Normally, I keep a safe distance when our fanbase slips into a Texas-sized inferiority complex or starts flinging mud at other programs. I try to stay objective, avoid whining about how we got hosed in the first realignment, and generally act like a functioning adult.
But when it comes to Texas Tech? Oh, all bets are off. I will gleefully stoop to subterranean levels of pettiness and talk reckless amounts of trash about that clown college and its delightfully insufferable fanbase.
The mere utterance of “Texas” followed by “Tech” triggers an involuntary gag reflex, like I’m Lloyd Christmas in Dumb and Dumber dry heaving into a napkin. It’s practically Pavlovian at this point.
It’s involuntary at this point. I’ve tried everything—Eastern medicine, Western pharmaceuticals, guided meditation, the occasional hallucinogenic retreat in the Andes. I’ve thrown money, time, and licensed professionals at this affliction. And yet, nothing can cure the visceral reaction I have when those two cursed syllables—Texas and Tech—are spoken aloud in sequence. It’s like cracking open the lid on a bass boat livewell that’s been simmering with week-old trout under a West Texas sun. You don’t just smell it—you survive it. But you’re never the same.
And then there’s the fanbase. Oh, where does one even begin? I can only assume Texas Tech fandom was born sometime in the 1920s, when a pair of conjoined twins with shared last names fell in love, against both God’s will and the recommendations of early medical science. Fast forward a few generations of deeply questionable genetics and boom: your modern-day Red Raider.
There’s a certain… look to them. A facial architecture forged from generations of cousin-on-cousin domestic diplomacy. Ever notice how they only manage to stand upright when there’s a full moon? Watch closely and you’ll see their ears twitch when a brass band plays, like some kind of backwoods echolocation.
And please, for your own sake—don’t drink the water in Lubbock. Unless, of course, you want to find yourself feeling strangely attracted to someone at your next family reunion. Next thing you know, you’re half-naked on national television, committing a deeply inappropriate act on a ceremonial bell.
Some things aren’t just unforgivable—they’re unforgettable.
You see, there’s a perfectly rational explanation for why Texas Tech has never won anything meaningful in football. It’s not just bad luck or subpar coaching — it’s a collective act of self-preservation by the rest of the civilized world.
Every fanbase in the country knows that if Tech ever managed to win a conference title or, God forbid, sneak into the playoff, the resulting exposure would trigger a full-scale national crisis. The Department of Homeland Security would be forced to issue a Level 5 biohazard alert. Troops would parachute into Lubbock. CDC hazmat units would set up perimeter tents. A mandatory statewide quarantine would follow — not for a virus, but to contain the sheer cultural fallout of unleashing that fanbase on national television.
As Texans, we’ve quietly shouldered the burden of shielding the rest of the country from this crimson plague for over a century. We’ve done our duty — kept Lubbock under wraps like a radioactive cousin in the attic. But every now and then, one of their fans crawls into the spotlight and reminds us all why that containment protocol exists.
When I saw The Gorge, I genuinely thought it was a documentary about Tech tailgates — just with better hygiene and more character development.
This Saturday isn’t just another football game — it’s a public service. A civic duty. A moral obligation. We’re not merely fighting for yards and touchdowns; we’re battling to suppress a statewide, uncontrollable gag reflex that activates any time the words Texas and Tech are uttered in sequence.
We must win — not for the rankings, not for bragging rights, and not even for our own sanity — but for the integrity of our state and the psychological well-being of the nation at large. Because if we don’t stop them here and now, we risk subjecting America to the full, unfiltered horror of a victorious Texas Tech fanbase. And frankly, that’s not a future I want my children growing up in.
This isn’t about football anymore. It’s about containment. It’s about national security. It’s about ensuring that ESPN doesn’t have to blur out jorts-wearing grown men dry-humping stadium infrastructure in postgame highlights.
So show up, stand tall, and play like your country depends on it. Because this time… it just might.
