A Letter to the Drunk Football Fans Outside my Window

Dear Assholes, or as you may call yourselves, football fans,

Hi, this is where I would say I hope all is well, but we both know that's not necessary today, as I've heard that you are in fact doing quite well and in quite vigorous health at the moment, so congrats on maintaining that vigor in spite of your functional alcoholism. I'm writing to you today to discuss some concerns I've had regarding your ongoing behavior.

Today I woke up, as I have approximately every other Saturday this fall, to find a gaggle of central NJ inbred rednecks in the parking lot across from my building. These inbred rednecks are yourselves of course, as I'm sure your mom-cousin can confirm for you. Now while I do admit for a deep hatred and fire in my heart for you, surprise is not something I have, as I, much like a dog, which may I add is an animal I believe to posses much more cognitive ability than you do, have been conditioned to expect certain behavior from you, the collective crowd.

Taking our circumstances in stride, I decided to be proactive. This meant self-imposed exile from my room for the day to find a quiet place in the library, and no, not the one where I can still hear you, but the other one, which I need to catch the ever-so-temperamental weekend bus to get to. I left my room, passed by you while praying for a meteor to hit the parking lot you call your Saturday home, tried to do some mental math regarding how many empty beer bottles I could see (I'm still counting the numbers), and made my way onto the bus, comforted by the thought that when I return to my room, you will be dearly departed, even if unlike most dearly departed, you'll simply return like the antibiotic-resistant disease I know you to truly be. But regardless, at least you'd be gone for the day.

        OR SO I HAD MOTHERFUCKING THOUGHT

Yet, to my great surprise upon my return, here you are, still present, but somehow even more drunk and louder than before. While I do consider myself to be a certified connoisseur of 1980s musical classics, I'm very sorry to say that your slovenly, half-shouted renditions of"Hurts So Good" and "Summer of '69" don't quite warm my heart the same way that you perceive that 12-pack of Budweiser you consumed in a single day by yourself to have warmed your own circulatory system.

So here we find ourselves, with you, sitting in the dark, at 6:30 pm, not having moved more than 10 feet in approximately 10 hours, still the same thorns in my side you were before, and me, overhearing your never-ending antics while I attempt to study, and praying, to Moses, Jesus, and even Mohammad, that maybe, just maybe, if a single one of my prayers has been answered, that someone at Budweiser's factory, in a moment of divine intervention, spilled a little cyanide in your beer cases that you had purchased on Friday on your weekly alcohol run.

But alas, it seems that for another week, my prayers remained unanswered, as you continue to be in excellent spirits for displaying your team spirit, as much as it pains me. Congratulations on your continued fervor and liveliness, but may I kindly request that you keep your backwoods, John Deere hat wearing, crappy beer guzzling, rowdy, trashy asses away from my window next time.

Thanks, and I'll see you in the parking lot again in two weeks.

With all the vitriol and hate that his sweet little heart can muster,

Brycersonic