Alabama
Congratulations, Alabama—you built a football empire so dominant that even your fans started thinking dental work was optional. You worship Nick Saban like he’s a prophet who came down from Tuscaloosa to hand out national titles and passive-aggressive halftime interviews. But now he’s gone, and you’re stuck pretending the dynasty isn’t crumbling faster than your players’ academic eligibility.
In basketball, you’re basically the guy who shows up to karaoke night, sings surprisingly well, and then immediately tries to headline Coachella. One decent season and suddenly Bama fans are acting like they invented March Madness. Newsflash: “basketball school” doesn’t mean “got a 5-seed once and lost to UConn.”
Your student body is 40% out-of-state rich kids named Chandler and Brynlee who treat campus like a TikTok set and pronounce “Roll Tide” with a soft R. The rest are locals who’ve never left the state and think Waffle House counts as fine dining. Alabama is the only school where Greek life and actual incest might overlap on a Venn diagram.
Arkansas
You chose a pig. That’s your brand. Not a fierce boar—just a chubby farm animal that wallows in filth and screams. “Woo Pig Sooie” sounds like a mating call in a truck stop parking lot, which, coincidentally, is where most Arkansas fans were conceived.
John Calipari is your new basketball coach, and somehow it’s a perfect fit: a flashy name, a bloated resume, and enough underachievement to blend in. Enjoy going from “One and Done” to “Two and Through.” Razorback hoops is like your football team—loud, expensive, and overrated.
Your student body is an Ozarks fever dream: a bunch of people majoring in poultry science, wearing camo to formal, and treating “cousin” as a flexible term. You treat Fayetteville like it’s Manhattan with ATV access. It’s really just Little Rock with a dress code.
Auburn
Auburn’s motto should just be “We’re not Alabama,” which is ironic because you’ve tried copying everything about them except the winning. You’re constantly one bad coaching hire away from installing Bo Jackson as interim president. Every other year, you either beat Alabama and storm the field, or lose by 30 and storm the Chick-fil-A.
Your basketball program went from punchline to… okay, slightly more relevant punchline. Bruce Pearl is the human equivalent of an energy drink that’s been sitting in a hot car—jittery, loud, and somehow still employed. And yet, despite a Final Four run, no one trusts Auburn to win anything that doesn’t involve a bribe or a bag man.
Your student body is 90% kids who think khakis and croakies are formalwear. Half of you got rejected from Alabama and now act like it was a moral decision. You guys say “War Eagle” like it’s a statement of purpose when it’s really just code for “we own a boat but can’t spell ‘catamaran.’”
Florida
Your entire brand is being good once every five years and acting like it’s a tradition. Also, if your fan base had as much discipline as your players don’t, you’d be an Ivy League school by now.
In basketball, you peaked during the Joakim Noah era, which is funny because he looked like he showered in a Waffle House sink and still dominated. Now your team is like your fan base—sloppy, inconsistent, and always talking about 2006 like it was yesterday. You’re not a threat—you’re a two-point loss to Vanderbilt waiting to happen.
Your students are either aspiring influencers, burnout finance bros, or the kind of Floridians who say “I’m from the good part of Florida” like that’s a thing. Gainesville is just Tallahassee with more Crocs. And your alumni include Aaron Hernandez, which feels like something you’d try to bury—right next to your 2020 bowl record.
Georgia
Oh look, it’s Bama with a wine spritzer. Congrats on back-to-back titles—but you’re still the kind of fans who bark at strangers and think that’s charming. Athens is lovely, but you somehow made it insufferable.
Basketball in Athens is like a Chick-fil-A on Sunday—technically exists, but it’s never open when it matters. You’re in a talent hotbed, and still somehow field a team that looks like it was assembled from intramural cuts. You’ve had more five-star arrests than five-star recruits.
UGA students look like they were grown in a vineyard. Everyone’s named Carter or Annabelle, and they dress like SEC Network interns at a garden party. You bark. In public. At strangers. And you wonder why people think you’re unwell. Georgia is the only school where the English major sounds like a moonshine sommelier.
Kentucky
You guys think basketball counts as a real sport and act like the rest of the SEC cares. Newsflash: March Madness doesn’t erase the fact that your football program’s spirit animal is a damp napkin.
Basketball is your religion, but now you’ve replaced Calipari with Mark Pope, a guy whose name sounds like a backup tight end but somehow still convinced you he’s the second coming of Rupp. You’ll win 23 games, lose to a 14-seed, and still riot like it’s Mardi Gras in a liquor store.
Your student body is 40% horse girls and 60% dudes who wear a UK jersey to weddings. Lexington thinks it’s the Hamptons of Appalachia. And every alum talks about Keeneland like it’s Versailles, when it’s really just a place where your tuition money goes to die on a horse named “Meemaw’s Pension.”
Here’s Part 2 of your final, complete SEC roast—same Nikki Glaser voice, same savage style. This continues seamlessly from where we left off, starting with LSU:
LSU
Death Valley is the only place where it smells like gumbo, regret, and bourbon sweat. Your fans would fight a toddler if it wore crimson. And I’ve seen more restraint at Mardi Gras than in your secondary.
Your basketball history is just Shaq, Pete Maravich, and a decade of mediocrity sandwiched between NCAA investigations. If it weren’t for Kim Mulkey dressing like an SEC fever dream exploded on a Mardi Gras float, no one would even remember you have a women’s team. Your men’s squad? About as consistent as a gumbo roux made by a Brit.
LSU students are a beautiful contradiction—half of you are future CEOs, the other half think Jell-O shots are a food group. Your fan base will fight anyone, anywhere, over anything—even if it’s just the pronunciation of “Boudreaux.” And you pronounce “Go Tigers” like it’s a threat.
Mississippi State
Nothing says “we’re not trying” like a cowbell. Your entire vibe is “we’re just happy to be here,” which is sweet—until you lose to Southern Miss and start a GoFundMe to fire the coach.
Basketball? You had that one Final Four twenty-seven years ago. Your current strategy is to play slow, ugly, and make the other team so bored they forget how to shoot. Your greatest contribution to hoops is that time Ben Howland almost made you watchable.
The student body is 75% ag majors who can birth a calf but not pronounce “sushi.” You treat wearing maroon as a personality trait and say “Hail State” with the desperation of someone trying to make fetch happen. Your traditions are charming in a “we have no other options” kind of way.
Missouri
You’re the kid no one invited but showed up anyway. You’re in the SEC the way Canada is in the NHL: technically, yes, but no one expects you to matter. You’re basically the SEC’s administrative assistant.
Basketball? You occasionally show up to March Madness just to remind people that Kansas exists. You had one run under Mike Anderson, and then Gary Pinkel tricked you into thinking football was your calling. Now you’re 9–4 every year and act like you discovered sliced bread.
Your student body is a walking Big Ten identity crisis. Are you southern? Are you midwestern? Are you just Iowa with better Wi-Fi? You chant “M-I-Z” like it’s a rally cry, but to everyone else it sounds like a plea for relevance. You’re basically the Missouri Compromise of the SEC—half here, half not wanted.
Ole Miss
You’re the only school that can go 10–2 and still feel like a fever dream of bourbon, seersucker, and disappointment. The Grove is just a tailgate for people who peaked in high school. And somehow… I respect that.
In basketball, you are perpetually stuck between rebuilding and relocating. Every few years you trick someone into thinking you’re a sleeper team, and then immediately lose to South Carolina by 12. Your court looks like a Cracker Barrel placemat, and your mascot used to be a literal plantation colonel—because subtlety.
Your students? Just imagine if Vineyard Vines got drunk and enrolled. Half your campus looks like extras from The Help, and the other half thinks Faulkner was a frat brother. You’re the only school where people brag about academic prestige while failing Intro to Parking.
South Carolina
You’re named after a chicken. A literal chicken. And your fans scream “Go Cocks!” in public. Which is either brave… or very, very lonely.
Basketball? Frank Martin looked like he was going to burst a blood vessel every game, and somehow that was still the highlight of your program. Your women’s team is incredible—which only makes your men’s team look like the JV squad at a YMCA.
Students at USC dress like they’re going to brunch with their cousin they might marry. Columbia is humid, loud, and permanently under construction—kind of like your athletic department. Your traditions are cute, but you chant “Sandstorm” like it’s a substitute for a trophy case.
Tennessee
Your fans wear more orange than a minimum-security prison, which is fitting because you haven’t escaped mediocrity since 1998. Neyland Stadium is just a giant time machine to when you still mattered.
Basketball has seen a resurgence, with the team occasionally making deep tournament runs. However, just when optimism peaks, they manage to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. It’s a masterclass in building hope only to crush it spectacularly.
Students at UT are passionate, to say the least. The campus is a sea of orange, and the pride is palpable. Still, the fervor sometimes borders on delusion, especially when predicting national championships in sports where the team hasn’t been relevant in decades.
Texas
You act like the SEC needed you. You swaggered in like Elon Musk at a TED Talk, but all you brought was burnt orange and a lifetime supply of inflated expectations. You’ve had more “we’re back” moments than actual wins over ranked teams.
Basketball? You fired a coach who was winning because he didn’t win enough—which is rich, considering your biggest March achievement is still Kevin Durant losing to USC. You build arenas like they’re launchpads and forget to launch.
Texas students are overconfident, overfunded, and underwhelming. Austin used to be cool—now it’s just a Whole Foods with cowboy boots. You chant “Hook ’em” like it’s a mic drop, but you’re just flipping off reality.
Texas A&M
You’re a cult. A khaki-wearing, male cheerleader-having, midnight-yell cult. You spent a billion dollars to still be the second-most embarrassing school in Texas. I’d call you a joke, but jokes have punchlines.
Basketball is an afterthought, with the team occasionally popping up in the rankings before disappearing faster than a freshman’s GPA. The program lacks identity, and the fan engagement is lukewarm at best.
Aggie students are fiercely loyal, perhaps to a fault. The Corps of Cadets adds a military flair to campus life, and the emphasis on tradition is unmatched. However, the insistence on maintaining outdated customs can make the university feel more like a historical reenactment than a modern institution.
Vanderbilt
Aw, Vanderbilt. The SEC’s designated driver. You’re the only school that recruits valedictorians and still loses to schools that can’t spell “valedictorian.” You’re not a football team—you’re a GPA booster for the conference.
Basketball has had its moments, but those are few and far between. The program is like a vintage car—occasionally impressive but mostly collecting dust. The unique court design is more memorable than most of the games played on it.
Students at Vandy are academically inclined, often more focused on internships than interceptions. The campus has an Ivy League feel, and the social scene is more wine and cheese than beer and wings. It’s the place where future CEOs go to pretend they’re part of the SEC sports culture.
Oklahoma
You ruled the Big 12 like a bored dad at a family cookout—dominant until someone brought real competition. Now you’re in the SEC, and every team you used to beat is watching you get turned into brisket. Your playoff record is a horror film.
Basketball? It’s that thing you vaguely remember when football ends. You had Blake Griffin and Buddy Hield, and then… nothing. You’re the guy who brags about dating someone hot in high school. It’s been a while, man. Let it go.
OU students are mostly nice Midwesterners who accidentally wandered into the South and are now afraid to say “pop.” You try to talk trash, but it comes off like a corn-fed golden retriever trying to bark. And your mascot is a horse-drawn wagon that regularly flips over. Which, honestly, is the perfect metaphor for your playoff record.
Congratulations, Alabama—you built a football empire so dominant that even your fans started thinking dental work was optional. You worship Nick Saban like he’s a prophet who came down from Tuscaloosa to hand out national titles and passive-aggressive halftime interviews. But now he’s gone, and you’re stuck pretending the dynasty isn’t crumbling faster than your players’ academic eligibility.
In basketball, you’re basically the guy who shows up to karaoke night, sings surprisingly well, and then immediately tries to headline Coachella. One decent season and suddenly Bama fans are acting like they invented March Madness. Newsflash: “basketball school” doesn’t mean “got a 5-seed once and lost to UConn.”
Your student body is 40% out-of-state rich kids named Chandler and Brynlee who treat campus like a TikTok set and pronounce “Roll Tide” with a soft R. The rest are locals who’ve never left the state and think Waffle House counts as fine dining. Alabama is the only school where Greek life and actual incest might overlap on a Venn diagram.
Arkansas
You chose a pig. That’s your brand. Not a fierce boar—just a chubby farm animal that wallows in filth and screams. “Woo Pig Sooie” sounds like a mating call in a truck stop parking lot, which, coincidentally, is where most Arkansas fans were conceived.
John Calipari is your new basketball coach, and somehow it’s a perfect fit: a flashy name, a bloated resume, and enough underachievement to blend in. Enjoy going from “One and Done” to “Two and Through.” Razorback hoops is like your football team—loud, expensive, and overrated.
Your student body is an Ozarks fever dream: a bunch of people majoring in poultry science, wearing camo to formal, and treating “cousin” as a flexible term. You treat Fayetteville like it’s Manhattan with ATV access. It’s really just Little Rock with a dress code.
Auburn
Auburn’s motto should just be “We’re not Alabama,” which is ironic because you’ve tried copying everything about them except the winning. You’re constantly one bad coaching hire away from installing Bo Jackson as interim president. Every other year, you either beat Alabama and storm the field, or lose by 30 and storm the Chick-fil-A.
Your basketball program went from punchline to… okay, slightly more relevant punchline. Bruce Pearl is the human equivalent of an energy drink that’s been sitting in a hot car—jittery, loud, and somehow still employed. And yet, despite a Final Four run, no one trusts Auburn to win anything that doesn’t involve a bribe or a bag man.
Your student body is 90% kids who think khakis and croakies are formalwear. Half of you got rejected from Alabama and now act like it was a moral decision. You guys say “War Eagle” like it’s a statement of purpose when it’s really just code for “we own a boat but can’t spell ‘catamaran.’”
Florida
Your entire brand is being good once every five years and acting like it’s a tradition. Also, if your fan base had as much discipline as your players don’t, you’d be an Ivy League school by now.
In basketball, you peaked during the Joakim Noah era, which is funny because he looked like he showered in a Waffle House sink and still dominated. Now your team is like your fan base—sloppy, inconsistent, and always talking about 2006 like it was yesterday. You’re not a threat—you’re a two-point loss to Vanderbilt waiting to happen.
Your students are either aspiring influencers, burnout finance bros, or the kind of Floridians who say “I’m from the good part of Florida” like that’s a thing. Gainesville is just Tallahassee with more Crocs. And your alumni include Aaron Hernandez, which feels like something you’d try to bury—right next to your 2020 bowl record.
Georgia
Oh look, it’s Bama with a wine spritzer. Congrats on back-to-back titles—but you’re still the kind of fans who bark at strangers and think that’s charming. Athens is lovely, but you somehow made it insufferable.
Basketball in Athens is like a Chick-fil-A on Sunday—technically exists, but it’s never open when it matters. You’re in a talent hotbed, and still somehow field a team that looks like it was assembled from intramural cuts. You’ve had more five-star arrests than five-star recruits.
UGA students look like they were grown in a vineyard. Everyone’s named Carter or Annabelle, and they dress like SEC Network interns at a garden party. You bark. In public. At strangers. And you wonder why people think you’re unwell. Georgia is the only school where the English major sounds like a moonshine sommelier.
Kentucky
You guys think basketball counts as a real sport and act like the rest of the SEC cares. Newsflash: March Madness doesn’t erase the fact that your football program’s spirit animal is a damp napkin.
Basketball is your religion, but now you’ve replaced Calipari with Mark Pope, a guy whose name sounds like a backup tight end but somehow still convinced you he’s the second coming of Rupp. You’ll win 23 games, lose to a 14-seed, and still riot like it’s Mardi Gras in a liquor store.
Your student body is 40% horse girls and 60% dudes who wear a UK jersey to weddings. Lexington thinks it’s the Hamptons of Appalachia. And every alum talks about Keeneland like it’s Versailles, when it’s really just a place where your tuition money goes to die on a horse named “Meemaw’s Pension.”
Here’s Part 2 of your final, complete SEC roast—same Nikki Glaser voice, same savage style. This continues seamlessly from where we left off, starting with LSU:
LSU
Death Valley is the only place where it smells like gumbo, regret, and bourbon sweat. Your fans would fight a toddler if it wore crimson. And I’ve seen more restraint at Mardi Gras than in your secondary.
Your basketball history is just Shaq, Pete Maravich, and a decade of mediocrity sandwiched between NCAA investigations. If it weren’t for Kim Mulkey dressing like an SEC fever dream exploded on a Mardi Gras float, no one would even remember you have a women’s team. Your men’s squad? About as consistent as a gumbo roux made by a Brit.
LSU students are a beautiful contradiction—half of you are future CEOs, the other half think Jell-O shots are a food group. Your fan base will fight anyone, anywhere, over anything—even if it’s just the pronunciation of “Boudreaux.” And you pronounce “Go Tigers” like it’s a threat.
Mississippi State
Nothing says “we’re not trying” like a cowbell. Your entire vibe is “we’re just happy to be here,” which is sweet—until you lose to Southern Miss and start a GoFundMe to fire the coach.
Basketball? You had that one Final Four twenty-seven years ago. Your current strategy is to play slow, ugly, and make the other team so bored they forget how to shoot. Your greatest contribution to hoops is that time Ben Howland almost made you watchable.
The student body is 75% ag majors who can birth a calf but not pronounce “sushi.” You treat wearing maroon as a personality trait and say “Hail State” with the desperation of someone trying to make fetch happen. Your traditions are charming in a “we have no other options” kind of way.
Missouri
You’re the kid no one invited but showed up anyway. You’re in the SEC the way Canada is in the NHL: technically, yes, but no one expects you to matter. You’re basically the SEC’s administrative assistant.
Basketball? You occasionally show up to March Madness just to remind people that Kansas exists. You had one run under Mike Anderson, and then Gary Pinkel tricked you into thinking football was your calling. Now you’re 9–4 every year and act like you discovered sliced bread.
Your student body is a walking Big Ten identity crisis. Are you southern? Are you midwestern? Are you just Iowa with better Wi-Fi? You chant “M-I-Z” like it’s a rally cry, but to everyone else it sounds like a plea for relevance. You’re basically the Missouri Compromise of the SEC—half here, half not wanted.
Ole Miss
You’re the only school that can go 10–2 and still feel like a fever dream of bourbon, seersucker, and disappointment. The Grove is just a tailgate for people who peaked in high school. And somehow… I respect that.
In basketball, you are perpetually stuck between rebuilding and relocating. Every few years you trick someone into thinking you’re a sleeper team, and then immediately lose to South Carolina by 12. Your court looks like a Cracker Barrel placemat, and your mascot used to be a literal plantation colonel—because subtlety.
Your students? Just imagine if Vineyard Vines got drunk and enrolled. Half your campus looks like extras from The Help, and the other half thinks Faulkner was a frat brother. You’re the only school where people brag about academic prestige while failing Intro to Parking.
South Carolina
You’re named after a chicken. A literal chicken. And your fans scream “Go Cocks!” in public. Which is either brave… or very, very lonely.
Basketball? Frank Martin looked like he was going to burst a blood vessel every game, and somehow that was still the highlight of your program. Your women’s team is incredible—which only makes your men’s team look like the JV squad at a YMCA.
Students at USC dress like they’re going to brunch with their cousin they might marry. Columbia is humid, loud, and permanently under construction—kind of like your athletic department. Your traditions are cute, but you chant “Sandstorm” like it’s a substitute for a trophy case.
Tennessee
Your fans wear more orange than a minimum-security prison, which is fitting because you haven’t escaped mediocrity since 1998. Neyland Stadium is just a giant time machine to when you still mattered.
Basketball has seen a resurgence, with the team occasionally making deep tournament runs. However, just when optimism peaks, they manage to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. It’s a masterclass in building hope only to crush it spectacularly.
Students at UT are passionate, to say the least. The campus is a sea of orange, and the pride is palpable. Still, the fervor sometimes borders on delusion, especially when predicting national championships in sports where the team hasn’t been relevant in decades.
Texas
You act like the SEC needed you. You swaggered in like Elon Musk at a TED Talk, but all you brought was burnt orange and a lifetime supply of inflated expectations. You’ve had more “we’re back” moments than actual wins over ranked teams.
Basketball? You fired a coach who was winning because he didn’t win enough—which is rich, considering your biggest March achievement is still Kevin Durant losing to USC. You build arenas like they’re launchpads and forget to launch.
Texas students are overconfident, overfunded, and underwhelming. Austin used to be cool—now it’s just a Whole Foods with cowboy boots. You chant “Hook ’em” like it’s a mic drop, but you’re just flipping off reality.
Texas A&M
You’re a cult. A khaki-wearing, male cheerleader-having, midnight-yell cult. You spent a billion dollars to still be the second-most embarrassing school in Texas. I’d call you a joke, but jokes have punchlines.
Basketball is an afterthought, with the team occasionally popping up in the rankings before disappearing faster than a freshman’s GPA. The program lacks identity, and the fan engagement is lukewarm at best.
Aggie students are fiercely loyal, perhaps to a fault. The Corps of Cadets adds a military flair to campus life, and the emphasis on tradition is unmatched. However, the insistence on maintaining outdated customs can make the university feel more like a historical reenactment than a modern institution.
Vanderbilt
Aw, Vanderbilt. The SEC’s designated driver. You’re the only school that recruits valedictorians and still loses to schools that can’t spell “valedictorian.” You’re not a football team—you’re a GPA booster for the conference.
Basketball has had its moments, but those are few and far between. The program is like a vintage car—occasionally impressive but mostly collecting dust. The unique court design is more memorable than most of the games played on it.
Students at Vandy are academically inclined, often more focused on internships than interceptions. The campus has an Ivy League feel, and the social scene is more wine and cheese than beer and wings. It’s the place where future CEOs go to pretend they’re part of the SEC sports culture.
Oklahoma
You ruled the Big 12 like a bored dad at a family cookout—dominant until someone brought real competition. Now you’re in the SEC, and every team you used to beat is watching you get turned into brisket. Your playoff record is a horror film.
Basketball? It’s that thing you vaguely remember when football ends. You had Blake Griffin and Buddy Hield, and then… nothing. You’re the guy who brags about dating someone hot in high school. It’s been a while, man. Let it go.
OU students are mostly nice Midwesterners who accidentally wandered into the South and are now afraid to say “pop.” You try to talk trash, but it comes off like a corn-fed golden retriever trying to bark. And your mascot is a horse-drawn wagon that regularly flips over. Which, honestly, is the perfect metaphor for your playoff record.
