BYU prayer fail

The title of this post makes more sense if you have ever been HERE.

I have a dear friend. One of my best friends, in fact. One of the best guys I know. However, our friend groups rarely overlap. Most of his friends dwell somewhere amongst the categories of bros and/or cougs. A coug being a stereotypical BYU cougar. The khaki pants. The denim shorts. The cross trainers. The BYU apparel. Which is fine. He is a much better, far less judgmental person than I. I just appreciate fashion. Sue me.

There is one irreconcilable problem that I typically have with these cougs; their absolute belief that God somehow favors their football team. It makes me nuts.

I let him talk me into going to a BBQ on Saturday. I knew it would be a coug fest, but I conceded. He lured me in with the promise of tri tip steaks. Such a trap, those steaks. I didn't have a chance. So as I inevitably took over the meat cooking endeavors (which typically happens at BBQ's I attend, since I don't trust people not to overcook meat) I watched the back yard slowly fill up with cougs, eager for the holy conquest to begin in a few hours. I was friendly. I was cordial. I cooked the meat. Ultimately, I felt alienated. Because I always do when surrounded by cougs. I don't feel like I fit in.

So it came time to devour the meats over which I had slaved and sacrificed my good smelling body. Totally had to shower after that. For the second time that day. As is customary around Mormon meals, a prayer was to be offered over the food. A blond haired female with a BYU shirt tucked into, what I would say were some pre-tty risque shorts for a cougar coed, offered a most inspired oration.

"...annnnnd please bless our football team that they will do awesome, and totally play to the best of their abilities against the other team..."

Okay. Even though I think that praying for a football team is ridiculous to say the least, I was prepared to let that go with a simple eye roll, sigh, head shake combination. Which nobody would see anyways, since their eyes were closed. And if they weren't, shame on them.

As soon as she began to so eloquently plead with Heavenly Father on behalf of our Christian crusaders, some asshole emphatically began to loudly whisper, "Say win! Say win! Say win! Say win!."

"And please, Heavenly Father, bless that our BYU football team will win today. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen."

I sort of just sat there for a moment, neck bent at a 45 degree angle, slack jawed and incredulous, staring at her from behind my Kim Jong Il sized sunglasses.

Then I looked around at everyone else. No shaking heads. No looks of incredulity. Nobody whispering, "Reeeally? Did that reeeeally just happen?" I was a man alone.

At that point, I decided it was time to shove some medium rare tri tip down my gullet, and get the hell outta there.

I hate football. I never watch it. Ever. I sat down and watched all 3 hours of that wretched game, just because I wanted to see BYU lose. Why? To simply feel validated in my conviction that GOD DOESN'T CARE ABOUT FOOTBALL. And he CERTAINLY doesn't care about BYU football, as was made evident by the trouncing they received at the hands of Florida State. I wanted to text that girl and tell her that the 7th ranked BYU probably lost to the unranked FSU because of her blasphemous prayer.

It is a game. Will God answer the prayer of the tide end that prays before the game to play at the best of his abilities? I don't see why not. But I'm pretty damn sure that He grows just a little weary from the flood of Provo pregame fan supplication inundating the heavens on fall Saturdays.

Maybe next time they pray for the cougs to win, they should throw in a quick petition for newly pressed khakis to rain down from the sky.