There is nothing in this life — no task too tall, no challenge too great — that cannot be conquered or managed without the help of HBO’s sports series “Hard Knocks.”
Whether it’s 300-pound linemen displaying the benefits of the physically taxing “Shake Weight” or Antonio Cromartie making a case for Father of the Year, there are lessons that one can take away from the hour-long brodeo and apply to everyday life.
For today’s lesson, boys and girls, we turn to our favorite turkey-necked tough guy: Rex Ryan.
In one episode, his players are seen practicing like a bunch of autistic pregnant women. In the team meeting later that night, Rex goes Shakespearean.
“Let’s make sure we play like the (expletive) New York Jets and not some (expletive) slapdick team.”
There’s been a lot of talk recently about how our university is turning into a collegiate train wreck: You would think after hearing some of our fans that the Four Horsemen were moments away from riding down University Avenue to drink the blood of the innocent and the diseased.
That, my friends, is being a “slapdick” Gator.
“Oh sweet Jesus, we lost some football games and our name isn’t higher on a few lists; everyone to the fallout shelter!” Please don’t tell me we’ve become that girl at the bar who kills the whiskey buzz by talking about how she’s been hurt too many times and all the other gooey Hallmark card material. If you’re one of those kids who clings to those rankings, just do the world a favor and choke down car exhaust. They mean as much as statistics in the WNBA.
The University of Miami has us beat us in academics. So what? They’re paying five figures a semester to go to a Jersey Shore prison yard. I’m just happy to see that the work-release program gets results.
We’re not No. 1 in partying. I have yet to discover the difference between No. 1 drunk and No. 7 drunk. The beer tastes just as good, the Kenny Powers quotes are still as funny and the fat girls are still as annoying and hopeless.
Do I care about winning? You’re damn right I do. I’m not afraid to use nut-taps to get shotgun in the car, break up double-plays in intramural softball and use whatever nipple cleavage or suggestive pelvic thrust I can to distract an opponent in beer pong overtime. It’s never OK to admit to mediocrity. I don’t care what the rankings say; I’m still not going to acknowledge dominance from some women’s college, no matter what these socialist numbers say. I’m also still going to chant “USA!” at the most inappropriate places as well as Ric Flair strut down Midtown because my blood alcohol content is enough to kill a schoolyard of children. Whoooo!
Speaking of pro wrestling, I know Sgt. Slaughter’s offensive playcalling for our football team can be trumped by a 5-year-old Asian who plays Madden. I yell out soul-rotting things, too, when our center executes the Pouncey Bouncey. But for the love of God, just because you know the option is coming (as do the other 90,000 people in the stands) does not make you the second coming of Brian Belichick. We win, we rage. We lose, we rage. Our team is not that bad — imagine having to wake up knowing you have season tickets to Duke football. Whenever you can’t stomach another the third-and-6 draw plays to Jeff Demps, just close your eyes and quietly tell yourself, “It’s still not Dan Werner. It’s still not Dan Werner.”
Now let’s go eat a goddamn snack!
C.J. Pruner is a fourth-year journailsm major and a freelance editor at the Alligator.
