it to end||Sep 12, 2013 9:19 PM||MrSunglasses|
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