What I hate about you: Tennessee Volunteers

While sitting over my piles of food and relishing the savage gluttony of yesterday, there was a small thought in the back of my head. A small, black dot of a shadow, sitting quietly in the corner of my brain, pushed against the wall behind a mound of food that had been relocated from my stomach to my brain to make more space. And then around 6’o’clock, this little cold lump of evil decided it was time, and began to push back. I won’t go into details where he pushed the food (but my toilet is suffering today because of it) but he pushed back, hard and occupied my brain cavity like a penniless hippie on the streets of New York.

Now that the turkey is over, there is only one thing left to do: focus all of my vast amounts of hatred towards that stinking, low down university to the south of the Bluegrass. You know what I’m talking about. Even now, still a day before the game, my mouth waters with bile bubbling up into my throat and my stomach and heart both drop (although my stomach has far less room to drop) when I think about walking into Commonwealth tomorrow under a cold November sky and watch that disgusting color of orange stream out of the visitor’s concourse to take the field. My hands are shaking thinking about how much I will wish for an injury on every play, right down to the waterboys jumping over cables and electrical cords on the sidelines. There is nothing redeeming about my thoughts these next 48 hours, even during the time of goodwill towards men and all that manure. Instead I will be focusing my seething hatred on a bunch of dirty snitches, then worrying about building up my karma with the fat man in red. And no, I wasn’t referring to Rick Majerus. Tennessee, with as much truth and honesty as I can, I say f**k you and I hope all of you get cramps and/or total leg detachments.

Going back to my previous point, I hate Tennessee for the simple fact that they ruined my post-gorging food coma by existing. The fact that I have to think about that color while reclining and watching other football teams play means you aren’t just an afterthought in my head, you’re right in the front; and just like the brave American men that stood at the front of those landing boats in Normandy, I will start firing my bullets of hate before the gate even drops, hopefully mowing down defenders of your psyche as they touch they bloody grasses of Lexington. I hope that this will send doubts into your mind about whether you have the fortitude to withstand this sort of psychic attack, but I know that you’re too dumb to feel those spikes of hatred piercing your brain. After all, you’re the idiots that put this on your own locker room. The fact that you hired Derek Dooley to be your coach actually gets you points in my book, he’s a good guy and fairly intelligent. But how intelligent can you be when you look at an equivalent of Detroit in college football and say,”Yeah, I can go there”?

It’s still in the middle of BFE Tennessee, and they’re still some of the biggest idiots in the world. I mean, why even go into robbing a guy with a pellet gun and escaping in a Prius when a staph infection outbreak in your locker room forces you to miss practice time because you’re teaching your players how to wash themselves? Aren’t you supposed to have that figured out by the time your parents stop washing you? It’s almost laughable until you realize that, because of their physical gifts, they have been given everything they have asked for (including cash, free bar tabs, and all the toothless trailer trash they could get their hands on) and they still can’t take care of their own waste material? It’s scary but in reality it’s probably just the air down there; I bet if there was a sensor for it you could get record levels of stupidity contamination. But washing your boy parts aside, I hate the fact that even if we win this game, we still won’t be eligible for a bowl game.

But my year (and the last 26) will be so much easier to deal with if we just win. If I could sic the ghost of AL Davis on Tennessee, I would pull whatever voodoo or witchcraft necessary to ensure that old bag of liver spots is hanging around over the beds of every one of those d-bags, just sneering at them and threatening to draft them to Oakland. If they were even worth drafting. We may not have many draft prospects on this team (with the exception of our cybernetic tackling machine) but we never had the moniker of being a NFL production factory. Now they have sunk to the lowest of the lows, and before cheating Vanderbilt out of another win last week, the threat of going winless in the SEC was very real. Now we can only hope that we can best their number of conference victories this year, or fall behind them once more, forcing me into a 3 day drinking binge that I will inevitably wind up in Tahiti again, and I don’t want to share what I left with last time (although antibiotics have improved things greatly. Hey, almost like a Tennessee locker room!). Simply put, this article will be much mellower next year if we escape with a win this year; but if we lose…it may end up plastered all over Knoxville for a week.

We may not be going anywhere in December this year, but the greatest gift you can give myself and the seniors on the team is a present that no one on Kentucky’s side has seen in literally my entire life, is a win against the only people I really care about beating. Joker, you can remove all of those howling fans by getting just one W, although even if you do I’m sure the naysayers will find a way to diminish it. But you will have reclaimed your biggest defender, and make one blogger’s year.

Please.

Oh yeah…and f**k Tennessee. One more time.
Take it away, Alabama guy