Tuesday, 27 Oct 2026
Dear Diary,
(Lord, I apologize to Mrs. Browning for what I’ve done to her lovely sonnet: )
How do I hate thee? Let me count the ways
I hate thee to the depth and breadth and height
My bulldog soul can reach, when feeling the score is tight
For the endzone’s being an ideal place.
I hate thee to the level of gameday’s
Most hateful need, by sun or stadium light
I hate thee freely, as bulldawgs strive for a bite
I hate thee purely, as they run their plays
I hate thee with the passion for abuse
In my old griefs, with my childhood’s faith.
I hate thee with a hate I will not lose
With my lost games. I hate thee with the breath,
The piles, tears, of all my life; and if Kirby choose,
I shall but hate thee better after death.
well done.
Equally literary: Gators Eat Boogers
Gators Drink Zima (and Busch Light).
Natty light the beer of jort nation.
Handbags consider Natty Light to be craft beer.
Needs more vitriol.
(I keed)
In the words of the immortal Slim Pickens, “You use your mouth prettier than a twenty dollar whore.”
Well done but how could you not hat SOS?
(sniff) That’s beautiful, man!
Hang it in the Louvre (or wherever they hang poems)
Aw man that’ just warms my soul.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning overcame many obstacles in life: tuberculosis, poor health, being disinherited by her father after his disapproval of her marriage to Robert Browning. But the biggest challenge she faced in her relatively short life was trying to find a word that rhymes with FUCK THOSE MOTHERFUCKERS.
Gotta admit I’ve been working on this since I read your post.
So far, I got nothing either. Godspeed Ms. Browning