Hey, Cyclone fan? Listen up, I'm about to tell you what's happening this weekend. Make no mistake, you're powerless to stop it, so don't despair, but it will be more satisfying if you know in advance so here you go, mother fucker.
I'm coming to Ames this weekend and I'm bringin' hell with me. We're going to join the rest of the Iowa fans (which will number near 50,000) and we will tailgate at your asphalt shitbucket of a stadium. There will be booze, flip cup (instructions included since you don't even know what it is you fucking douchebags), and fun. After the tailgate, we will go in to watch the game which will be a beating like you haven't suffered at our hands since the days of Fry. But this isn't about that, it's about this. I'm going to fuck your momma.
After the game, I will bid farewell to my friends, leave the stadium, and go to your worst bar, most likely the Whiskey River. I will belly up, drink 7 bourbons (neat), and I will look into the dingy corner where your momma will be seated. When I'm good and soused, I will stroll over and proceed to flirt with her like Peter O'Toole on a dare. I will tell her stories of passion and warfare. I will grin, lightly caress her hip, and when the time is right, I'll show her the irresistible dimple on the right side of my face and I will guide her out of the basement lounge where she drinks away the disappointment of your existence.
I will take her to dinner at Hickory Park and tell her to order anything she likes from the right side of the menu. I will regale her with tales of joy, life and love. I will lift her spirits to dangerous heights she has not experienced since the day before your conception. I will butter her muffins, wipe the gravy from her Rosacead chin with my kerchief, and I will allow her to order an after dinner toddy. As I guide her from the log cabin restaurant with my mighty paw at the small of her sweaty back she will dreamily say, "I feel just like Elizabeth Taylor" and I will reply, "you smell like White Diamonds, darling".
We will then travel to your childhood home where she still resides. Along the way I will engage her in flirty talk drenched in enough Bond-like sexual innuendo that her dusty britches will be on the verge of spontaneously combusting. We will enter your childhood home and glide down the hallway into your room. I will put on a Mac Davis record, tell her to slip into something more comfortable (and polyester), and I will turn down your piss stained sheets. When she returns smelling of desperation, lust, and rank Tabu she will clumsily crawl into your John Deere tractor bed. She will attempt to make provocative sex sounds like a heated stray cat but I will shush her briskly, dim the lights, and I will walk over to your childhood dresser (which still has photos of Fred Hoiberg and Johnny Orr displayed proudly with your 4-H medals). I will then open your top drawer and empty 8 pints of Hawkeye whiskey onto your socks. I will piss with a fury the likes of which have never been seen. When the last trickle of bourbon, beer, and human waste flows from my loins, onto your socks, and splashes onto the floor, I will laugh a hearty laugh, turn to your momma, and I will say, "suck on that, Cyclone momma." I will then leave her there in your childhood bed, go back to the bar, and tell this story to your daddy, who will still be seated at the table polishing off the pitcher of warm Miller Lite I left behind.
See you Saturday, mother fucker.