Two years ago, I wrote an article listing 30 Reasons to Hate the University of Oregon. To say it was one of the more polarizing pieces I’ve ever written would be an understatement, though it should be noted that more positive than negative feedback was received. Which is good. It means that people generally hate the Oregon Ducks as much as I do. That’s how I gauge whether or not I’m crazy. Do they agree with me? They do? Perfect. I’m not insane yet.
Fact is, my disdain for the U of O is only rivaled by my passion for life. I love living, but I hate Oregon. You see the problem here? These two conflicting forces pull my world in opposing directions. It’s a battle that many sports fans — Husky fans or otherwise — wage on a daily basis.
But why do we really hate Oregon? Hate is such a strong word, after all, and one cannot go around spouting hatred without some basis for the emotion. Sure, we joke about the Ducks, we poke fun at their goofy mascot, allude to their constant toeing of the NCAA violation line, and even print t-shirts dedicated to their general suckiness as an institution of higher learning. But none of these actions directly pertain to hatred, per se. And so onlookers shrug their shoulders and move along, convinced that this is nothing more than a complicated relationship between two disgruntled rivals.
Alas, public perception is a tough nut to crack. I’ve made it my mission to convince the masses that UW fans — and perhaps fans the world around — really do hate Oregon as much as we claim to. But perhaps I haven’t been convincing enough.
And so I’d like to take this serious moment to get real with you, loyal readers, and explain in detail why this unremitting hostility towards our foes to the south is so often perpetuated. Hate is a strong word. We can all agree on that. But not a word without its occasional righteous validity. Thus, I elaborate.
Why do we hate Oregon? Better question: Why do we hate terrorism? Oregon fans, you see, are terrorists. Not the kind that go around blowing up buildings or sending anthrax through the mail, bear in mind. Rather, the kind of terrorists that infringe upon our rights as human beings to live wonderful, beautiful, unmolested lives. Which of course lends Duck fans to being molesters, as well.
Terrorist molesters. Can you think of anything worse on this planet? I can’t. Every time I see someone wearing green-and-gold Duck gear, I fear for the safety of everyone around me. Can we trust this person? Are they armed and dangerous? Do they have SARS? These are all questions we need to be asking ourselves when in the presence of the Oregon faithful.
Like rats plagued by rabies, Duck fans foam indecency and exhale putrid, disease-riddled disgust. They are commonly referred to as the worst fan base on the planet. They wallow in their stagnant pigsty of a city and go to great lengths to make that hippie-infested outpost known as Eugene (effing Yew-Gene…it even sounds ugly) a living nightmare for all who mistakenly traipse there.
Why do we hate Oregon? It’s not due to the johnny-come-lately successes of their football program, their suspect relationship with Nike, or even the fact that their student-athletes are a cavalcade of miscreants and criminals.
No, we hate Oregon because of the fans, sorry, godawful excuses for humanity that they are.
Fans. The word itself doesn’t do right by the Oregon Duck following. These aren’t really fans. They’re social degenerates and future wards of whatever state they happen to inhabit when their miserable destiny is ultimately fulfilled.
They are Voldemort’s Voldemort, an entire Population-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.
They are the villain you see in the movies, the antagonist who constantly escapes retribution until the very end of the film when our hero, our protagonist, our doer of all that is good in this world socks the smirk right off the pimply mug of that cocky, smug, sorry little bastard punk-ass bitch of a jerk who deserves everything behind that punch, that beautiful freakin’ punch, that punch you can’t help but cheer for when it connects. God, we love that punch.
It is the fans. We hate the fans. Terrorist molesters, those fans. And so to an entire cult of green-and-gold-clad sadists, I offer you these words in parting:
We don’t like you. Nobody likes you. You make this world worse than it otherwise would be without you here. You’re horrible, horrible people. You probably shouldn’t be let out of your homes. You’re awful. Just awful. And words — any more words, any manipulation of the English language — simply cannot and will not ever pay proper tribute to your festering heinousness.
I hope the Huskies beat you on Saturday. I hope we beat you every Saturday. I hope everyone beats you every Saturday.
But win or lose, one thing will never change: there will be hate. And it will be raw and pure like the cane sugar of the Hawaiian islands. Think about that. Think about how raw and pure that is. That’s true hate.