allow me to explain to you how much I hate you and your school:
Dear Ignorant, Drive-by Alum (aka, 'Friends of the University'):
I'm not sure there are enough creative words in this language or any other that will completely allow me to express just exactly how much I hate you, but I'll give it a shot. Where does one start? This is like trying to deconstruct the Death Star to sell the copper wiring. I'm overwhelmed with the enormity of the situation, so I guess I'll just tackle the largest section of this Denny's Grand Slam breakfast of repugnance first: You and the rest of your fellow fans. The Visigoths. The Picts. The James Gang. MS-13. The complete roster of every single guest of the Jerry Springer Show. All. All of them wither and shrink when compared to the utter horribleness of the greasy masses that accumulate and form your fan base. You are and will forever be God's lowest common denominator. Lemming-like in your blind bandwagoning, as displayed by your en masse tumbling off a cliff into a sea of white trashiness, you drape yourselves in clothing usually designed for yard work or being home sick with the flu. Now, there's nothing inherently wrong with showing school pride, but...c'mon. There's nothing quite so bad as seeing a corpulent family of TAHD Rollers waddling around an outlet mall, dressed in complete concert. In June. That isn't school pride. That, sir, is the brain-dead, vegetable child born from generations of inbreeding and chronic alcoholism. To put it another way, your collective is more akin to a chicken mcnugget: Cheap, nauseating, of dubious origins, assembled in an ad hoc fashion by drop-outs from the extra parts and undesirable miscellany of chicken plants that wouldn't be appetizing to the rest of civilized society, and wildly popular with people with IQs hovering around 70.
It's really quite mind-boggling how such a sweaty-faced cult of personality formed. I mean, the majority of you people didn't go to school there. A smaller, albeit a sizable chunk, never attend games. No, you're happy impulse-purchasing the script "A" from a Texaco when you plop your "30 Pack of 'Stones" on the counter, slapping it on the back of your Silverado and driving around your rube-ridden **** hole town with an air of superiority that can only be defined as delusional, if not out-right humorous. You name your children names like "Saban", already damning a damned child to a life of hard labor and squalor. You have lived your lives vicariously through a program that is the personification of cheating, lying, and skewed priorities. You have canonized a drunk and are looking for the 3rd miracle to canonize the midget-***** you've paid for by donating your ill-gotten "Slipped in urine at the K-Mart" settlement checks.
You have cheated and lied (you have 12 National Championships. Right, and the South actually won the war if you look at the number of battles won) your way into fame, and the rest of you calloused-handed worker/yokels are feeding off the teat; nourishing your undeserved senses of accomplishment and propping your false egos.
*!++ you and all that are like you, hook 'em horns, and I hope science will progress enough so that the Bear is revived only long enough to be shot.
Sincerely,
AngryReb
