I hope Marshawn Lynch gets sawed in half by Aldon Smith and NaVorro Bowman Sunday.

I want Richard Sherman to get smoked on a 70-yard TD bomb from Kaepernick to Crabtree so for once, for the love of god, Sherman will look up at the scoreboard and have absolutely nothing to say.

I want to see the fear in Russell Wilson’s eyes Sunday, the same look Cam Newton had last week – the kind of fear that tells the 49er defense they have this one.

I want the otherwise fabulous city of Seattle to endure heartbreak and crushing pain.

These are stupid things to hope for. These are dumb things to wish for. We live in a world where there are about 847 more important things happening, yet I am just like you – Sunday cannot get here fast enough.

I want the Bronco linebackers to wipe that smug grin off Tom Brady’s face. I am so sick of the Patriots. I am sick of everything about them. I want them to lose by 73 and have their players carted off the field on stretchers.

Wait. Do I really want that to happen?

Of course not. That’s crazy talk. People who wish for things like that are fat, sweaty, knuckle dragging, women hating, “overly focused” AM radio talk show hosts and the morons who call those shows, those idiots who will hang on hold for an hour or two for the glorious opportunity to break down A-gap defensive schemes and masturbate in front of their laptops to their fantasy teams. These are the people who have nothing to live for except American football, this militaristic, violent, draped-in-patriotic-bunting gladiator competition played by more than a few men who cannot read or write at anything much past 6th grade level because they did not attend one minute of class during their free ride at _____ (fill in southern US university here).

78% of NFL players will have no money left when the cheering stops and their (average) three year career ends. Making it rain in the club tonight – working as a janitor tomorrow. Didn’t think you’d need that degree, did you?

Seven billion people on Earth and only Americans (and a few Canadians) refuse to love Earth’s sport: soccer – the sport of the planet. No, that’s not for us, we gun toting, Doritos munching, beer-swilling Americans. Soccer’s too nuanced and subtle, too poetic and graceful. That’s not for us. It’s not manly enough.

We care about the players as long as we care, and not a minute longer. What the hell is wrong with a country that would support a $10 billion industry that spits out players as fast as they take them in, leaving some of them with brains the consistency of oatmeal?

You don’t give a crap about these men after they leave the game. You’re not fans of the people after they take off the uniform. They chose this life, you say; who are you to judge their life choices?

All you really want is for Denver to cover and you want to buy shots with your winnings and stuff your face with tri-tip, grease dribbling down your fat face, wearing that ridiculous jersey, your boiler sticking out in all its glory. That’s what you live for, to rid yourself of the stench of everyday real life, your ugly wife, and your crappy job.

This Sunday my wife and kids will be yelling,”Russell Wilson!!” about 63 times, rooting for the Seahawks because Wilson is a former Wisconsin Badger and that’s the school everyone in my house roots for. Everyone in my house except me, of course, a loyal Iowa Hawkeye. Our house loves football, Big Ten style. Except there are 17 teams in the Big Ten. The conference administrators can’t freaking count.

I hate the criminality of college football. I hate the Neanderthal nature of the pro sport, where we celebrate violence and pain and heads getting cracked.

I watch football on Thursdays, Saturday nights, Sundays, and Mondays. I watch and I watch some more. I watch bowl games, one after another. I eat, drink, and breathe football, from September to February.  Should I be ashamed that I want Pete Carroll to choke on his gum and is it bad I hope 49ers coach Jim Harbaugh walks up to him at midfield Sunday after the 49ers win and levels him with a right haymaker, or perhaps channelling WWE, a folding chair?

Football is about adrenaline. It’s passion. It’s character and poise, this game. It’s ballet and gymnastics juxtaposed in top of Riddell and Schutt helmets “protecting” black, white, and brown faces painted with eye black, those eyes sullen and focused, the eyes of the warrior, the warrior who is so dedicated to his team he will stumble on the battlefield with one leg and one arm, seeing double vision, anything to be on the field, anything to be part of the action.

I’m reading the smack between Seattle and San Francisco on Twitter and Facebook and I’m doing everything in my power to not comment, to not like, to stay away from the dullards, nitwits and douchebags who think this Sunday is important, more important than the 847 other more important things we should be passionate about.

Let’s count the number of times Seattle cornerbacks hug, mug, grip, and hold 49er receivers. Oh wait, I know – every single play! Then they’ll be nice and chippy, talking about Anquan Boldin’s mama and god knows what else. Annoying.

Tom Brady acts like he deserves to lay down on a memory foam futon and be fed grapes when he’s in the pocket. If a Denver defender comes within three feet of his handsome mug he’ll scream at the officials for mercy. God, I hate him. I hate him because he’s good, really good, Hall of Fame good, and he doesn’t play quarterback for my real #1 team, the Chicago Bears, historically a team built on a ferocious, savage defense that made lesser men quiver in fear, now a well-meaning but mushy D line you can drive a big rig or a Mini Cooper through. Jay Cutler? Oh for christ.

Football is just so great. Football is just so stupid. Football is life. Football is a joke and the planet laughs at us.

I hope Patrick Willis chops Percy Harvin into thin Julienne strips of human as he reaches for that pass on the slant.

I hope 60,000 Seattle football fans rip their vocal chords into shreds while the 49er defense stops Marshawn Lynch at the 1-yard line, twice.

I can’t wait for Sunday.

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