Yes, I know it was you who stole our "Y" trailer hitch cover during our recent trip to Utah. It was one of my husband's few prized possessions. As any married person knows, possessions are divvied up as "ours" and "hers," with only scant leftovers as "his." So, Mr.Single (does that sound derogatory, because that's what I'm going for), Dishonest, Ute Fan--SHAME ON YOU.
Don't try to pass the blame to the good people of Elko; where, by the way, we paid a small fortune to sleep in the only hotel room not occupied by gatherers of the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering. For one thing, cowboys have no need of trailer hitch covers because theirs are always hitched to something. For another, no self-respecting cowboy would mistake our "Y" hitch cover for a belt buckle, though it might have rivaled his in diameter. And finally, everyone knows a cowboy will not venture out into 6 degree weather if there's no stock needing feeding.
And don't try to blame an over-zealous BYU fan either. First off, all BYU fans are ecclesiastically endorsed. And even if a financially-strapped BYU fan reckoned our "Y" hitch cover was worth breaking the eighth commandment (a philosophical debate best saved for a later date), I'm quite sure he'd be too weak from pedaling up to Wymount after donating his plasma on his way home from his telemarketing job to actually remove the hitch cover.
And don't try and tell me the hitch cover simply fell out. Although it was a journey of more than 500 miles, it would have been one heck of a hail mary to knock the cotter pin loose, slide the hitch cover out, and miraculously pop the cotter pin back in.
So I know it was you, you little punk. And while Jesus will surely forgive you, I'm likely to hold a grudge. Especially since your thievery was completely unnecessary, seeing as you won the Beehive Boot and all this year. One would think the Sugar Bowl would have sweetened you up just a bit. It's not like we were sporting the "Y" on game day. Seriously, committing misdemeanors in the off-season. Isn't that just, ahh, juvenile? (No comment on juvenile behavior during the season.)
You leave me no choice but to curse you. As my father's daughter, I assure you I can curse with the best of them. I curse you that all your best players will elect to draft early, that all your recruits will sign with Alabama, and that all your decent players will be academically ineligible. I curse your team with torn ACLs, ripped rotator cuffs, the pox, and a nasty bout of buttocks boils. And you, Mr. Single, Dishonest, Ute Fan, I curse you that if and when you take a wife, her legs might grow together. After all, I am my father's daughter.