bars bikes fat people firls Florida Gators Gainesville jogging mark sanchez midtown NFL philadelphia eagles riley cooper salty dog saloon University of Florida
Because I can’t just play sports reporter all the time.
It’s 11 p.m. on a Saturday night, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m not going out. Playing phone tag with 17-year-old kids has sucked the life out of me. I mean that in the most non-creepy, non-Mark Sanchez way possible.
Let’s take some time to pass out notes to the people of the lovely center of education and $2 wells that we call Gainesville.
Dear competing runner girls: You know who I’m talking to. I’m talking to you, the two girls on opposite sides of Union Road who are fueling each other’s half-ass attempts to train for what I can only assume would be the sexiest Boston Marathon of all time. You both stop running, but immediately begin scrolling through your respective iPods because you of course slowed down to flip to the new Roscoe Dash song, not because you’re tired.
But then one of you starts again and the other briefly looks away and misses the challenge, so you can imagine the hectic sprint that follows you turning your head to the right. My message to you is simple: stop it.
No, don’t stop running. That would be a tragedy. There are approximately two things I look forward to when I head to class these days. One of them is you running, and I can’t think of the other. And you know this about the general male populous of the campus. It’s why you run through the chaos of Turlington in a sports bra, and shorts that I can only describe as … gulp.
So stop acting like you really care about competing with the girl across the street. You’re running is for show, not vital cardio. It doesn’t take three miles of jogging to burn off the Waldorf salad from Designer Greens and the granola bar that you are going to stretch out over three meals today. You’re both succeeding by showing up.
Dear Salty Dog Saloon: One of my favorite guilty pleasures in the world is reading the various profanity-laden entries that have been drunkenly scribbled on your walls by generations of college kids who, for some reason, decided to bring a pen/permanent marker to midtown.
“I wish this urinal was Dan Werner’s face.”
“When Phil pees, it burns.”
“Brian Rush pre-ordered ‘Failure to Launch’ on Blu-ray.”
These are obviously the clean ones, but it never get’s old. Except when I walked into your watering hole’s watering hole on Friday night, I noticed something terrible: white paint. Sure, some proud souls bound to restart tradition have scribbled, but too much of my precious obnoxiousness is gone. It’s like somebody painted a Hitler on the Mona Lisa. It’s like someone dumped white paint over Starry Night. It’s like someone photoshopped Brett Favre’s dong pic.
Stop it, Salty. Know your role. You’re the place where people go when they want to dress slightly nicer and black out slightly less than if they go to Balls. But that doesn’t make you the damn Copacabana, either. Embrace your raunchy walls. They build culture.
Dear Riley Cooper: I’ve noticed a strange amount of animosity toward you from bargoers this semester. They call you a tool, they complain about you cutting in line or never waiting for drinks, they try to fight you.
Let me just say that I couldn’t disagree more. You’re a genius, Riley Cooper.
Are you a good NFL player? Absolutely not, but that doesn’t stop you from reaping every possible benefit that an NFL contract can bring. People dream of the things that come along with a college education: the parties, the girls, the status. But you have remained a college student while also garnering the tag of pro football player. You’re taking a four-year NFL contract to bars where other people are blowing their life savings. You’re walking around a campus where practice squad walk-ons are worshiped in a Philadelphia Eagles shirt. You’re walking up to girls whose boyfriends work part-time at Zaxby’s and saying “really?”
So live it up, Riley. SC salutes you.
Dear girls that complain about Riley Cooper at bars: Stop it. You don’t mean it. And even if you do, nobody cares. No matter what level, pro athletes get a different pass for approaching girls. Blame it on society, blame it on reality, blame it on whatever. It’s not their fault that you refer to their aim as “creeping.” It’s also not their fault that it usually works. The same girls that complain about athletes when they go out are the same girls that end up going home with them. It’s like elementary school when you talked shit about whatever girl you liked.
Just give it up. You’re probably going to be a miserable trophy wife for some baseball player who has mistresses in every major league city one day. Karma’s a bitch.
Dear incredibly large girl on bike: I’m sorry that God and KFC have apparently held a grudge against you throughout your entire life, but the bike lane is not made for people of your stature. The narrow passages that are Gainesville back roads do not allow me to properly pass you without scaring you more than that time you walked into a health food store.
You are already breaking one law of nature by simply fitting on your bike. I should not be forced to run over the median and risk killing a perfectly good homeless person to avoid giving you death-by-side-mirror. As you know if you’ve read my previous rants, I’m not a fan of bike riders of any size. However, you are an entirely new issue.
I’m sorry. I don’t want to be mean, but I don’t want to commit vehicular manslaughter, either.