Dear Northwestern Football: Can You Start Losing Games So My Dad Will Stop Calling Me?

Hey Northwestern Football. Nice 5 and 0 record, assholes. Have you never given a thought to how this reckless, winning behavior affects others? How your selfish decisions might hurt the little guy? That’s right: you fucked me. You were so good you brought my dad back into my life.

 We used to have the perfect father-son relationship: none. He didn’t understand me at all, and basically ditched me as his son entirely when my little brother started playing high school lacrosse. But then you dickheads gave him an opening to connect with me by rising to a top ten spot in the CFP Poll for the first time ever. And now he keeps calling me out of the blue to “Talk some pigskin.”

 Normally I could just get out of any situation where we could possibly converse by casually mentioning my double major in Theatre and Gender & Sexuality Studies. He would just murmur “This generation,” and leave the room, and I’d be happy. But now he’s texting me “How bout them cats?” every Saturday afternoon. And when I came home for Thanksgiving, he trapped me in the living room to talk about something called a “Mike Hankwitz Defensive Schemata?” He's even pretended to tackle me every time we passed one another in the hallway, all while laughing maniacally. I'm genuinely scared.

 So, please, I beg you: start losing games. If you have any empathy for your fellow man, you’d lose to Michigan State this Saturday by at least two touchdowns and a field goal. The last few days of my life have been so bad, I know what both of those things are now. I know you’ve got it in you; you played so badly last year he took me out of his will. If you lose, you're losing for all of Northwestern. You're losing for me.

 And Northwestern Basketball: Don’t even fucking think about it.