The arms race for most idiotic stunt/promotion between Steelers and Ravens fans in the run-up to the AFC Championship has reached endgame, now that Bawlmer fans can buy fake unibrows to support Bert Flacco, as he endeavors to be the first rookie QB to reach the Super Bowl. But what of the faux Willis McGahee paternity test? The mock Ray Lewis plea bargain agreement to escape jail time? The imitation Todd Heap gimpy hamstring? The apocryphal Rex Ryan shit-eating grin? So much left uncovered.

I’m authentically surprised the anchorwoman didn’t say “The thicker the unibrow, the closer to God.” Guh. Pity Obama for having to stop in that shithole on the way to Washington.

However, little do Ravens fans know, but those things are made out of Haloti Ngata’s pubes.

Earlier this season, I enumerated just a small litany of ways in which Baltimore would barely qualify as a third-rate bombed-out township in the Gaza Strip. I could continue to list these ad infinitum, though I fear my hate would consume all of existence.

More than being possessed of a massive persecution complex that results in them being massive dicksmacks, I loath Baltimore fans for their false sense of toughness. I’d like to think that’s what rooting for a bunch of talk-talking, post-tackle-dancing, bounty-hunting drama queens will do to a fanbase, but I fear the problem runs a little deeper.

An instructive story:

I was at a game at an interleague game at Camden Yards in the spring of 2004 (this being still when the Or-ee-oos were the closest available MLB team to me) during the brief period when the Ravens were trying to orchestrate a trade for Terrell Owens which he nixed in favor of going to Philly (even T.O. isn’t dumb enough to want to play for the Ravens). The game was between the Giants and the Orioles, yet an entire section of Eagles fans had gotten tickets for the express purpose of chanting “WE GOT T.O.! WE GOT T.O.!”

Yes, at a game between the San Francisco Giants and the Baltimore Orioles, a group of Eagles fans had bought up an entire section at a baseball game and driven in just to taunt people from Baltimore about a football transaction that had taken place in the off-season. And this wasn’t a quick little chant. It went on FOR FOUR FULL FUCKING INNINGS! And nobody tried to stop them, save shooting them the occasional ugly look.

See, I respect the doucheiosity of Philadelphia fans. Because they’re legitimately scary. Truth be told, I’d be nervous attending a game at the Linc wearing visiting team colors. Not M&T Bank. Sure, pretend hard-ass Ravens fans will threaten you plenty if you show up in a road jersey. Stabbings, ass-kickings, other vague and unconvincing intimations of violence, what have you. And they’ll act on exactly none of it.

Because behind their (FEARSOME!) purple camo and plastic chains, they’re a bunch of exurban bitches wracked by insecurity. And guilt for having stolen a franchise. And the trademark Baltimore inferiority complex. And a Who’s Who of infectious disease.

Oh, how I hate them and everything in their city.

Okay, that’s not entirely accurate. I enjoy The Comics Curmudgeon guy. His wry take on the daily funnies never fails to brighten even the darkest day. The best part about him? His work is on the Intarwebs, meaning one need not visit Lord Baltimore’s herpetic lesion on the Chesapeake Estuary to access it.

For the rest of Bawlmer, let me extend to you my fondest Festivus greeting:

DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE

Preferably getting capped in the street like Bodie.

If you find yourself confronted with an NFL postseason without a rooting interest and unmoved by Don Cheadle soliloquies, you must draw from the well of that most powerful of human emotions. Ok, well, lust probably won’t do here. But the second most powerful, hate, will serve as a fine proxy. This is the first second in a series of posts filled with bile, spleen, vitriol and all-around nastiness toward all the teams involved with the sordid roundelay we know as the NFL Playoffs.

At the Hogwart’s School of Towson, the honmaster has taught us many important incantations for bedazzling the foes of the fearsome black magic Ravens. I have spent several semesters honing my mystical techniques. Observe!

[Twirls magical lacrosse stick]

Officiatus Culpatimatum!

With this spell, I can blame everything on the NFL and officials hating the Ravens. And none will be the wiser. A pox on you, Walt Coleman. May Terrell Suggs threaten you and not follow through on it!

Metropolicon Insecurious!

One chant of this and I can make it rain in all the cities that surround Baltimore that I hold a grudge against for being better than my hometown. WHAT GAVE YOU THE RIGHT!?

[Shakes lacrosse stick angrily at all the superior cities that surround Baltimore]

Judicious Obstructinium!

Now Ray Lewis can kill anyone he wants and announcers will continue to push his post-conviction religious awakening! He’s God’s linebacker! Yet he’s spending eternity jumping on piles of bodies in the eternal hellfire. Just don’t jump on Johnny U, Ray-Ray!

HHHEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!

That’s not really a spell. We Ravens fans just like Todd Heap far more than any other player. I can’t really pin down why. I mean, he’s not the best player on the team. Not even in the top 5. For some reason, we feel a kinship with him, like we share some ineffable common trait. I bet he’d love to go downy o-shun with us! He’s so approachable!

Sure, Pittsburgh won the Super Bowl as a 6-seed three years ago with an 11-5 record and an inexperienced quarterback, but if we can’t do it, we’ll shrug it off by saying Flacco is rookie. And you’ll buy it, because you fell under the flummox spell of Muddle. You might even be duped into acquiring a Ravens fan’s overpriced Purple Cloak of Invisibility from White Marsh. Mwahaha! Tremble at my puckish grin, muggle!

Woooo! McTrain, Go. Crush the teams we should beat and lose to the ones we shouldn’t. That’s the Ravens way! Now excuse me, I must teleport myself far away from this horrid, crime-ridden city.

Pikesville Transporto!

The day we’ve all feared has arrived, friends. Observe this photo a reader sent us from Sunday’s game at M&T Bank Stadium. WHAT IS THAT SCRAGGLY HEAD DOING JUST FLOATING THERE!?

The purple camo pants were bad enough. But now with the purple camo jacket and hood, they’ve completed the outfit. They’re virtually undetectable to the naked eye. With their advances in camo wear, Ravens fans can lurk among us completely unseen! Who knows what horrendous acts they can commit unbeknownst to us.

Observe this seemingly innocuous photo of a couple innocently enjoying a picnic.

Oh, it looks idyllic enough. At least to the untrained eye. But there’s actually a Ravens fan sitting next to them. Look harder. Harder. Squint hard enough aaaaand…See! I told you! He’s just sitting there whispering something stupid like “Move Those Chains” or even complaining about the refs. He’ll swipe your food for his lame Ravens Festivus playoff run feast.

Y’know, when I think about it, Under Armour should really strive to be the official manufacturer of these. What better way to mask all the illegal immigrants they hire.

Beware, Cowboys fans. Beware. For all you know, there may be a Ravens fan behind you at this very moment. Just start stabbing air, it’s the only way to be safe.

Thanks to reader Chris for the pic. Sorry you had to go to Bawlmer to get it.

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.