When asked by a reporter why he thinks the Ravens hate everyone’s favolite smalt smirretime leceivel, Hines Ward was at a loss. After all, the Ravens put a bounty on him then issued a bullshit denial to the media so they wouldn’t get suspended. After mulling it over a bit, Hines gave a very telling answer:

Hating Hines’ smirre? That’s like hating puppy dogs, big luscious titties or The Dark Knight on Blu-Ray. It’s impossible. And here I thought I was capable of unreasoning hate. You Ratbirds are sick! Sick, I say!
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Your regularly scheduled WHO YA GOT? is being canceled postponed in favor of a liberal application of hate directed at Baltimore. Happy Holidays.

The NFL is finally catching onto the fact that the Steelers and the Ravens comprise the most heated rivalry going in the league right now. It’s got everything: hate, threats of violence, bragging about violence when it’s administered and two cities that have nothing better to do than obsess over sports. As someone well-versed in the ways of petty yet all-consuming hatred, I can tell you this is good shit.

Sure, the Ravens as a team are a band of craven tough-talking thugs who put out bounties on players after they lose, but there’s so much more to despise. Like the city they play in, for instance. It’s just like Richmond, Virginia, only with professional sports teams and more murder and syphilis! Here’s a quick rundown from me, an unabashed hater who wishes they all die while watching a screening of Hairspray.

FUCK YOU to Bart Scott. At least Ray Lewis has actually done something with his career, so he can get away with killing folks and dancing after every tackle. But you, you’re a poor man’s Carlos Emmons. Nice 1.5 sacks this season, superstar.

FUCK YOU, Rex Ryan, you giant goofy mongoloid. Way to stick around the team after getting passed over for head coach in favor of someone who looks like he’s 17. I bet he polishes off six bacon cheese rolls by kickoff.

FUCK YOU to the Chesapeake Bay. It’s not even a bay. “Behold the majestic estuary and its wiped-out crabbing industry!”

FUCK YOU to Cumberland, Dundalk, Frederick, Hagerstown, Towson, Calvert County, Annapolis, the Eastern Shore and all the other places the white people of Baltimore fled to rather than live in scary, scary Charm City. Enjoy your commute to M&T Bank in your frightening VW Bugs, you Old Bay-seasoned dicks.

FUCK YOU and your blubbering excuses. “Oh, Steelers fans only overwhelm M&T Bank Stadium because no one lives in Pittsburgh anymore.” Sure, Pittsburgh has lost 300,000 residents since the 1950s. You know another city that has lost 300,000 residents in the same time span? Baltimore.

FUCK YOU for taking pride in The Wire. “Hey, someone made a compelling drama about how our city is an unlivable, horribly mismanaged hellscape! B-MOOOOOORRRRREEEE” I hope you get left in a vacant townhouse.

FUCK YOU, Barry Levinson. Diner is overrated and Avalon is treacly garbage. Why can’t you make Baltimore-gets-nuked movies like Sum of All Fears?

FUCK YOU, Cal Ripken. Way to have your production slip so you can keep your precious streak going. And Carrie Fisher admires the way you’ve let yourself go, Iron Ham. On top of all that, you were the childhood hero of A-Rod. He kept a poster of you in his bedroom as a kid. That’s right. You’re A-Rod masturbation fodder.

FUCK YOUR alternative black uniforms. Notice how the Ravens incorporate more black into their lame jerseys seemingly every year? Quit copying the Steelers, you festering purple lumps of Grimace shit.

FUCK YOU for stealing Edgar Allan Poe. He’s more connected to Philly than your shit town.

FUCK YOU to 20-year-olds in Johnny Unitas jerseys. The Colts have been in Indy for almost a quarter century and they aren’t coming back, except to beat the Ravens in the playoffs. Even if you were born before 1984, you sure as shit weren’t around for Johnny U. Give it up.

FUCK YOUR aquarium. It’s the only good thing in that pit of despair you call a city. No wonder it costs $800 to get in.

FUCK YOU, Michael Phelps. You were retarded on Colbert last night plugging your ghostwritten book, just like you were on SNL, Entourage and the million other shows you’ve been on in your post-Olympics overexposure tour. I hope you die in the middle of a desert miles away from any body of water, you awkward dolphin dick.

FUCK Francis Scott Key. Thanks for giving dipshit Baltimore fans an opportunity to scream OOOOOOOOOOOOOO during the Anthem.

FUCK YOU, Natty Boh. Disgusting fucking crab juice of a beer. And it’s not even brewed in Baltimore anymore. Why don’t you take pride in a more hometown drug, like heroin laced with AIDS?

And lastly, FUCK YOU, purple camo pants, if only I could find you. You blend so seamlessly with your surroundings. One day I’ll track you down.

DON’T HATE ON FISHER HOUSE THOUGH! This week, we’re holding the second annual KsK Kares Kharity Drive for Fisher House, which helps build temp housing for disabled veterans and their families. You can donate directly to FH here.

With no Marion Barber, Romo will have to keep his throwing pinkie warm, as the expected wind chill at kickoff in Pittsburgh is going to be in the neighborhood of 7 degrees. In the meantime, I’d like to extend a hearty fuck-you-in-the-pants to NFL Network for playing Super Bowl XIII on loop all weekend, you jinxing assholes.

So how are Dallas fans dealing with yesterday’s news that Barber will be absent? Cautious optimism tempered with wisdom and restraint?

I love you, dipshit Cowboys fans. Don’t ever change.

Somehow this is only the third meeting between Steelers and Cowboys since Super Bowl XXX. Reading the chapter in Boys Will Be Boys about the game exhumed some rather unpleasant memories. But the most embarrassing for me was the fact that I bet our school’s equivalent of Jimbo, Dolph and Kerney $100 straight-up that Pittsburgh would win that game, knowing full well they weren’t gonna give me shit even if I won the bet. I was tired of being taunted that there was no way the Steelers were going to win and wanted the stupidest way possible to show I had faith in my team. Well placed, of course!

You stupid sexy, sexy kid!

Then two months later, I contracted Bell’s Palsy (Just like Jim Ross!) and had to spent the next five months getting electroshock therapy on my face to clear it up.

Fuck, I hated 1996.

The first time I ever met a Patriots fan was 10 days after my 20th birthday. It was week 1 of the 2002 season, the Steelers and Patriots held the first-ever regular season game in Gillette, a rematch of the previous season’s AFC Title Game. Only where I was watching the game, there wasn’t one of them, there was somehow a crowd of Pats fans. I honestly couldn’t believe it. Where had these people been during the run the previous year? Or, more to the point, at any point ever?

Back in high school, I remember a discussion me and my friends had about which team jerseys you would never see anyone wearing in public. We hashed out the following: the Cardinals, Jaguars, Seahawks and Patriots (I’m sure the Texans would join that list if it were made after the 2002 season and the Seahawks would probably be off it now). Granted this was made by a bunch of teenagers outside D.C., so regional factors had something to do with it, but of all those teams, the Pats had the least excuses. They had been to two Super Bowls. We were on the East Coast, hardly far from their territory. Red Sox hats, those were easy to pick out. So why not even so much as one Bledsoe jersey?

It’s not as though Pats fans didn’t exist, but the only place I ever stumbled upon them was AOL chats when the Steelers and Patriots exchanged playoff wins in ’96 and ’97. Still, the change from near nonexistent fanbase to ’90s Cowboys-esque bandwagon practically overnight was staggering and unlike anything I’d ever seen in sports.

I didn’t hate the Pats after the ’01 loss, at least no more than the Chargers and Broncos teams that had won in the playoffs in Three Rivers in the ’90s. The gloating, smug fans I’d met in ’02 got the hate ball rolling. Then as the years wore on, the fans got more omnipresent, the team got more cocky, more fawned upon by the media and added dicksmacks like Corey Dillon, Rodney Harrison, Vince Wilfork and Randy Moss.

Anyway, all of this is a long way of saying I hope every Pats fan gets run through with a broadsword so they can watch their viscera leak all over their goddamn John Lynch jerseys. Go the most ethnically diverse corner of Hell, you racist Masshole fucks.

Also, the NFL is encouraging me to embrace my hateful impulses this holiday season by scheduling the Steelers against the Patriots, Cowboys and Ravens the next three weeks.