An Open Letter To Girls Who Pretend To Love Sports

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An Open Letter To Girls Who Pretend To Like Sports

Dear girls that are trying harder than Abercrombie workers who call themselves “models”;

Take a moment and look between your legs. Do you have a third appendage? If not, then you can no longer justify “loving” sports or having a plethora of sports-based facts stored in your head.

Let’s clarify something for the over-zealous freshman that lives her life through TFM: a sport does not include Greek Week, Derby Days, or anything involving dressing up in costumes. It does not include tennis, dancing, riding horses, or riding anything else.

Let’s clarify something else for the dramatic, borderline feminist girls who will be offended by this anyway: there is a narrow line between ladies of quality who are genuinely interested in sports and basic bitches who use sports as a crutch to speak to the opposite sex. This letter is not directed at you, pretty sorority girl. This is directed at the questionable-looking conversation occurring between a top-tier man and an undeniably tacky GDI. What could possibly be spewing out of her mouth that is making him interested? What silk could this Rumpelstiltskin be spinning out of shit? Sports.

If you still cannot clearly spot this harlequin in a crowd, let me highlight some more of her qualities for you. She loves Call of Duty, she drinks beer, she boasts about being the “kind of girl you can have a cheeseburger with,” and she has, at least one time in her life week, said that guys are easier to be friends with than girls are. If this girl approaches you, run. Don’t walk. Run.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’ll be the first to rally people for the tailgate and the last to leave, but can I tell you any statistics besides how many girls I think our quarterback bags? No. If you feel the need to spew sports information out of your mouth, you need to step back and reevaluate yourself. Let me rephrase that: if you need to regurgitate sports facts, or anything too specific about beers, breweries, or hunting in order to get guys to pay attention to you, then you have a problem. You are compensating for lacking something else. Read that again. Compensating. It could be looks, (which can be fixed), or it could be a shitty personality (sucks, sorry).

My alcoholic great grandmother always said that the first step to fixing your problems is admitting that there is one. If you can accept that you have a problem, big ups to you. Now, we can evaluate the rest of your existence and decide which steps need to be made. First of all, keep all that useless sports knowledge in your brain. Yup. Lock it up. If you want to shout these facts while in privacy once you have secured a man, go for it. If you want to join a fantasy football league, keep it a secret. The headliner here? Sports knowledge will not get you laid, but it will make a bunch of sorority girls hate your existence. If you haven’t figured this out, give your cob-webbed vag a chance and shut your mouth.

Let’s take a look at the opposite side here. If you’re asking how can sports be used to your benefit, I can answer that. Sports allow the lesser sex to indulge their competitive, primitive side, while leaving us to take more pulls from the bottle. Sports allows us to ask adorable questions that make men feel great. Sports give your frat daddy and your real daddy common ground when they finally meet. Win-win? Yes.

Let me address an entirely separate issue. The “sports loving” girl is quickly associated with the girl who actually plays sports and has a murky sexuality preference. Uh-oh.

In conclusion, if you feel the need to “break the ice” with some random NFL statistic bullshit, just don’t. Actually, if you feel the need to “break the ice” at all, stop it. Slap on your game-day bow and let the men do the talking.

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