I hear you. Believe me, I hear you. “Knowledge is Power,” you say.  But how can you possibly believe that when a person like me can beat the shit out of you on a whim, nerd? Sure, I came here to play football. I’m here for my god-like, near perfect physique. And you claim to be better than me because of your brains? Say that again after I kick you into the Lakefill, King Dweeb.

I don’t pay attention in class. I fail every test. And yet, both physically and in terms of career path, I can beat the shit out of you. I have a job waiting for me, knocking heads together on the field, instead of yours in Foster-Walker Caf. Know what that job pays? Six figures a year, starting. Tell me how knowledge is power again, Russian Lit Major.

And I get it. I really do. You want some sort of far-reaching, poetic justice to pay me in full for the bi-weekly swirlies I dole out to your literate ass. But Karma just doesn’t seem to have your back.  If I were you, I’d stop preaching about how the “meek will inherit the Earth”, and get lifting, pal.

While you were busy studying Kafka’s Metamorphosis, I was busy transforming my body into the absolute powerhouse needed to beat the shit out of you, and make money while doing it. So next time I crush your dorky glasses under my Herculean heel, don’t shout “Knowledge is Power”. Now hand me your wallet before I pound you, you goddamn nerd. See you at the reunion, tough guy.