If you're anything like me, fellow Texans fans, the only real interest you have in this year's Super Bowl is hoping one team or the other loses. But suppose you have an extra special hatred in your heart for one of the teams involved? Then what do you do?
I'll tell you what, dear, gentle, verschnockered readers, you hope for nothing but the worst for the team you loathe. You delight in their stupid penalties, you squeal with child-like glee at that team's misfortune, and you dance around the room like a bonobo monkey on an eight ball of cocaine with a baker's dozen of monkey hookers and a note saying "Have a good time" when the team you despise loses and their star QB collapses to the ground crying like a four year old girl with skinned knees (i.e., Tony Romo).
In short, you become a hater. And with that in mind, I offer you, fellow football degenerates, the Hater's Prayer for Super Bowl XLV in
Oh mighty Gozer the Destructor, we have little time until the Super Bowl and so much potential for misery. I beseech you, o patron god of haters, to cause mischief and havoc unto all those I name here.
May Joe Buck and Troy Aikman be caught on camera spooning together while Buck lovingly strokes Aikman's tear-strewn face saying softly, "There, there, my pet, the Cowboys will be in next year's Super Bowl."
May the wolverine that has been posing as Bud Adams' hair for the last 20 years hop on a flight to wherever Chris Berman is located and eat him alive when Berman gives some player, any player, a stupid, poorly-thought-out nickname.
May the next Super Bowl take place in Nome, Alaska so the sports writers who are whining and bitching about how cold it is in
Dallas Arlington will have something to whine about. And may these spoiled-ass sports writers be forced to spend the entire Super Bowl in a large, poorly constructed igloo, fending off attacks from the lone member of the Nome Tourism Board's pet polar bear (named Virgil).
May pictures surface of Rupert Murdoch, owner of Fox Sports and television host of this year's Super Bowl. May these pictures show Murdoch naked, covered in chocolate sprinkles in bed with an especially unattractive octopus that is not his wife.
May the City of Dallas experience a Chicago Cubs like drought of championships from its sports teams (except the Stars, I like the Stars, and nobody in Dallas cares about them, anyways). Furthermore, may pictures arise of the City of Dallas having a three-way with Buffalo and Detroit so that every other city in the United States may laugh heartily at them.
May someone, anyone, take away the Ark of the Covenant from Jerry Jones' undisclosed location so that whatever the hell happened to his face may never happen to another person ever again.
May whatever the Steelers are paying this year's Super Bowl referees be chump change compared to what they paid the referees in Super Bowls XL and XLIII. May the referees of those two Super Bowls be repeatedly beaten upside the head by drunken midgets formerly employed by "Blunt Heavy Objects Emporium."
May Bill Cowher's mustache be involved in a tragic steel press accident, making him unable to smirk or scowl, and thereby never allowing him to coach a team, ever again.
If, Gozer forbid, the Steelers win, may the Gatorade they douse Mike Tomlin with be laced with liquid heat from the film "Revenge of the Nerds." If the Steelers lose, may Tomlin be kidnapped by Fox employees, heavily sedated and replaced with Omar Epps from "House."
May a live badger, or Gabe Carimi, get tangled up in Troy Polamalu's hair. May the badger, or Carimi, repeatedly bite Polamalu on the head and neck in vain attempts to free itself, or himself.
May James Harrison discover he is, in fact, the true father of Antonio Cromartie's, Travis Henry's, Calvin Murphy's and Shawn Kemp's 264 children. May he also be sued for eleventy trillion dollars in past-due child support payments from these kids' mothers. That should make those NFL fines look like chump change.
And finally, what can you say about Ben Roethlisberger that hasn't been said about Mike Tyson and Kobe Bryant? Ben, may sexually frustrated coyotes run on to the field, mistake you for a plump, juicy sausage, and give you a dose of your own medicine. May these coyotes also have laser beams attached to their heads and bombs strapped to them. When each of them has had their turn, may these coyotes explode on the 50 yard line, thus preventing you from scoring another fraudulent touchdown. I hope, if there are any remaining unexploded coyotes, that animal control pick you up with them and place a plastic cone around your neck, take you back, and have you neutered like the dog you are.
Thank you, Gozer be praised.
Feel free to add your own prayers to Gozer in the comments.