I’m not marching through my house thumping on my chest, Burghers.
I didn’t chest bump my husband this morning when he donned his Franco Harris jersey. I didn’t even fist bump him. Not a “yeah!” nor a “woo!” escaped my lips. Seeing his jersey filled me with dread.
I haven’t once uttered the words “bring it on” since I learned the Steelers will be playing the Ravens on Saturday. I don’t relish the competition or the rivalry.
Because I’m scared.
I hate the Ravens.
Biblically. Completely. Totally. From the top of my head to the tips of my toenails. All encompassing, seething, they-might-as-well-be-called-The-Pigeons hate.
I was raised to not hate anyone. It was spoon fed to me from the time I was a child right up until college. Hate is wrong. You don’t hate anyone. You might hate what they do, but you don’t ever hate the person. I generally don’t.
But I hate Ray Lewis. I hate that stupid unhinged jaw scream he does. I hate his pre-game pep talks.
I hate their black pants. I hate their coach. His face makes me feel punchy. Literally. I would punch my kid’s Pillow Pet hard in its ladybug face if it was handy.
Beating the Ravens will be pretty much similar to beating Marian Hossa for the Stanley Cup in 2009. I will point into Ray Lewis’ sadcakes face when it fills my TV screen as the final seconds tick by and I will scream, “HAHAHAHAH, YOU LOSE, MOTHERFRUCKER!”
But losing to the Ravens will be like losing the Super Bowl to Dallas in 1996. My normally sunny disposition toward all will be replaced with the keen desire to slushie anyone I see wearing a Ravens jersey, even if it was David Conrad.
He would be slushied hard. With actual road slush that I scooped up.
I don’t want it close. I want it 52 – 0 by halftime. I want Ray Lewis openly weeping by the third quarter. I want the mercy rule to become a thing by necessity in the fourth quarter when the scoreboard can’t handle anything above 999.
I’ll get over it if we lose, because after all, it is just a game, but not before punching many a Pillow Pet, slushie-ing many a surprised face, and posting a What They’re Really Thinking so full of the F word that my father will start protesting outside of my house while reading the Bible to me via megaphone.
And if you think this is bad, just you see what I’m like if we have to take on the Patriots.
Hell hath no fury like a Pittsburgh blogger desirous of Tom Brady’s balls on a stick.