An Open Letter to my Unborn Grandson Explaining the Sport of Football

Dear Unborn Grandson,

Still waiting for the Houston Texans’ upcoming “Divisional Round Dubstep.”

If you are reading this now, two things must have happened. Apparently, a) I have lived like I died, drunkenly paddling a canoe in the buff down the Chicago River, and b) President Malia Ann Obama has outlawed the sport of football in our once-proud United States of America. Luckily for you, I predicted that such travesties would happen — mostly because canuding through the poisonous sludge that is the Chicago River while belligerently intoxicated can have adverse effects on your health — but also because the sport of football was pretty damn dangerous. What follows is all the important knowledge you will ever need to know in order to preserve the memory and history of the sport of football and ensure that you never ever fall prey to the allure of its metrosexual European cousin.

You see, Unborn Grandson, football was the greatest sport ever invented. The perfect combination of brawn and strategy and cheerleaders. Good God, don’t ever let us forget the cheerleaders.

Speaking of God, Yahweh fucking loved football. Just fucking loved it. Loved the sport so much that members of both teams would pray to God, asking for strength, fortitude, a sturdy offensive line, and a guaranteed contract plus incentives. God rewarded good Christians who couldn’t throw a spiral with an impregnable defense, while punishing other franchises with the likes of Cade McNown and Rex Grossman.

God loved football because football fucking ruled. In America, pro football was more popular than if Justin Bieber and cholesterol teamed up with all other major sports combined. No other game combined savage violence with cunning tactics and celebration dances quite like it. The game induced grown men in Philadelphia to throw D-batteries at Santa Claus, wear slices of cheese on their heads as they froze their asses off in Wisconsin, and even every once in awhile travel willingly to Detroit (this, after all, was before the city was overtaken by the mole people).

The athletes who played the game were revered as gods among men. If, you know, the gods were really great at running hitch and go routes and sending pictures of their junk to women they weren’t married to. Even the kickers, whose sole purpose in life was to — you guessed it Unborn Grandson — kick a ball still got laid, an impressive feat for somebody like Sebastian Janikowski.

Back before Google installed screens in all of our heads, we used to watch this magical sport from early Fall until February on things called “televisions,” which showed us the game and expert analysis of the game and hot women drinking shitty beer during breaks in the game. Sidenote: One day, Unborn Grandson, you might think that drinking Busch Light is “hip,” and “retro,” and “ironically hilarious,” but let me tell you, it’s not. All of your little hipster friends in the year 2063 might think it’s really cool to ironically drink your old man’s beer while you listen to Skrillex mp3’s and wear skinny jeans or some shit like that, but those kids have no idea how painful these things were at the time. Just be advised that my will specifically strips you of all rights to my Pokemon card collection if you are ever found Tebowing.

But yeah, TV was pretty great for football, and at the very end of the season, America held a special sacred holiday called Super Bowl Sunday. For one day the entire nation turned its eyes on the two best football teams of the year, who tried very hard to win the championship game and the ensuing confetti and the pretty metal trophy and the rights to wear rings the size of diamond-crusted nuva rings and to cry into Chris Berman‘s microphone. Halftime entertainment featured the very best aging classic rock stars had to offer, and even the occasional rogue booby or floating Usher.

The only thing better than professional football was college football. The college game was as passionate as Sicilians, and its governing body was as corrupt as, well, Sicilians. The rivalries were intense, and the pregames before a noon kickoff were unseemly in the best possible way.

Now, I’m sure grandpop’s alma mater has made quite a name for itself in the future, thanks to alumni like Ross Packingham (Beer Pong Olympic goldmedalist, 2024, 2028) and Chet Haze (Bratz 3D, Forrest Gump 2: Gump n Grind), but we were once a pretty respectable football institution too. We’re talking, like, the 7th most feared Big Ten team.

College football had things called “bowl games” instead of the Super Bowl to commemorate the end of its season. It worked kind of like youth soccer, where almost everybody got a trophy. I can still remember the thrill of victory when Northwestern won its first bowl game since the Rose Bowl, defeating the South Dakota State Jackrabbits in one of the most thrilling Overstock.com Money Grab Bowl in years. Those were the days. Half of the school erupted into celebration while patiently explaining to the other half what a first down was.

But I can only assume that the goddamn liberals and the socialists and the gays and the concussed NFL retirees will collude together to pressure President Malia Obama to ban the sport from America altogether in the near future. I cannot express how tragic of a mistake this will be, on par with our future decision to defrost Walt Disney or replace football with children fighting to the death for our entertainment.

Alright, Unborn Grandson, I hope this letter has reached you well. Please understand how important the sport of football was to all Americans, and don’t judge us too harshly for our cultural transgressions during the YOLO era. Things like twitter and Four Loko seemed like pretty great ideas at the time.

Well, that’s about it. I hope things are well in the future for you and your Roomba overlords. Are they still making teenage fiction about vampires? Has Christopher Nolan won an Oscar yet? How does your generation feel about the Black Keys?

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a river to canude down.

Sincerely,
Evander

Musings on Satan’s Toilet, A.K.A. the Blomquist Recreational Center

“Life is like a box of chocolates – You never know what you’re gonna get”.
– Forrest Gump

“If exercise is also like a box of chocolates, which in fact it is not, then Blomquist is like that box after it has been picked over by an obsessive chocolate connoisseur, leaving only the ones with the inedible citrus middles.”
–      Gwyneth Effingmouth

You may be thinking, “Thanks for a weird, fucked up metaphor, Gwyneth!” Allow me to explain myself.

A layer of hell reserved for all those who took beer from men without paying for it.

Blomquist Recreational Center, or “Blom” for short, is also referred to as Northwestern’s Estrogym. In theory, Blomquist should fit my profile quite well. It’s the closest gym to the sorority quads and full of cardio equipment, and I am in fact a sorositute interested in the benefits of a good cardio sesh. Furthermore, I live in PARC, or “the armpit of Allison,” a res college located in the Deep South of campus. Yet despite the seemingly perfect match between Blom and I, the facility makes me want to puke my guts out – and not just because of vicarious bulimia induced by my sorori-roundings.

Here’s why: Blomquist basically takes exercise, a healthy and possibly enjoyable lifestyle choice, and sucks all of that good shit away with the force of a mega-vacuum, turning the otherwise-innocuous South Campus “gymnasium” into a sweaty, poorly-lit lower layer of Hell. Hence, I only go there when a) I hate myself, or b) I’d get mugged running outside because it’s late in the PM. Without further ado, let me present a well-researched and highly informed argument for why Blomquist is about as unappetizing as that last fermented Russell Stover bonbon in the box:

The Vending Machine
Out of the five times I’ve tried to buy a Powerade, the vending machine has “vended” it to me exactly once. (It was indeed delicious, one thing that even Blom can’t fuck up, but you can get that shit at the C-store.) And it’s intermittent, which means that the problem has been solved and then respawned. My personal hypothesis is that the vending machine is suicidal and on life support, because who wouldn’t want to off themselves after a lifetime dominated by Blom?

The Lighting
According to an inside informant, the lighting at Blomquist is specifically engineered to induce migraines, seizures, and self-loathing. I’m pretty sure I’ve never felt uglier than the few times I’ve seen myself in the gym’s mirrors, including that awkward phase in 6^th grade when calling me “androgynous” would have been a compliment.

The Bathrooms
I’m sorry (not sorry) but they are SO WEIRDLY DESIGNED. WHAT THE FUCK. There are like five doors you have to open before getting to the main event, and they are all grey and heavy and cold, like dead elephants impeding everyone’s basic excretory needs.

However, my main beef with Blomquist is not with the facilities themselves. I’m a rich-ass college kid with an infinite supply of Cap’n Crunch and free Busch Light everywhere I turn. Some kids have to work for the money to buy that shit, and they sure as hell don’t get free gym memberships. No, what really pisses me off is the content that Blomquist’s managers choose to display on:

5% gradation? Seriously bitch?

The Televisions
The Blomquist televisions, placed directly in front of the cardio equipment like barrels under the chins of St. Bernards, invariably display either really shitty soap operas, reality TV, or the Food Network. The former two offerings are understandable as a means of positive motivation. Television series, even vaguely nineties-esque lower-budget ones (and especially MTV-funded shitshows), tend to hire more attractive people than your average university student or BK security guard. When I see attractive people, I’m motivated to look like them, boosting my potential workout. Those shows usually have a couple of major uggo foil characters as well, which is also physically beneficial – when I see fat or unattractive people I cackle to myself, tightening my abs and boosting endorphins.

However. WHAT THE FLYING FUCK is the Food Network doing on a television in front of a bunch of people trying desperately to burn as many calories in as little time as possible? Why are the television operators trying to induce such masochism into the sweating college kids that spend so much of their precious time in this “gym”? It makes one wonder why, despite the fact that elliptical machines and treadmills are practically modern-age torture devices and studies have shown that fancy desserts may or may not equal .2 orgasms on the pleasure scale, we choose the former for ourselves. I’m reminded of that timeless moment from Dodgeball, when White Goodman preemptively punishes his desire for the doughnut in front of him with electric shocks:

“You want it, don’t you, fat boy?
You want that doughnut.
Go ahead and have a bite.
One little bite won’t hurt you.
[ELECTRIC SHOCK]
Momma.”

In sum, I hate Blomquist and you should too. Don’t settle for Khloe “Kim on anabolic steroids” Kardashian, or Ace of Cakes-induced sadomasochism. Run to the Baha’i temple instead and have yourself a religious catharsis. Then maybe you won’t have to spend your free time reading god-forsaken rants about São Tomé and Príncipe.