Athlete Make Me So Mad, and Now I’m Mad as He’ll About it (An Op Ed by Your Uncle Randy)

There I was... minding my own business, living a peaceful, God-fearing life when BAM. There he is. Athlete. Right there on my Facebook feed, grinning like he owns the damn gridiron and also my timeline.

Now don’t get it twisted, I don’t hate Athlete. I’m a Christian man. I don’t keep hate in my heart. I just want nothing but misfortune, career setbacks, and public embarrassment for Athlete. Because how dare he.

Athlete makes me so damn mad and now I'm mad as he'll about it.

Who does this dude think he is? Meanwhile, I’m out here setting my alarm, clocking in, doing real work. With my hands. And Athlete? Athlete hasn’t lifted a finger in his entire life.

Now he thinks he can just have things he don't have. Or say things he thinks? About stuff that got nothin’ to do with football. Not on my watch. This country has a certain set of rules you gotta follow, and if you don't follow em, well then you hate not only your country but you hate Freedom.

So I sit. I reflect. What can I say to make Athlete feel the wrath of a man who spent the last 23 years blaming immigrants for potholes?

I think: "He’s a punk." Yes. Yes, Randy. That’s it. That’s gold. We’re cookin’ now.

But it needs emphasis. It needs rage. It needs to scream. It needs… ALL CAPS.

So I begin writing... Letting my pain and confusion pour through these humble hands. These ain't delicate Athlete hands neither. These are calloused hands. Hands that’ve held steaming hot grudges.

“WHO DOES THIS PUNK THINK HE IS” – A masterstroke. You're doing it.

“GO GET A REAL JOB” – Boom. Roasted. Now you're in the meat of this thing, don't back down now, Randall. It's time to bring this bad boy home.

“I BET ATHLETE VOTED FOR THAT POLITICIAN I HATE” – Seamlessly blends politics and sports. It's personal. It's Devastating.

I slam the comment button. My hands tremble slightly, not from emotion, but from the residual buzz of 3 Monster energy drinks that make up 87% of my liquid consumptions and a suppressed scream deep inside me I call "WEDNESDAY."

“It’s done,” I whisper. “Athlete’s been told.”

But then... a flicker. A thought. Why am I like this? Why do I love sports but despise the humans who play them? Why does every win they get feel like a loss for me? Could this all stem from unresolved issues from childhood, a lack of emotional vocabulary, or decades of class struggle propaganda convincing me that anyone successful must’ve cheated to get there?

...

Then I scroll again, and there he is. OTHER ATHLETE.

And he's saying something that also makes me mad as he'll.