Hate restores us. Hate focuses us. Hate keeps us warm at night and spoons us if we so desire it. And no time is hate more powerful – more necessary – than the postseason, when those we despise are so close to getting what they want. I don’t get what I want, so f*ck those guys. There are countless reasons to hate anyone. Some of which you might not be aware. Or been made to realize that they are worthy of scorn. Well, you came to the right place. Allow us to guide you to the darkest recesses of the soul, where the streets run dark green with bile and everyone knows your embarrassing nickname.
Oh, Seattle. You’ve really done nothing to deserve the grief we’re about to lay down on you. You’re just the northernmost major city of the United States, which nobody believes, because Maine is like totally up there on the map. Really, the worst thing you ever did was not killing Frasier.
And then I saw this…
Look at that. LOOK AT THAT SHIT. I don’t know what’s more amazing, that the Seahawks’ two sizes of beer cups hold the exact same amount of beer, or that people in Seattle actually drink beer. I mean…coffee? Sure. Heroin? Whatever. But beer? I expected better, Seattle. I really did.
I also expected better than 7-9. Your “NFC West Champs” shirts will be the new Che. But instead of hearing, “He was sort of a communist that killed a shitload of people” to “YOOOOOOU SUUUUUUUCK.” Kurt Cobain never would have stood for this. But then again, he wouldn’t recognize a good football team if it was cooking in his spoon.
And then there’s Matt Hasselbeck, that bald fuck with the bad back and the even worse arm…who somehow is starting today. Has Roger Goodell finally cleared Matt to play with a walker? Just hang it up already, holmes. Then you can get back to your other life’s ambition–killing Superman.
But I wouldn’t worry, Seattle, because in ten years, we’ll be watching the Oklahoma City Seahawks win four straight Super Bowls. But you’ll still have your coffee and your soccer team and gaggles of manically-depressed women. Good luck spending your Saturday nights getting pepper-sprayed at Barnes and Noble. But until then, enjoy being the San Diego Padres of football. You’ve got about three hours left to work that awkward boner of yours into an enjoyable west-coast lather, Seattle. Enjoy it while you can.