Dear Dallas Cowboys,

I hate you.

I hate that your fans are so deadly loyal that they make their children wear Cowboys jerseys on game day to ward off bad mojo.  I hate that your owner is a simpering control freak who gives television interviews like a prima donna and drawls about his boys like they’re all his sons.

I hate that your cheerleaders dress like hookers and shake their money-makers on television all Sunday afternoon.

I hate that when my husband watches the games, he has to also record them and save them for later.  I hate that there is a huge box of Cowboys games on VHS tapes from the 1990s gathering dust in our basement, and I also hate that I cannot throw them away under pain of divorce.

I hate that every year we “have” to fork out extra money on DirecTV to pay for NFL Sunday Ticket so my husband can watch the Cowboys games not being broadcast on the 500 other channels that seem to be blaring football all weekend.

I HATE when you freaking play badly, because then the fans on the sofas across America scream at the television and shout at their families to keep the noise down so they can hear the TV.  “You don’t deserve to win!” the fan at our house will shout, and kick the Sunday newspaper across the living room.

And God forbid you should lose, and your loyal fans have cramps and mood swings for a week following the heartbreaking loss.   It’s a sure sign the entire week to come is going straight down the crapper when the announcers dolefully report that Jerry Jones is grimacing in the skybox and shaking his head over a Cowboys loss.  We’ll be hearing about it at home for the next six days.

Oh, and Thank YOU, Dallas Cowboys, for the many times you have lost games on Thanksgiving Day, thereby wiping out any feelings of goodwill and gratitude that may have resided among our dinner guests and family members.  It’s always such a pleasure to get up extra early to make the holiday meal so that it doesn’t interfere with the Big Game.  Every freaking year, we either have to warn our guests that certain members of the household will not stay at the table, or we have to time our exit exactly right to make it home in time to catch the game.

I would write more, but I’m locked in the office with the cats and have to tiptoe past the living room to finish making dinner.  Last I checked, the score in the 4th quarter was tied at 10-10, and my dearly beloved was on the sofa in his Cowboys shirt, scowling thunderously at the television.

Just so we’re clear, I hate you enough to want you to lose badly to every opponent, but find myself rooting for you to win so the sun will come out in the morning.

And for that, I hate you even more.