We hate the Utes. Oh we hate the Utes. They're foul, dishonest, cowardly, hypersensitive, overinflated, wannabe-rebel, onside-kicking, Urban-Meyer-loving, potty-mouthed scumwads. If we could, we would send a plague of fireants and alligators and fire alligators to bite them on their bums.

And when that day comes that the lake of fire and brimstone foretold since ancient times finally does climb up the hill and start to dispense justice, and the yewts run for the uppermost tiers of RES and cry for help, we will cheer and wave our Y flags and listen to our Cougar "rawr-rawr——RAWR" and cheer some more. And then we will stop. And we will consider.

What good would John Beck's answered prayer be without two redshirts closing in?
What good would 4th and 18 be without a befuddled Yewt secondary to burn?
How could we ever smile again without the shot of "The Kryle?"
How could we be continue to be Cougars without the stinkin' Utes?

And we would put down our blue pom poms and run to the hill. And we would rescue our red brethren. And we would impart unto them of our sustance. And we would embrace them in true fellowship. And then we would reach around the back and give them each a giant wedgie.