Special to the Hog Tale letter by "The Effeminate Razorback Cowboy"
I cain't quit you, Darren.
And I cain't quit you either, Felix.
Dear Darren and Felix,
It just ain't right, I gotta tell ya. You boys just cain't take yer 36,000 rushing yards and yer 475 touchdowns and yer bulgin' biceps with you to that pretty-boy NFL. You just cain't. I cain't take watching Razorback football without the prettiness of numbers 5 and 25 gracin' the field and cradlin' that football like a newborn baby. I know you got yerselves millions of dollars just waitin' on ya and yer kin folks need that. But, like a pasture of wheat dancing in the Oklahoma wind, I just wanted one last year to soak in the 95 yard kickoff returns, the 35 yards per touch, and the Wildhog formation. Oh, the Wildhog will be no more! That beautiful formulation reminded me of sittin' on my back porch watchin' the sun go down and gazin' at my field of daisies swaying to and fro on a sweet sticky August evening. Oh, the squelin', excruciatin' pain I'm feelin' right now! It's like you just ripped the "backs" out of Razorbacks.
It's gonna be a tie-one-on bender time beginning right now. Me and the rest of the brokeback, err, Hogtale fellas will be gatherin' round the television box and watchin' hours upon hours of your highlight films while we toast Mai Tais and Pina Coladas and drink ourselves into a Hogelujah stupor just memberin' all the good times we had, boys. Darren, do you remember LSU and South Carolina and Tennessee? You were so damn pretty. Felix, we had lots of good times, didn't we? We had one more year of good times! We could have had it.
(I knew this day was a-comin' like a fashion show showdown between Tommy Hilfiger and Ralph Lauren, but it still don't make it any easier I tell ya)
Damn you Fred Flintstone, and damn you, Barney Rubble! I want to hate you like my old two-timin', yellow-bellied, cheatin'-heart, dog-stealin' pardner of mine who left me for a pretty face and a six pack, but I just cain't. I just cain't. I wish I knew how to quit you Darren and Felix. I wish I knew! But, it's too hard, so instead, I'll bite my quivering upper lip when I see you running free on Sundays like the sweaty, strong wild stallions that run free in my green pastures. And, I'll cheer for you on your sorry NFL teams next year... but not without a little bitterness in this old cowboy's heart.
So, in conclusion, I'd like to sing to you in my letter, a few lines from a song by my favorite country singer - Bret Michaels. Here goes... "Although miles come between us, just between you and me - I won't forget you, baby (I won't forget you), even though I should, yeah."
Rock of love to the both of you,
The Effeminate Razorback Cowboy
Double K's Notes:
If you ever come back to this God-forbidden blog, I'll try to never let anymore half naked pictures of Bret Michaels appear on here again. You have my word on that, but in keeping with the cowboy theme, I'd just like to say...
Hang 'Em High, Boys!
Let me just be the first to hang up these numbers forever, so that no other Razorbacks dare tarnish the 5 and the 25.
May these numbers only be worn by beer-bellied 45 year-old no-it-alls still living with their moms and yelling at the coaches from the upper deck.