Horns Down

Oh, you silly, precious fools.

You egotistical maniacs. You absolute snivelers. Tarnishers of a state’s reputation for toughness. Embodiment of entitlement. First halfway decent season in a decade and you go all to pieces.

Arrogant milquetoasts, hiding behind the guise of a constantly sensed dishonor. Football wastrels, bouncing around the ether like errant neutrons. Tattered royalty in name only, constantly stretching the bounds of credibility.

Obstinate and delicate showponies, trotting about the paddock with heads held high, oblivious to the universal snickers and sneers around you. Undeserved beneficiaries of decades of karma, adulation, and bewildering acclaim, and still you clamor for more.

Shrill and unbearable in victory, silently petulant in defeat. Indifferent to all outside your own inflated sphere of self-worship. Inexplicably and simultaneously brash and pampered. A surly giant, grown vast and corpulent on ritualistic accolades; the body within writhing with insecurities beneath a skin the thickness of a light coat of dust.

Guardians of classiness and self-appointed righteous arbiters of acceptable behavior; a perpetual clamor of aggrieved victimhood, slights perceived, inadequate homage paid, and inelegant football noise.

And on top of all of this, apoplectic over a hand sign used in a sport.

It’s college fucking football. Boomer Sooner.