If the title wasn't enough...I'm still bitter.
I did not like the Steelers before XL. I did not like Gannon, or Cowher, or Bettis, or Franco, or Rooney I through Rooney MXII. I did not like how the NFL always seemed to swing from their junk and stroke their gooch. I did not like how running the football became "that's just Steeler's football!" and how "Stealer's football" became football 'the way it's meant to be played!"
Then XL happened (See: then we discovered we drowned our children, then it was revealed she actually wasn't dead, then we realized we were really on Mars, then we ascertained we were ourselves dead, or then we found out it was our planet the whole time). Basically...monumental.
My dislike was compounded, and evolved into hate. The Weapon X of emotions. Not even sports hate (a benign, easily forgotten emotion), I mean full on Rwanda-esque hatred. I hate Hines Ward and his shitty smile, I hate Ben's stupid moony face and his inability to not look like he has Trisomy 21, I hate Mike Epps, I hate Wiz Khalifa (their colors are Black and Gold fuck-face), I hate ketchup, and I hate (I mean HATE) Pennsylvania.
There is, quite literally, liquid rage and animosity dripping from the tips of my fingers at this moment. The schadenfreude beating through my arteries is palpable, and the music of it is dark and sinister.
If the NFL was a lunch room table the Steelers would be the cool blonde kids wearing Letterman jackets and black headbands, while the Seahawks would be the new kids from some state no one has heard of; quietly bad ass, good at math, and about to get The Girl.
In conclusion, let's beat these cunty bullies back into the 70's, and let 'em know that Seattle ain't nothin' to fuck with.
Here are the rules:
Put the title of your poem in the subject bar. Write a Haiku (5-7-5). Flip off your computer screen. Rec to Green all the good ones. Light something on fire.
This is for the Stealers: feel free to put as much hatred, fire, venom, spite, rage, and vitriol as you can in every letter.
Terrible(ly absorbent) Towel
Real cute handkerchiefs
Are they used to clean your field
Once we shit on it?
Say Goodbye to Industry, Mouth-Breathers.
We'll lose Sunday, but
Pitt's main export is sadness.
Last laugh equals ours.