The flames of hell are apparently hot, hot hot

I just had the most awful nightmare. I was at a bar, surrounded by all the Michigan alums I used to make a point of avoiding when I was an undergrad. We were there because forces beyond our control had prevented us from watching Michigan's game against a sacrificial lamb except on satellite.

And it was not going well. I suppose if Michigan had shown any ability to stop tiny little fast running quarterbacks, I wouldn't have minded all the people who kept standing up and talking to their bros like it was penny pitcher night at Rick's. And I suppose if Michigan hadn't taken so many needless, five-yard penalties on offense, the dudes at the next table singing what I presumed to be fraternity drinking songs wouldn't have bothered me. And if Michigan's special teams execution hadn't been less-than-existent, the dude in the white button-down shirt, pale blue shorts and Vinyard fucking Vines tie wouldn't even be getting a mention here. Although, to be fair, this guy kept standing up in front of the screen, and was walking around the bar with his bottle of Budweiser Select as if there weren't a game on. So he would have earned my enmity if we were blowing out Notre Dame, too.

But there was. And it was awful. This is totally what hell must be like: Your alma mater starts the season off with a horrendous bedshitting, and you have to watch it with people you would prefer to avoid. Also, the bar keeps playing music over the game, and starting the "Let's Go Blue" chant at the most bloody-minded of times.

Also, one of the most beautiful runs you've ever seen goes utterly, utterly to waste, you're fucking 0-1 because you lost to Appalachian State and you respond by typing up nasty little blog posts that should illustrate the "defense mechanisms" section of Psych 101 book.

I seethe with hate and anger.