Well, in the end, turns out you did it. Your hit squad jobbed our tourney, and no matter how much I strain, I can’t conjure any generosity. Maybe tomorrow, but today I seethe.
Hope you’re happy! Your basketball team had no business being near the sweet sixteen, so you pulled the only bullshit that might have given you a chance: you tried to actually hurt our team in the hopes that a quorum of Tar Heels would be sent to the emergency room.
You didn’t go for the ball when you tried to guard Kendall Marshall. You tried to take him out of the game. You body-blocked him onto the floor with a ghastly thwomp, and you broke his fucking wrist. Are you happy now? You ended our season without even beating us.
our entire season in one intentional foul
We already had two important players out, and John Henson’s wrist barely functioning. Sure, we managed to limp past 13-seed Ohio, but you dashed our season because you had a game plan that had nothing to do with basketball.
Tidbits like your wink of treachery is now infamous among people who still give a shit about the game, but I feel like I KNOW YOU. I went to junior high school only a few miles from y’all in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. I had to deal with pigfat-laden thugs ambushing me every afternoon.
he hates your freedoms
Lemme tellya, folks – it’s only a matter of time before the glory days of your mid-major conference mediocrity wear off, and you find yourself 60 pounds overweight and arteriosclerotic, managing an unsuccessful soybean fertilizer company out of a motor home in Hiawatha.
I’m granting some of you an exception because you’re family. But the rest of you Creighton wankers can swing on a pair of deez nuts. Your coach looks like the villain from a 1930s gangster film, and the rest of your team should be killing puppies in a Steinbeck novel.
I used to stick up for Nebraska because of my mid-’90s visits to Hastings College, but no more. Screw Omaha and Nebraska: your politics are reprehensible, and your monotonous landscape signals the end of hope. Creighton, if you’re looking for a gracious loser, you can look elsewhere: you gave us a gift we couldn’t give away. Tomorrow I’ll be looking hopefully to the horizon, but for now you can eat a bag of roast dicks.