“I don’t know her fucking name because she’s Canadian dude! Leave me alone, I totally got some pussy on that vacation though.”
“Well, I’m going to Niagara Falls with my family in two weeks, and if she’s that easy, I want her name so I can bang her too.”
“Ummmm, well, she got hit by a drunk driver and she’s all fucked up.”
“Cool, then she’s probably on Vicodin and will be totally easy after 2 beers.”
“Ohhhh…..ummmm…..wait…..she actually died. Yeah, cancer. The kind young people get and it is super tragic and sad. Totally dead, so you are kind of S.O.L. here at this point.”
“Well, it will be a boring trip and my grandma is going so just tell me where she’s buried and I will at least stop by and pay respects to the grave.”
“You’ve really put me in a bit of a pickle here, dick. I got fucking hoaxed, are you happy now? I was the victim, and you are a fucking fuck for continuing to ask questions.”
Just a classic story here as old as time immemorial. Boy meets no one. Claims he meets someone after a football game. Claims he has the love affair of a lifetime with the person he never met, entirely over the phone and through social media. He does not go visit the love of his life ever, even after she is crushed by a drunk driver, and definitely not while she is dying in a hospital for 3+ months of leukemia. Despite being the love of his life he does not attend her funeral. He does send two white roses, per her request, to the funeral home where she is buried. In this totally real world, when you send white roses to a funeral home in a city in California which does not exist in the country or world we live in reality, the United States and Earth, respectively, the company you used for transport does not bring it to your attention at either point of sale or after the fact that the place you are shipping the roses is non-existent. Boy tells world, repeatedly across many months, that the love of his life died on the same day as his grandmother which predictably creates a media feeding frenzy and suddenly a B linebacker is elevated to Dick Butkus status and Boy is runner-up in Heisman Trophy voting despite there being many linebackers better than him in the same season. Media adoration associated with a fake girlfriend tragic cancer death also results in Boy being argued as top-10 NFL draft pick despite, while playing against numerous future NFL players in the championship game, looking like a wounded gazelle which had inadvertently wandered into a lion’s den.
Whoever has not had the same happen to them may now throw the first stone. Anyone? I didn’t think so. Poor Manti Te’o. We’ve got three possible outcomes here: A) Te’o is a duplicitous lying sack of shit or B) He’s one of the dumbest mutherfuckers to ever wear shoes and then C) He is gay and his Pacific island Mormon upbringing results in his making up this shit to cover that fact, which would be monumentally sad. What is truth in this bizarre circus? I’m not sure I even care anymore. But what incredibly impeccable timing that this fake girlfriend fake death should fake happen at the beginning of a real football season for a school that already rolls in media adulation–whether deserved or not. There is simply no better time for a fake girlfriend to not die than right before your first big game of the season against one of your oldest rivals. Listen, fake girlfriends have to fake die at some point in their non-life, may as well be at the perfect time to maximize sympathy and spin it into one of the greatest media hoaxes and undeserved Heisman candidacies in history.
Let’s just pretend for a moment that all the Notre Dame ass-wipers are right, and poor sweet innocent trusting Te’o was fully hoaxed. For the sake of argument lets entertain this ridiculous bag full of magic beans that when planted will grow a beanstalk leading straight to a kingdom in the sky somewhere. Just for fun let’s do it, okay? I mean a murderer is being hailed as a king in a parade in Baltimore as we speak, so why the fuck not? So if Te’o is innocent of bullshittery and fraud, then he is guilty and deserves capital punishment for the crime of being a Class 1AA dumb mutherfucker. First off, brah, the fake girlfriend you beat your meat to over the phone for a year was a FUCKING DUDE YOU STUPID TIT! Secondly, who “dates” someone seriously to the point it is “the love of their life” for over a year, and never fucking meets them? No one, that’s who. I talked to my middle school girlfriend for 20 hours a week on the phone for well over a year. But guess what, for 30 minutes each and every one of those weeks we pulled tongue like nobody’s goddamn business. You want us to believe that you fell for all of this yet somehow met Notre Dame’s admission standards that they claim to still uphold even in the face of 0,000,000 people believing them? Which brings me to point #3, we need to look at Te’o's (2 apostrophes?) transcripts and see just how many times he wrote his own name misspelled in printed orange crayon on his SAT and ACT’s. Because my guess is 7 times, minimum. “Me’sa Mantee Day Ohhh” over and over again despite the answer calling for geometry. In fact if I were Te’o I’d rather admit to this masterpiece of a lie than having people think I’m this fucking dumb. My dog wouldn’t have fallen for this and he still runs to the front door every time I Skype my mom.
I love how everyone has just given up on this story. “Oh, the hoaxer went on Dr. Phil and said he was the victim of a Feeler when he was little. Well, I guess that wraps it up.” Cowards, all of you. This ass clown should have been tarred, feathered, and burned at the stake of public opinion. Family members breaking down in tears and flailing out with open palms at prying reporters. Oh sure, the media is great when you are trying to defraud college football and it’s public of a cherished statue; but it is the insensitive monster when it discovers you are a lying sack of shit. I wasn’t the guy who bought your story at lunch freshman year that you got some big time pussy in Canada the summer after 8th grade while on vacation with your family. I want to know the chick’s name, where she lived, what she looked like, bra size, and how soft her hands were, minimum. I’m going to ask you the same questions 7 different times and see if they produce the same answers. Listen, I don’t fault you for telling the story, I don’t at all. But when it blows up I’m not just getting up from the lunch table, going to 5th period, and forgetting about it.