The Rookies

(Note: This column does not, in any way, support or approve of that pop for John Cena. Or John Cena in general. The Return of the Wrestling Recap! – after the jump.

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That's right, two of these are about Buffalo. Deal with it.

I hate fan rules. Fan rules, in general, make me angrier than apartheid and Triple H combined. Don’t say ‘no-hitter’ or ‘perfect game’! You can only have one team you root for in a specific sport! If your team moves, you should still root for them! Are people fucking serious? It’s sports. No, it’s not even sports – it’s watching sports. You know what making rules about watching sports is like? No, you don’t, and neither do I because IT IS REMARKABLY INCONSEQUENTIAL. It reminds me of all the inane conversations that happened at keggers in college about how drunk someone needs to be to actually be ‘drunk’, or what constituted a muscle shirt. (Also, to anyone who went to college with me, or talked to me about college, or has ever seen Animal House: FUCK YOU)

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Look, let’s just get this out of the way: I dislike you, Rick Reilly. Many, many people do. The only people that don’t dislike you are rich white folk who drive SUV’s from their homes in the suburbs to offices in slightly more urban suburbs and watch CNBC and think that subsidized health care is awful because it means they’ll have to wait 15 extra minutes to see their third favorite doctor. These are the people that have you in a job, that forward the notion of you somehow being one of the best sportswriters around. They are completely disassociated with reality, which makes you their mouthpiece. You laugh at the same things they do. You are touched by what touches them. And what makes them indignant, what sets off the buzzer that tells them – once again – that America is not just the solipsistic Norman Rockwell nightmare of green suburban lawns with no sidewalks that they lock their doors on every evening…well, that ticks you off as well.

Like this:

Before I begin, I would like to make a point to the younger collegians that frequent this blog:

Don’t ever graduate.

Not because graduating suddenly means hardship and separation from all the people you’ve learned to love over the last few years of your life. Mostly, don’t graduate because, right before you graduate, it gets really hard. So hard, in fact, that I can’t even bring myself to happily acknowledge the dick joke that just happened right there. (That’s right, kids – college will eventually make you hate dick jokes. I suggest quadruple majoring in things that require few books.)

That’s why my blognificance here has been relegated to a couple snarky comments (note: sorry bout that, boys).

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