I Hate You, Gonzaga

Like a 75-cent drink refill at an already-overpriced teriyaki establishment, you annoy me, Gonzaga.

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.

13 thoughts on “I Hate You, Gonzaga”

  1. My exact thought process in writing that analogy was as follows:

    “What’s a good foil for Jack Johnson, who I already don’t like? Maybe Pearl Jam. No, Pearl Jam has some laid-back songs. Metallica? No, Metallica is over the top. What’s a good song? ‘Welcome to the Jungle.’ Guns ‘N Roses. That’ll work. Guns ‘N Roses.”

    My thoughts are complete sentences that float on white puffy clouds that I envision in my head.

  2. I feel lighter. Better. I tried to run through every annoying thing that came to mind, then put it on paper. It’s all good now.

  3. Could not have said it better myself. Everytime I hear that damn name all I can think of is all the douchers in Seattle that would say, “Hey, is the ‘Zags game on?” uhhhhhhhh.

  4. I risked my “ESPN Streak for the Cash” streak of 6 on Gonzaga last night. Gonzaga, you cost me a potential $100,000. F*** you.

  5. I’m even more disappointed now, Alex. The first song that comes to mind when you think “Good song” is anything Guns ‘n’ Roses? They should be on the opposite side of that spectrum.

  6. Guns & Roses kicks f’ing ass. If you don’t like GnR you don’t like sports, you like title IX.

    Great list Alex. I’m glad I’m not the only one who hates the Regressive Car Insurance lady. GU definetly fits that mold. Adam Morrison perfectly fits a Jack Johnson song so good on ya there too.

  7. Oh, okay. Thanks for clearing that up, J. Makes sense. I’m glad my disdain for a shitty band with a obnoxious blow hard as a front man means the Gary Payton jersey on my wall is now null and void.

  8. Gary Payton would be upset you don’t like GnR either and ask you to put his jersey for sale on ebay. For the record, most lead singers are obnoxious blow hards, it doesn’t mean their music sucks. I can only imagine what in your mind only constitutes as ‘good’ music. Sorry I called out your music snobbery, oh wait, no I’m not.

  9. I hate the zagfags. Basically they are the Ohio State of basketball. Play no one and somehow get ranked, just to get bounced second round each tournament. They always have some fraternafag player that looks like a girl on them. Hey zaggots, join a real conference or at least play teams people have heard of. And enough with the Catholic school bias in sports. They aint played no one and they aint beat no one

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