Tonight concludes another orbit around the universe of college football: The BCS National Championship, the so-called pinnacle of achievement in post-secondary educational entertainment. For me, it is the apex on the Hierarchy of Hate.

Nothing – not even Louisiana politics – engenders such excitable energy from me as college football. Sure, I love my New Orleans Saints – and I hate New England Hatriots coach Bill Belicheater and Pittsburg Stealers quarterback Ben Rapelisberger with the fire of a thousand suns – but the pros don’t spark the same life-shortening rage that comes from college. Spending hours, standing on wobbly aluminum benches, facing the blast-furnace of a setting Texas sun,  screaming your lungs out for a chance to kiss your date when you score does some weird things to your gray matter. That, and investing all that time and money in a solitary place in the middle of nowhere births a sick form of loyalty that can transcend marital bonds.

Just ask Pat: I hated LSU long before I loved him. He is a Tiger. He knew that going in.

You ask about basketball? I don’t care enough to expend the energy on hate. I might throw $10 on a bracket with selections based on school mascots, and I’ll watch the playoffs if the Suns are in it. Baseball? The Yankees occupy all of my hate out of habit, so it’s not worth following. I can just hate the Yankees and grab another beer. Hockey? Are they still playing hockey? The only hate I muster for hockey comes in June when they are still playing a sport that requires a frozen playing surface and it’s 100 degrees out. It’s like having the Winter Olympics in Scottsdale.

But often, especially during Capital One Bowl Fortnight which they claim is a week but lasts for 16 days and spans 35 different bowl games, I find myself wondering whom to hate? With so much on the line – like the undermining of a specious ranking system, the exposure of a hypocritical governing body and the  comeuppance of worthy villains – I decided to codify the rules of my own personal hatred: The Hierarchy of Hate.

First: I will root for or against any team that serves my ultimate goal of undermining the BCS so-called “National Championship.” You don’t vote on a national champion. This is not figure skating. You qualify, you play, you win, you lose. That’s how sports work. You do not rely on the prejudices of the East German judge – or some homer sportswriter in Red Lick, Indiana – to determine who gets to play. Fortunately tonight, one-loss Auburn goes up against my most hated team of all time, the Florida State Parolee-noles. So this is an easy choice: Auburn must win to vanquish the hated Parolee-noles and give us a daily double of “leaving it up to the voters” since we’ll have a pair of one-loss teams and some whiner out in the ether saying they had an undefeated season and didn’t get to play.

The flow-chart is pretty self-explanatory from there: I hate the BCS above all else. Once it is gone, which they say will be soon, I can still hate all teams from Florida. I haven’t hated Miami with nearly as much fervor since the 1980s, but they reside in a world of “emeritus hate” – not unlike the Yankees. I’ve been hating them so long, I don’t wanna stop now.

From there, we have the Notre Dames of the world: The Great Overrateds. This is why I had such a hard time last year: I didn’t want to root for Alabama in 2013, but my hatred for Notre Dame eclipses my utter contempt for the Great (Nick) Satan. There’s a religious metaphor in there that I’m just too lazy to tease out. I also think my hatred of Notre Dame comes from A&M playing them in the Cotton Bowl in 1993: My ass still has frost-bite scars from that bitter, bitter game.

I also don’t like The Ohio State University because a) They never play anyone; b) They’re still relying on the legacy of Woody Hayes; c) They legislated and attempted to trademark the article “THE” – that’s like referring to oneself in the third-person – just annoying and slightly insecure; and d) They have Urban Meyer, who unleashed Tim Tebow on us back when he was at (drum roll) the University of Florida. It’s a Mobius strip of hate. Sorry, The OSU.

So now you know that the Overrateds rate over the Pantheon of Assholes, or coaches that I just can’t stand. I have hated Nick Saban since he was at LSU. Reading about him in Michael Lewis’ The Blind Side and witnessing his behavior in departing LSU for the pros… and then going to Alabama… made me hate him even more. Then my Dad saw a 60 Minutes profile on the Great Satan this year and tried to change my mind: I admitted that Satan was an outstanding coach. His programs didn’t contribute to the overall prison population the way, say, Bobby “Cornpone” Bowden’s did, and Satan was very respectful of Texas A&M and Johnny Manziel. So, for a season, I tried to see Satan from my Dad’s perspective and stop hating: Which worked until the Auburn game when Satan threw his kicking team under the bus… AFTER HE MADE THE CALL TO PUT THEM ON THE FIELD FOR THE MISSED FIELD GOAL. Take responsibility, Nick: Don’t throw those kids to the redneck rampage of scorned ‘Bama fans!

Oh, and by the way, my Dad now sees my point. Welcome back to the FOLD OF HATE.

From here, the decision tree folds in a canopy of contempt. I don’t make a practice of hating that many teams, but I know that if an Overrated plays a Sundry Hillbilly, I’ll gladly root for the unwashed inbreds. Sometimes, teams can age-out of hatred – I used to hate Texas Tech back when we played them regularly and they always managed to beat us, regardless of the records, but then Dreamy Kingsbury became their head coach and my attitude softened. Sometimes a coach can change jobs and transfer my rage: For example, I was indifferent about South Carolina until Steve Spurrier arrived. Now, I think it’s fitting that the biggest dick in college football coaches a team called the Gamecocks.

Unfortunately, the hate transfers to other aspects of the game besides the teams: The networks just have a knack for screwing up my viewing pleasure – namely with the people they choose to call their games … and here, I mix the pros with the collegiate ranks because, well, I have to sit there and listen to their drivel… and watch as the sideline reporters try to find meaningful questions to ask. I’m all for full employment… but seriously: WHAT DO YOU BRING TO THE TABLE AND WHY DO YOU WEAR SUCH SILLY OUTFITS? (and I’m not sexist, I think Tony Siragusa is just a dumb and unfortunately attired as the rest of them).

So there you have it: The reason behind my rage. The Hierarchy of Hate. I don’t want to hear a lot of guff from you about it – I’m not asking your opinion and I’m not begging your forgiveness for hating your team. My hate is my own. At 42 years old, I’m not going to change because, well, haters are gonna hate.