This comes courtesy of my dear baby blue sister:
“We are Carolina.
So as you settle in to watch Wednesday’s game, whether in Seattle or Shanghai, Wake County or West Jefferson, LA or NYC, keep in mind that still, as ever, we’re in this thing together, and we’re bound across these many miles by that which outsiders simply do not understand: a deep, profound,
fiery, spitting hatred of all things dook.
Start now, this morning, and begin prepping yourself
for victory. Begin to focus. Rearrange your schedule if you must, but resolve to get to your chosen game venue in plenty of time. Drink fluids -lots of fluids. And start building your outrage:
Think about Ratface and how it’s all about him.
Think about Paulus’ off-arm push-off on every drive.
Think about how Vitale and Patrick will sing his praises to the highest heavens.
Think about Hendergoon, and the fouls they won’t
call on him. Think about how he’ll be allowed to assault Hansbrough, and how he won’t be made to pay for it by the referees. Think about his vulgar outbursts any time something doesn’t go his way, yet the refs will never “T” him up.
Think about how dook will be allowed to slap, bump, and dive on every defensive possession.
Think about how Demarcus will go flying across the
court to “save” a loose ball that’s 35 feet away, that he has no chance to get to. Think about how hard, and with what primal enthusiasm, his teammates will subsequently embrace him.
Think about Montross’ bloody face.
Think about Stack’s baseline dunk.
Think about Dahntay Jones’ uncalled, three-stitch-producing face scrape on the great Raymond Felton.
Think about wojo. Think about his pansy ass slapping the floor at “coach k court”.
And think about Chris Collins.
Mother. bleeping. Chris. Collins.
Think about Dockery face-shoving Tyler last year, in
the game’s final seconds, when the outcome was already decided. when the dookies were making a run, and Bobby stepping up to the free throw line and calmly smiling and nodding to his teammates that he had ’em, then delivering the proof through the nets.
More than anything, begin this fine morning and start remembering how much you hate dook. Get yourself into a gnarled, throbbing, full rolling boil of hate. Tell your dook co-workers to eat s*** and die.
Sit someplace dark for a while if you can, to organize the your tangled hatred into a single coherent mantra. Let it guide you. Let the hate permeate every cell in your Carolina blue soul until you are one giant biomass of I Hate dook.
It should feel good.
And on Wednesday, take that to the game/bar/living
room, yell like you mean it, and get ready to win.
Cause it’s “the game”, and we are Carolina.”