I do not give a shit about sports. I do not like them drunk, sober, spectator or otherwise. I don’t like sports that have balls, have no balls, have two or more balls, or are quidditch. (Which is apparently a thing that people play, now.) I do not like to watch sports in bars, in my own home, or in person. If you were to take me to watch sports in any of those places, you’d be downing a Bud Light shouting, “Yeah yeah! Go Reds!” (or Greens, or Blues, or Dolphins, or Phoenixes, or Coelacanths). I would be brooding in the corner like an indie hipster tween girl sitting with her legs crossed in her 11th grade English class, pissed that Twilight even exists. My rage would be infinite and only slightly subdued by buffalo wings, which (FACT) are actually the foodstuffs of the Gods.
I especially do not like playing sports because my brain is wired such that any attempt to pass, throw, catch, and sometimes even run hopelessly tangles up my limbs into a goofy, lopsided sway. I am so miserably bad at catching footballs, for instance, that it wouldn’t surprise me in the least to pick one up and have it miraculously fly out of my hands, do a somersault midair, and rocket directly for my crotch. If that happened, I wouldn’t blame black magic. I’d blame my own tragic, beautiful clumsiness.
I do not like sports fans. I suppose it’s good to believe in something; some people have god, some people have football. I have Kliktobox and Jumbapu, the pagan gods of cute boys and cheese, respectively. (I shouldn’t make fun of pagans. They might burn a feather to bring me bad luck!) What annoys me about sports fans is that they worship loudly. And openly. If I were in public (we’re pretending), it would be normal and acceptable for a stranger to say, “How about them Giants?” (Or Wolverines, or Bears, or Locusts). It would not be okay for me to say, “My, you are one cute-ass boy. I’d sacrifice some cheddar to Kliktobox for your number, but that would offend Jumbapu, LOL!” Sports fans get to be loud and drunk and effervescent, and I’m jealous. Also, I don’t know what effervescent means.
There is one thing I enjoy about sports. That would be the sportsmen. I’m sorry, I’m being sexist. Ladies play sports too, I just don’t care. Oops, that sounds mean. I don’t not care because bwahahaha women playing sports lololol. No, that would be rude. I don’t care because the only reason I like sportsmen is that I would like to jump their bones, so to speak. I would like to sacrifice my cheddar to Kliktobox for them. I want to do them. Sorry ladies.
But! That doesn’t mean I like sports. I tolerate them, at best. Sports make me feel dumb and unpatriotic. They make me feel incapable and slow. I would rather do math (what? puke.) because I am good at math (braggart.). But, sports make athletes. It’s like, you know how dirt sucks? But we need dirt to grow food, and food is pretty much the shit. So we tolerate dirt. That’s how I feel about sports. Like, ugh, here’s this shenanigan I could give a shit about, but hey, that’s how we get hot muscle-y men.
So drag me along to your sports bar, if you must. I’ll go brood in the corner. I’ll share my buffalo wings with my pagan gods, but only if Jumbapu squirts me some blue cheese out of his middle finger. (Paganism is gross, y’all.)