Thus begins and ends all that is good about the Dallas Cowboys.
Dallas plays Pittsburgh this afternoon, and this pairing caused the Evil to reflect on the status of the Cowboys in his life. Simply put, the Pokes are the one thing he can truly, cheerily, and profoundly despise in this muddy palette of grays we call life. And, as befits the National Evil, Cowboy-hating is a national pastime he shares with tens of millions of his fellow Americans.
The kicker here, though, is that Evil can’t recall any particular flashpoint of hatred toward Dallas. Though the Dallas/Pittsburgh culture wars of the 70s serve as the root of all anti-Cowboyism, Evil was only spawned in ’77. So no childhood rooting interest there. He doesn’t recall anyone specifically training him to hate the Cowboys. Football was watched but not obsessed over in his childhood home.
And yet, hating the Dallas Cowboys comes as naturally to the Evil as breathing, as sleeping, as being evil. His opinion of spinach and gaucamole has changed over the years. But not his loathing for the Cowboys. One simply knows to hate Dallas—unless one happens to be that vaguely slimy subspecies of humanity who, for reasons unknown, is a Cowboys fan.
Lest one hails from Dallas or bears the last name “Aikman”, Cowboy love is an aberration, a psychological malady for which there is, alas, no cure. You know these people: there’s something slippery, inhuman, disloyal about them. No one who likes the Cowboys could possibly be trusted to make a responsible decision; their fandom proves their incapacity to act in a reasonable fashion.
That being said, on this day of days Evil would like to thank the Dallas Cowboys for providing millions of Americans an uncomplicated and stable target for their disdain. You perform a valuable, thankless service, and for that our nation should be grateful. And enraged. That’s life as a Cowboy.