No. No, I didn’t.
Dear slack-jawed spoiler-spewing degenerates:
If you ever so much as whisper the outcome of a single solitary game before I’ve had the chance to watch it, I swear I will personally invent a new branch of torture specifically for you.
And no, not the fun kind you can brag about surviving at frat parties.
I’m talking about strapping you to a chair and forcing you to listen to Joe Buck’s commentary on loop until your ears melt.
Let’s get one thing straight: some of us have jobs, responsibilities, and actual human relationships—things you wouldn’t know about because you’re too busy live-tweeting scores like some unpaid, unwanted ESPN intern.
Newsflash: nobody gives a shit that you saw it live. I’m not impressed that you sat on your ass in front of a screen for three hours while contributing nothing to society except carbon dioxide and the smell of reheated nachos.
Here’s the law of the land: shut your festering gob hole until the rest of us catch up.
Spoiling a game is worse than murder because at least with murder, the victim doesn’t have to sit there and pretend to enjoy your smug little recap.
So, unless your goal in life is to be remembered as the human equivalent of an Amber Alert, keep your spoilers locked up tighter than your porn folder.
