I have a new post up over at Pittsburgh Magazine and this is the one that I’ll need to repent for later probably, but in my defense, my hate for the Flyers is more a hate for the team and the game they play and the players when they’re wearing the sweaters and not so much —
Oh, who the hell am I kidding. I HATE THE FLYERS.
I hate the Flyers like I hate pigeons. Like Garfield hates Mondays. Like Lady Gaga hates decorum. Like Madonna hates aging.
Before yesterday, I thought my Flyers hate, which I have often described as “biblical,” had reached the deepest depths — the rock bottom of hate. I couldn’t possibly hate them any more than I already do. Then yesterday happened and I threw a stick of dynamite down into the bottom of my hate barrel and I blasted away at least three new levels of hate for me to dig down through to excavate more loathing than I ever thought possible. So much so that I need to invent a new word for that new level of hate: Abhorrimosity.
Go have a read and also, give a huge thanks to my online editor Sean Conboy for the amazing work he does in editing my stuff to sound like I know what the hell I’m talking about when I’m typing furiously in a blind rage of PURE HATE.
I think I need yoga in my life.