Hate restores us. Hate focuses us. Hate keeps us warm at night and spoons us if we so desire it. And no time is hate more powerful – more necessary – than the postseason, when those we despise are so close to getting what they want. I don’t get what I want, so f*ck those guys. There are countless reasons to hate anyone. Some of which you might not be aware. Or been made to realize that they are worthy of scorn. Well, you came to the right place. Allow us to guide you to the darkest recesses of the soul, where the streets run dark green with bile and everyone knows your embarrassing nickname.

Although the Cowboys have the nickname “America’s Team,” it’s the Pittsburgh Steelers who deserve the moniker. The massively popular Steelers have won an NFL-best six championships — an honor that includes beating the only two 9-7 teams to reach the Super Bowl (Rams in SB XIV, Cardinals in XLIII — both times requiring 4th quarter comebacks to do so) and the worst performance by a winning quarterback in Super Bowl history (Ben Roethlisberger, SB XL).

The Steelers, of course, are named after the once-burgeoning steel industry that was based in Pennsylvania, and the team’s popularity is oddly tied to the industry’s failure. Starting in 1970, U.S. Steel couldn’t compete with low-wage foreign manufacturers, a problem that was aggravated by a recession that started in 1973, kicking off a widespread diaspora from the Pittsburgh region. At the same time, the Steelers won four of seven Super Bowls between 1974 and 1979, ensuring that the steel-making dipshits who lagged behind all other industries in forming unions raised a new generation of disphits who liked the Steelers, even though they were being raised in non-shitholes rather than the fallow gray hell of Pittsburgh (such as Curt Schilling, who was born in Alaska and went to high school in Arizona). It also opened the door for bandwagon fans of the greatest and dumbest magnitude, intellectually bankrupt idiots who enjoy the simplicity of following a winner and the color black (see: Snoop Dogg, born and raised in Los Angeles).

So that’s why there are nine different Steelers bars in Charlotte, five in Honolulu, five in Boise, eight in Chicago, three in Omaha, 15 in Manhattan, and on and on and fucking on. The continued success of the team combined with the death of American steel has guaranteed an endless font of hangers-on and people who find self-worth in aligning themselves with a winning football team. At least Detroit and Cleveland had the decency to crumble in such a way as to inspire a modicum of sympathy.

The Steelers faithful, spoiled by unparalleled success, exceed every other fan base in size, annoyance, and wearing replica jerseys to formal events. They bemoan the one Super Bowl — ONE out of SEVEN — that the Steelers lost (“Damn Neil O’Donnell!”). They lament the terrible reign of Kordell Stewart, an electric (if imperfect) player who made the Pro Bowl and is better than any quarterback that the Bears or Bills have had in the last 20 years. For his trouble, Steelers fans spread rumors that Stewart was gay. They complain about Ravens fans complaining about the referees (more than Ravens fans actually complain about the referees), they complain about Seahawks fans complaining about Super Bowl XL (more than Seahawks fans actually complain about Super Bowl XL), and they’ll certainly dismiss my vitriol as jealousy and/or bitterness, because redirection prevents self-reflection. Pointing the finger somewhere else is the only way they know how to ignore their own appalling behavior and collective lack of self-awareness.

Holy fuck, what a gigantic cluster of inflamed bleeding assholes.

If the fan base weren’t bad enough, the media exacerbates the problem with unwarranted fellatio of the franchise at every step. Fox has shoved that braying jackass Terry Bradshaw down our throats longer than I can remember. CBS treats Bill Cowher like a god when he’s arguably the least-deserving Super Bowl-winning coach of the last decade (Brian Billick and Jon Gruden warrant mentions). You can’t watch the Steelers run the ball in the 4th quarter without an announcer lauding the team with an appreciative, “THAT’S JUST GOOD STEELERS FOOTBALL” — as if the Steelers invented running with a lead. And for everyone’s sake, let’s not even talk about Jerome Bettis. Ever.

The worst praise for Pittsburgh, though, has to be the bullshit notion that the Rooney family runs the Steelers “the right way.” If the “right way” meant running a winning organization, I couldn’t help but agree. But pundits say the “right way” meaning that the Steelers are run with some kind of moral rectitude the other 31 teams in the NFL don’t have. You’ll forgive me if I don’t see the moral rectitude in keeping your rape-accused quarterback while ridding the team of a wideout guilty of a marijuana misdemeanor, or winning four Super Bowls with coach-approved steroid use. I’m not saying that other teams are better in this regard; I’m merely saying that the Steelers are just as dirty and cutthroat as any other team in the league, and to say otherwise is a steaming load of horse shit.

In conclusion, fuck Ben Roethlisberger. The world would be a better place if he had died in 2006 with his australopithecine brain painted on the pavement. Fuck Hines Ward. Smiling doesn’t mean you’re not a cheap-shotting asshole. Fuck Joey Porter, the most sensitive little bitch to ever put on football pads. Fuck James Harrison. Go ahead and retire, you attention-whoring crybaby piece of shit. You’ll be replaced by some other defensive stud and spend the rest of your life not getting thanked for being the only reason the Steelers won Super Bowl XLIII. Fuck Jeff Reed, who could have won the Duke Lacrosse Memorial Award for most stereotypical entitled drunk jock douchebag if he didn’t have a colossal fuckstick like Roethlisberger in the same locker room. Fuck the Terrible Towel. There’s nothing terrible about it, and I don’t appreciate the proceeds going to retarded kids. It’s like robbing Peter to pay Paul.

But most of all, fuck Steelers fans. You’re the Yankee fans of football: spoiled and unaware of what it means to love a team through actual bad times. You may be louder and more numerous, but your love for your team will never match the love I have for mine, and the hate you have for me can never match the repulsion I feel in my gut my when I see one of you overgrown cockroaches in a Steelers jersey. You’re filth. Scum. A disease of NFL fandom. I’d rather spend the next five decades unmarried and die alone of ass cancer than procreate with a permed wench in a Polamalu jersey, because I’d rather have my seed and my surname eradicated from the Earth than take the chance that my progeny would lack the basic human competency to cheer for any other football team on the planet.

Eat shit, get fucked by rusty concertina wire, and die.

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