When I root for you to lose, you win.
When I root for you to win, you lose.
And while I don’t often find myself rooting for your success, I did last night, and you let me down.
All you had to do was handle your business and send Saint Mary’s home with a loss.
You would have won the Weak C-team Conference Tournament, in the process.
You would have earned an automatic bid to the Big Dance.
You would have kept the bubble afloat for all those teams looking for at-large berths.
Instead, you got selfish.
Selfish, Gonzaga. Because you wanted one of those at-large berths for yourself.
An automatic bid isn’t good enough for the Gonzaga Bulldogs. Not us. We’d rather walk in the back door to the dance, show up fashionably late, make it all about Gonzaga.
The nation loves us, we’re like a five-year-old beauty pageant winner, we can be America’s darling. Sure, we might grow up to be a neurotic bitch with a social complex and five or six untrained chihuahuas and no family, but at least we can cling to the fact that we once competed alongside Jon Benet Ramsey. And beat her. When she was four. Face.
Gonzaga, you are a thorn in my side. I am Ferris Bueller, you are Principal Rooney. I am Superman, you are Kryptonite. I am Tiger Woods, you are one of 20 or 30 ex-strippers that keep calling me even though I’ve asked you to stop. You are the dragon I cannot slay.
In a perfect world, the Spokane River would erode at a much faster than geologically-possible rate and your little hamlet of a school would get sucked into the bowels of the earth like the puny little blood-sucking mosquito it truly is. It’d be like losing an Abercrombie and Fitch model, or a white supremacist, or Yanni. You know, because the world would really miss you.
To myself and others like me, you are a plague, a virus, a disease.
You’re like a tattletale on the playground, Scott Disick, a gas grill that won’t light without matches, and rain during a baseball game, all rolled into one.
You’re the teacher’s pet, skinny jeans, a fat girl in flip-flops in winter, and a driver that won’t turn right on red.
You’re a stain on our favorite sweater, a woman with a bad laugh at a movie theater, and rich people on welfare.
You’re that scratchy feeling we get in our throats right before catching a cold, an Ed Hardy shirt, fine print on a coupon, the DMV.
You’re a customer service call, outsourced to India.
You’re HD TV on a shrunken screen with writing on the sides.
You’re a crying baby on an airplane. An old, naked man in the locker room. A bicyclist in the middle of a busy street.
You’re the chick from the Progressive Insurance commercials, Gerard Butler doing an American accent, the guy who won’t move his checkers from the back row.
You’re a Nicholas Sparks movie that our wives and girlfriends force us to see, a traffic jam on our way to work, the FCC, and mall kiosk workers who heckle us to try their products as we walk innocently past.
You’re like a Jack Johnson song when I’m expecting Guns ‘N Roses. You keep me grounded when I wish to fly. You bring me down when all I want is up.
You kill me, Gonzaga. Like a telemarketer, I loathe you. Like Dave Libbey, I despise you.
You are the bane of my very existence, and for that, Gonzaga, I hate you.