Sure. You thought it was a good idea, just like all the mad geniuses do. I’ll bring something into the world that no one’s seen before, and just leave it to rot here, to fend for itself, like some kind of half-frog, half-man. It’s new! Bigger! Stronger! Faster! We had to be…different, didn’t we?

You couldn’t just use the classic Nebraska logo, right? That’s be nasty. Square. Uncool. You couldn’t just be a pigeon–you had to be a peacock, didn’t you, Strutty McFeatherass? Nooooo, you have Sam Keller promising to complete 65% of his passes. You’ve got an offensive line promising not to give up 68 sacks in two yearsYou have the Big 12 North sitting there wide open like the legs of a giddy, strapping, whiskey-drunk farmgirl who climbed down off that Husqvarna just for little old you. . You’ve got old Rageface in Boulder taking his team paintballing and listening to him tell fucked-up Zen koans. WAAAAaaaahhhh Nansen kills a kitten. Big shittin’ deal–I’d thank the Zen monk that would scrape me off your cursed, sweaty epidermis. No one’s offering to put me out of my misery in the name of Zen.

You asshole. You don’t even know what I go through. Everyone will know what it is, dude! Oh, that sounded like a peachy idea back at the tattoo shop in Omaha, where you picked the man to do it based on that AWESOME skull with the snake crawling through the eyes, except the snake turned into a woman? A Vargas girl, right? You wouldn’t recognize a Vargas girl if one woke up sitting on your face, Captain Strikeout. That tattoo looked like a beestung blowup doll sutured to a garden hose. Oh we know some sexxayyyy, don’t we after eight drinks, huh?

Hell, the closest we’ve–and oh, I do regret having to say “we” when it means me and you in a pitiful unit–come to getting any in my short and miserable existence as a ghost of the paint cast in flesh has been you jacking off to Bangbros.com. And you don’t even clean off the mouse for your roommates. You’re going to hell for this and you don’t even know. It’s one thing with lotion, sure. But we’re talking about baby oil. And they suspect–ugh, again–us. Again, I didn’t ask to be born into this garbage scow you call a life–all we want is the right to jump off into the oblivion of sweet death. Me and Spalding Gray tap dancing on the waves, baby. That’s the only dream I have left anymore.

If you could hear what I hear. They think I look like a young, stroke-stricken John Madden. I CAN HEAR IT ALL, asshole. Everyday. If you only knew the hell I stroll through every day. What’s with the retard farmboy? Huh? If you’d just used the logo. Stayed within the lines. Some people in life get all 64 Crayolas. Some get the 16 pack. You’re clearly not ready for burnt sienna. And you’re not ready to make your own tattoo, especially after nine drinks in Omaha. Why, oh why couldn’t you have gotten laid that night? I’d have never breathed a single putrid breath. Oh, sweet, lamentable possibilities.

And you know what? The offensive line could suck again, Charlie. And we could lose to Rageface and his prissy little Zen clogs and Stephen Covey Habits of Highly Successful People horseshit, or to the glandular hobgoblin in Kansas, or to any of them. We’re replacing everyone on the defensive line, and still have an 0-5 mark against top ten opponents. Any of them could shame them and make people stare at me and make me wish I could move enough to stab myself in the neck with that stupid piece of corn in pocket and end this misery forever.

But I can’t, because I’m a shitty tattoo, and you’re the assfaced donkeyfucking shitwidget who brought me into this life. When you’re in the hospital, at the end of all this, guess who’s going to be rooting for your little goal line stand to fail and put us both out of our misery? One mutated, paralyzed, retard Madden Husker tattoo trapped on your hide for all eternity.

May God have mercy on your soul, assface.