10 Signs You're a Social Media Sports Douchebag

Image via Complex Original

Once you're past the age of, say, 11, you should stop idolizing athletes. You look ridiculous wearing the jersey of a guy who is younger and wealthier than you are. When you put another grown man's name on your back, that man owns you. If you come across Phillip Rivers at Indigo Grill, don't grovel for an autograph. You'll look weak as fuck in front of your girlfriend. And, for the love of Based God, don't relegate your own face to the likeness of Mike Trout, Lance Armstrong, or Derrick Rose, it's a bad look (so to speak). 

Thanks to fantasy football and Madden on Xbox Live there are legions of jersey adorning sports fanatics who think they're equipped to stand on the sideline with a headset. We know the flea flicker to Ted Ginn, Jr. is your never fails go-to on third-and-long. But what works in your studio apartment, might not work for the San Francisco 49ers this season. Stop suggesting as much on the team's Facebook page. As impressed as we all are with you winning your fantasy football league in consecutive years, Ozzie Newsome doesn't need to hear your advice on getting the Baltimore Ravens over the playoff hump in 140 characters of less.

The only thing lamer than publicly admitting you play fantasy football is not having the self confidence to run your team independently. If you find yourself asking, "Who should I start? Frank Gore against the Browns or Adrian Peterson against Lions?" you're a total jackass. First, nobody even close to cares. Second, you sound pitiful. Don't devalue yourself by wavering over something so lame. Be a man and keep this sort of thing on a private message board.

We've more or less built an industry on talking shit, far be it from us to tell you it’s wrong. A little in-your-face back and forth amongst hot-wing-eating fans with man boobs is what the NFL is all about, really. But when you combine the heated tribalism that goes with being a football fan and the anonymity of the Internet, you get a certain type of crazy usually reserved for the live studio audience at Maury.

If you find yourself tweeting homophobic slurs @KevinKolb_4 after a red zone interception or, as a staff member of the Eagles, calling the team "retarded" on Facebook, you should probably put down the laptop for a while.

Stadiums are notoriously bad for cell phone reception. Spending the majority of a game trying to post an Instagram'd picture of the field isn't just pitiful, it's damn near hopeless. Look, there's nothing extraordinary about proving you're at the Vikings vs. 49ers game. Get drunk, heckle some replacement refs, and cross your fingers that you see Jared Allen decapitate Alex Smith on a roughing the passer penalty. We think you'll find that to be a more worthwhile game experience than shaking your smart phone in the air. You're welcome.

If ever there were a case for the NHL lockout, it’s so that tools like Paul Bissonnette are forced into managing a Hollister Co. and picking up personal training shifts at LA Fitness. The Phoenix Coyotes left wing embodies the shameless self-admiration that's so prevalent on the social media feeds of young athletes. If ever you feel an emptiness in your life that only pictures of bottle service receipts, cabana thirsty groupies, and just-chilling-with-my-shirt-off twitpics can fill, follow @BizNasty2point0. 

If your Facebook page has turned into a shrine to your relationship, pet, or newborn, no one will say anything, but all who are subjected to your news feed are totally annoyed. Super fans who turn their profiles into mausoleums dedicated to their teams are equally insufferable and one hundred times more pathetic.

It’s probably confusing because you’re wearing a $250 officially licensed jersey and you use the pronoun “we” when talking about the Chicago Bears, but you know you're not on the team, right? If you need a reality check, try walking into Soldier Field without forking over $450 for a ticket and see what happens. Cam Newton won't scribble his name on your Nerf football for less than $125. That's how much "a part of it" you are. Remember that.

If you wanted to get close to a girl in the ‘90s, you passed her a note during class. In the ‘00s, you worked your instant messenger game. Now, you get at (or is it "get @?") girls with desirable icons through Twitter. No matter the methodology, the point has always been to dispel months of anxiety and build up with an easy, non invasive means of confirming feelings.

Once you get a smile back, the next step is getting close. A tried and true first move is to propose a low stakes sports bet where the winner always gets "a back rub." We don't fault you for for going the win-or-lose-I'm-a-winner-because-I-get-to-grope-you route, but you realize Twitter's public, right? Everyone can see what you're up to. Think about texting if you don't want to look like a jackass.

Every high school football team has the kid that buys into inspirational platitudes way too much. You know that guy who can't break practice without an emotional diatribe about "belonging to a brotherhood." Whimpering pathetically, the only thing that can save this whole uncomfortable situation is a slow clap which, unfortunately, only reinforces the behavior.

Before social media, this kid would've been silenced after his last Friday under the lights. But now, every Sunday morning is an opportunity for him to rally the troops. If a starting quarterback goes down, you can bet this guy will be there with a plea for fans to "get behind" the backup. After a tough loss, he's there with a "we'll get them next time." *Clap* *Clap* *Clap* Damn, it doesn't work anymore. 

Don’t let your 14K tweets and mere 18 followers deter you, we live for your shrewd, in-game observations. Sure, the game's presented in 1080i on a 60" Samsung in front of us—but don't get it twisted—we're glued to our smart phones waiting impatiently for you inane commentary. Were it not for your invaluable take on 4-yard gains and false start penalties, we'd be totally lost watching this game. As we tap the refresh button feverishly, we’re holding our breath waiting, desperately for it: “Big hit. #Ouch” You never disappoint, man.