F*ck you the NIT


I Google image search the NIT and up comes pictures of head lice. And that’s the BEST part about you.

By Andrew Pridgen

I’ve got a carton full of eggs that have been sitting under my bed for three weeks getting nice and rotten for you the NIT. I don’t know why putting eggs under your bed to rot is the best place because in theory that’s really going to smell up where you sleep, but that’s where they go.

Tonight, I’m going to take that egg carton and jump in my fucking Kia Soul which just got a recall because the gas pedal is fragile or some shit. I got that recall notice in the mail and all it said was, “You should’ve known this was coming, you bought a fucking Kia Soul.”

I’m getting in my Alien 2 Green (actual color) Kia Soul with the stuck-ass gas pedal—watch out fuckers, I’m going to run your ass over going 8 miles per hour in a 35—and rotten egg the shit out of you the NIT.

That’s right the NIT, I’m coming after you. Me and my Kia are coming…hopefully at the same time.

Why? Because nobody likes you the NIT.

You’re the March tournament version of HPV:

“Did you get in the Tournament?”

“No, but I got the NIT.”

“Oh man. That sucks. There’s a shot for that.”

“…Now you tell me.”

So, then it’s a thing, forever. You’re stuck with the NIT, forever.

Like even if you make the Tournament the year AFTER you contract the NIT, it’s still there, for everyone to see. They’ll even put your the NIT results up on the screen for years to come and they’ll even talk about how you had a really shitty streak the year you got the NIT.

It’s like, thanks bro, I KNOW I was having an off-year.

How did I know?

Because I was in the fucking the NIT, that’s how.

So get ready for me to roll up on you the NIT. I’m me looking like 1999 Fred Durst in the club and you’re the drunk girl who’s being protected by the rest of the bachelorette party by dancing a semi-circle around you all night.

As soon as my wingman rolls up and says the, “Who wants Jågerbombs!!!” question in the form of a statement and does that arm-up-with-hand-pointing-down thing at the bar, all your slutty wing-women will go gather at his side like a bunch of hens in a battery shed mistaking blacklit veneers for sunlight.

And there I’ll be waiting for your little blacked-out the NIT ass to stumble toward the ladies room like you’re playing pin the effing tail on the donkey on the dirty-ass bathroom handle.

Then I’m gonna get that Bill Cosby shit and make you forget any details of anything ever the NIT. I’m going to move furniture at midnight with my fake broken arm and ask you to grab the end of the couch closest to the open maw of my scary skindress van the NIT. You’re going to wake up to the sound of the smoke detector going off in the basement as I left a lit cigarillo next to you before going out to try to scare up that new Jack in the Box burger with the melted butter all over it the NIT.

This year I’m not going to wait for you to take advantage of me the NIT before I do my damage. I refuse to be a victim. I refuse to turn on ESPN2 on Saturday after the first two-day tourney blitz when all my brackets are totally fucked and not knowing what just happened thinking oh sweet, Stanford and Bucknell followed by Colorado State and St. Mary’s pretty co–…oh wait, this is the fucking the NIT.

No the NIT, you won’t fool me again.

You know why? Because I’m going to egg your house then stalk you down at the club and even if I get arrested for dancing up on you which violates our restraining order from the time South Carolina repeated, the damage will already be done because I’m going to hashtag all kinds of shit about you like #thenitstilldoestaebo and #thenitisgoingtojailwithrobertdurst.

The only thing I can say that’s good about you the NIT is your final is at Madison Square Garden which will be the first time basketball has been played there since 2001.

Otherwise, fuck you the NIT.


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