When you lose to Vandy...
...you give shirtless, hatless vandy fan a reason to try rooting for tackle football again.
...you've probably also lost your virginity to Penn Wagers' and his sorority sisters of Yella Omega Flagga.
...you bring shame upon your house. A hunnerd fold.
...you have woken up from a nightmare into an even more nightmarish reality whose best possible ending is the Autozone Liberty Bowl.
...your pants are around your ankles. And not in a good way.
...what? Are you f---in' kidding me? You had ONE job asshole!
...your punter must've missed the tackle.
...you've pissed all over Homecoming like that drunk guy that's about to be face down in your neighbor's flower bed.
...you think you lost the road map for getting to Atlanta in December when in fact you never really had it to begin with.
...you've dropped your brand new iPhone7.6.1 into a bloody pool of piranhas. Way to go, Shitbreath.
...their mascot's unibrow lawyers up, thereby ending its interview with Dateline's Chris Hansen.
...God, you're pathetic.
...you force me to have forgetful New Years Eve parties.
...you couldn't out-transition James Franklin's two-star transition lenses.
...you've been surpassed as relevant by a team with a stadium the size of Ralphie May's garden tub.
...you couldn't possibly suck any worse than you suck at that particular moment of sucktastic suckitude.
...you've been outscored by a team that is overseen by something called a "vice-chancellor".
...the 1890s called and they want their outhouses back.
...and all the pretty girls would rather dance with the Dallas Ebola victim than your sorry, worthless, pathetic ass.
Homecoming. Awaygoing. Anchors down.
So long Sanford. Tomorrow is our last hurrah for awhile. When we meet again I'll be the happy drunk wearing Pinkel's visor with a pocketful of gnawed off razorback bones, dragging Muschamp's dignity by the scruff of his neck with one hand and pulling a Radio Flyer wagon full of all of Kentucky's finest bourbon with the other.
Or I'll be poor bastard looking for his drunk loser pants.
|Their 40 times are irrelevant. #AnchorDerp|
Either way, it's too long. Why didn't we talk about this over the summer in all those posts about the schedule? And why do we have to spend our last evening together with that creepy ass midshipman traipsing on our lawn? Speaking of our hallowed sod, please don't let these overly precocious, Ivy League rejected, snobby, wannabe Southern assholes anywhere near our Hedges, mascot mausoleum, or our midfield Power G.
Hate's a strong word Vandy. But I just can't trust you. For instance, Robbie Caldwell was the best thing to accidentally happen to Vanderbilt Football. And you ran him off like a big ole lovable dog that everyone in the neighborhood enjoys the company of...except you. You drop that anchor in your yard, misuse five dollar words while discussing a basketball season that is a month away, and kick that dog to the curb when he drops that old, dirty tennis ball at your feet.
That. Yes, that is the reason you can't have nice things Vanderpbilt. Your rallying cry calls for you to not just slow down, but to stop altogether. You think you're better than Robbie Caldwell, but in reality he's better than you. You don't deserve his charm and relaxed wit. You don't deserve random shirtless, hatless, angst-ridden fan. You don't deserve to be named after a classic American funk band. And you sure as shit don't deserve the sympathy of SEC officiating.
But don't get me started on the clusterf--k that was last year in Nashvegas. Enough. Let us bow our heads...Dear Lord, please let Malcolm Mitchell catch a 238 yards pass from Houston Madsun, despite the fact that he's wrapped in bubble wrap as a very cautious precaution. And also our family dentist asks that you keep the cotton candy guy away from our section. Thanks. Amen.