Liveblogging the game from The Future

The call finally went through, it's official, I'll be attending the game, THE GAME, the first Monday Night Football home game in five years, they say. Taking place in the Metrodome, the nation's favorite Swastika-Cupcake , the Minnesota Vikings, a team of some renown around the Twin Cities, and the New England Patriots, the Super Bowl's tooth-skin brigade. The Vikings have become the fashionable team to root for in the NFC, their defense MCL spraining those overrated honkies, the Seattle Seahawks last week, and nobody wants the Patriots to win anymore, they're boring and old and Tom Brady has a creepy suaveness in his inability to readcue cards in the commercials, like an All-American serial rapist about to leave big toothy marks all over your body. We'll see. Oh, and I guess it's costume night, my little brother Jack has informed we that we're going as a pair, he a dark ninja from the mysterious and foggy reaches of the Nippon Coast and me, Carl Thuroforg, Olde Tyme Strongman, striped and steroid-free, and wishing that we were taking on the Steelers for the more appropriate metaphor.
5:36 PM

Have to let the family in my house, they have to pee or something. Jack is an ass, his "Ninja" costume nothing more than a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt and a shit-eating grin. Oh well, I guess I'll have to Strongman on alone, looking like an ass for no reason while he giggles like a lady.

We've arrived at the Metrodome. The streets are packed, almost everyone in their favorite costume for this Halloween Monday Night Party. It's really embarrassing for most of them, apparently no one coordinated and they've all come dressed like a Minnesota Viking! Awkwardness covers the streets in the stink of barbecue and beer. We're standing in line, the express line no less, expressly standing motionless. The obese woman in front of us is getting completely plastered and a bunch of sparkle-eyed ho's are marching around professing their love for Mr. Brady. They've got a big, plywood sign and they can't walk without dancing, this is the depth of their love. Except the security guard just happens to be a Vikings fan, in a twist no one saw coming. He marches out, they are obscured, probably using advanced rent-a-cop techniques, and a cry comes out, "Why do you have to be such a fucking asshole!?" The security guard returns to his post, happy to let the question go unanswered, with the sign. For a moment, I thought he was the one truly in love with Tom Brady, or that he was VD security, but he just smashes their sign over his knee in dramatic fashion and spends a few more seconds crushing it past the point of reason until he realizes he's spent all his knee-power cache and gone overboard. He straightens and smiles at the girls, probably thinking his sweet rayon blazer still gives him a chance to get into their now-Bradyless panties.

We've just entered and it feels nice and welcoming. First, I was asked to spread my arms, like the filthy anti-state Criminal that I am, or wish to be. Then, sadly, there is only a perfunctory search of my person, a tap on my shoulders and back that would have missed dozens of Guns and Knives and Propaganda leaflets which I could should and will in the future bring to the game. So the "Spread 'em", he said it like that too, like he was a bad-ass, was just to make me feel intimidated and alone, naked and embarrassed. Good, good for them. At least I now have a close-up picture of Tony Kornheiser on a stick, the worst fair food ever.

We have an hour before the game. My dad gave me forty bucks for food, an enticement to skimp on the beer and save for a case when I get home. One won't hurt, and i need some food anyway. Jack gets a cheeseburger and I get a veggie burger because it is two dollars (four beers on the Black Label exchange) cheaper. My beer is a Budweiser, a King of Beers. Or The King of Beers. He is some sort of 6.00 beer monarch, which, with my 4.00 veggie burger and jack's 6.00 cheeseburger, means we have now spent 16 dollars of our 40. Start the countdown.

We've spent the last half hour wandering through the stadium to find more masks. Jack want a Chris Berman one, I hope so he can cut improper holes and privately hump it, but we are shanghaied by tons of fatbodies who have turned the open halls of this MegaSportsComplex into a compressed and unmoving pipe of clogged human shit. My veggie burger is not a burger, but a horrible potato patty mash, like one of those triangular hash brown biscuits they dole out in cafeterias around the nation. They've at least had the decency to cut this one into a square and let me imagine real food. Jack's looks better, but he is intent on this Berman fellow. My beer doesn't taste like anything, but I'm drinking fast and this should soon be a fun game.

As we're stuck in this hallway, I notice that if you crouch just a few inches and block out the Summit Brewing concession stand, the thick cement rafters colored only by thin red pipes look exactly like the roof of my imaginary prison. I love attending games here, it reminds me of my childhood, at Attica. Any moment someone is going to throw a chair at the Aryan Nations looking mother over there and we're going into full on riot mode. We return to our seats, but not before another beer is purchased. This is going to be a fun game. 18 dollars left.

There are a few legitimate costumes. Meaning there is a man with a poofy black wig and a tiny top hat who is Slash. He is also smoking a stage cigarette, one of the ones that magically puff despite being made of plastic and not on fire. A few people behind me are yelling at him, "Hey!" "Hey!" "Hey!" never directing the shout or referring to anything by "Hey!". I were them, this is what I would shout: "Slash! You Rock! Also! There is no smoking the Metrodome complex, please smoke in designated smoking areas! Rock on!" A security guard is called over and I start to laugh, ha ha, he wasted 15 seconds and ten cement steps of your time. Oh. Wait, apparently you can only pretend to smoke in designated pretend smoking sections. They ask him to put it in his pocket and he complies, if only to continue to rock the Jungle.

Ok, now we're actually involved in the game. There is smashing and running and violence. Oooh, 8 yard pass. Yes! Eight yard loss! We've got this well in hand.

Wow, well that sucked. I guess the middle of the field is important in the beginning of the game, when there are 60 minutes on the clock and no one is looking to get out of bounds. Jesus Christ, that speaker is loud, and I have too many advertisements. This second beer, 3.2 percent alcohol by volume (yes!) is not helping me cope. The first downs are sponsored by a moving company. As the chains move, so shall your furniture. Every non-game second is filled with commercials. I wonder at what point people won't put up with this shit. No one else seems bothered and I'm trying to crawl out of my skull. It's 3:53 into the game and I need another beer.

An interception! Yes! An interception! No. An interception. All set ups and no touchdowns, fuck this shit, I'm going to get another $6.00 beer. I wish there was a veggie beer that was only $4.00. The line is too long, so first I must pee. This line is longer. When I finally turn the corner and enter the bathroom, every male head (facial head) is pointed directly at the wall. The sheer number of men at the trough makes violating the standard urinal staggering necessary. Judging by the sheer numbers waiting to pee, I'm not the only one trying to drink my problems away. It takes me a minute to get my tin buttons open and the guy behind me is sighing loudly. I turn around while I'm peeing and smile. He is holding his crotch and doesn't care.

Everyone is so goddamn serious. They're pissed after that first drive, it seemed like every play was for 15 yards at least, but something miraculous is probably happening right now. First, I need to wash the taste of dry grains from my mouth with a Budweiser and a Hotdog, and Jack needs a Coke. How much trouble would I get in if I let him get drunk? A lot, it's probably not worth it. I spilled a little bit of my beer on myhot dog and the bun falls apart. I slam half my beer and put half a pound of onions and ketchup on as revenge. That's six for the beer, six for thehot dog and five seventy-five for the coke. $.25 left.

Michael Irvin is walking around the field. There is a section of handicapped people on the edge of the field which he approaches. This section is for the mentally retarded, a big Irvin demographic. He's half-ignoring them while he shakes their hands. He's hugging this one now. Oh, he's taking his glasses off, probably because he respects this person enough to look them in the eye.

It's a nurse. With a giant rack. She probably deserved a hug, too.

Michael Irvin is the real retard.

Another touchdown for the almighty Patriots. It was the end of the half, it doesn't really matter. We're all tied up, 17-0. After the touchdown, a guy threw his beer bottle at Tom Brady. Brady was pissed, but the guy was fantastic; he immediately stands up and starts talking on his cell phone, walking nonchalantly out of the stadium. He didn't count on the several thousand people surrounding him and pointing him out, or the national television cameras that captured his face. Should have planned ahead, I say. But the best part was the people at the top. They had no way of knowing that this was the guy, except that the guy before them pointed at him too. Next time I go, I'm just going to point accusingly at people and see how many of them survive the night.

Jack broke his collarbone in hockey. It sticks out all weird and gross. He's super pumped. It's halftime and someone has made giant penis shaped costumes of the announcers. They are to race, it's some magnificent challenge. Mike Tirico and Steve Young, even though he's a fuckingMormon, are the only ones who don't get their asses booed. Most of the jeers are directed at Tony Kornheiser and Michael Irvin, but never mind ; we're off. The shoes are way to big to run in and several of the racers give up in the first few minutes. They're just walking slowly, waving at the masses. I get bored and miss the end, but afterward, one of them tackles Michael Irvin Penis and punches him in his soft spongy guts.

Next, the long awaited log thwacking challenge. Several of our neighbors notice my costume and tell me I oughta go out there and show them a thing or too. I don't have time to explain 19th century Americana, so I say in my head at them, "Yes. I would show them many a thing about the fine spectacle of competitive thwacking," and out loud I kind of make this croaking sound that I do when I'm not ready to respond, or I'm scared of insulting someone and I manage to squeal out an affirmation of their costume analysis. Jesus, I'm such a freak.

They are divided into teams represented by two weird Dodge Machines. Only the first one is reddish orange and the second one is orange-flecked red, so I can't tell which team is which, but I'm totally rooting for the more red of the two. And for a chainsaw to go throughsomeones foot. The first thwacking event is the Ground-Whack. Here, a competitor chops a log in half, while standing on top of it, then try not to fall. These men tire quickly, after one or two thwacks. I oughta go down there and show them a thing or two. Then there is an ax throwing competition, and red dude gets the first throw perfect. Nice. Orange guy is already on his second and he's throwing like a pussy, two or three feet short every time. After the third time, they let him just hand off hisaxe , like three failures equals a success. This next one is called Top-Chop. Here, a competitor chops the top off a log. It's boring, but the Red team is falling slightly behind, in spite of their enormous lead earlier. Foreshadowing, methinks. The best event is the chainsaw cut. It is an exhilarating race cutting the width of a log with a machine. These guys are superhumans. They do the Top-Chop again and the Red Team wins by a hair. You think the guy who couldn't throw feels like an ass? Is this a big deal? I mean, do they shame him when they get back to the locker rooms? Are there locker rooms? I think I'd feel like an ass.

Oughta is a stupid fucking word. Look at it for a second, sound it out. Oew, Yew, Jee, Aech, Tee, Ae, o-u-g-h-t-a, Otta?

MEEEEWELDEEEE! Good thing he gets to rush ten times a season. Touchdown, it's 17-7 and we got a game.

Nice 70 yard return and we don't. People are pretty unhappy with this turn of events, and they were so joyful a moment ago. I beginning to suspect a mood disorder. They're booing, which is an interesting deal. Wikipedia writes, "In sports, booing players after poor play is quite common. See Alex Rodriguez " Ha. Everything else says that it's pretending to be a cow. First, that's moo and second, awesome, a ton of cows are startled by my magnificent play.

The old man sitting next to me has been using his long zoom lens to look at the Cheerleaders and their camel toes all night. Not once has he turned it toward the field and I'm wondering if I can introduce him to pornography, which is far cheaper. These cheerleaders seem hotter tonight, though, they're in costumes that don't have dorky little skirts and do have huge breasts.

The old man is muttering to himself, probably just dirty talk, when he becomes audible enough to understand. Apparently, "that Oriental One" isn't here tonight, and "that Oriental One" is his favorite. Presumably, his favorite to jerk off to, not to view as his racial equal. Another interesting fact that he clues me into, with his half-erect penis tightly sheathed within his mostly unzipped khakis, is that they now have tattoos. If they do, I can't see them and I'm starting to wonder about any other features he might have. Super zoom? X-ray lens? Tattoo shaped cataracts?

Interception. Sack. Crappy punt. Bollinger. Sack. Sack. Sack. PUUUNT. This game sucks, and I'm broke. Time to go.


madam tyrant said...

So I here you guys are a bunch of douchebags that forced my husband to watch Marie Antoinette instead of Texas Chainsaw Massacre. The main reason why I hang out with you freaks is because you're not girls(excepting Tina of course), until you pull some weird ass shit like this. Not one of you wanted to see blood, skulls and gore? You're all like, oooh I bet she has pretty dresses and everyones all pretty. Buncha girls.

ETC said...

The reason you hang out with us is because you grew up in Owatonna MN, had a child out of wedlock, and married Dan... Not to mention the fact that after hanging out with us for 8 years the reaffirmation of awkward social tendencies have rendered each of us incapable of reaching out to friendship beyond our established circle of lovably self-abusing companions.

Your stuck here. Pretty dresses and implied executions via French revolution included.

madam tyrant said...

How the hell does having a child out of wedlock dictate who my friends are? If that happened, I'd probably be hanging out with a bunch of crack heads in owatonna. But, thanks to a supportive group of friends, that didn't happen, jackass. And I was friends with you all long before I married Dan. Double jackass. Oh, and I seem to have actually made friends outside of the circle that aren't lovably self-abusing. Triple jackass. So you can keep your back handed comments to yourself. Burn.

ETC said...

I know
but, uhh...

You should really go see Marie Antoinette.

Its awesome.



I wish I was capable of reaching out beyond my established social circle.
Hell most of the time I don't even reach in to ward the circle.

Anna Nym said...

What can I say about Marie Antoinette? First of all, "I told you so."

Secondly, I think we should buy copies of the DVD when it comes out, as Christmas presents. Anyone I don't like, but for propriety's sake I am obligated to gift them, BAM! Wrapping paper full of Marie Antoinette. And I know that these people won't finish the movie, but I also know (a) that they'll get no pleasure from what they do see, and (b) that it will be a part of their DVD collection, visible to the world, boldly crying out to all who will listen, "These people suck. They own this."

But Marie Antoinette action figures, those would be amazing.

Lastly, a few non-Marie words.

ETC, most of us have friends outside the circle. I know I certainly do, though I also know I'm not fully part of the circle. I mean, I've only been hanging out with some of you for, like, five years. I'm a newbie, freshly diapered.

Speaking of diapered, I didn't et eh baby thing either. Do you mean that if Madam had not had a child, she would be cruising in much better circles by now?

Also, did anyone read what we are posting to? It's amazing. Completely and solidly good. Publishable, and some would say (cough) published.

Trevor, Trevor, Trevor. Your cries for help fall on Def Comedy Jammed Ears. On Wheel of Fortune, what I did there would be called a Before and After. Fuck yes. I wrote a Before and After.

ETC said...

Oh I know I know...
Little sense is made...
I'm merely suggesting circumstance has a role in friendship -- beyond the fact that we (as in some of us) are not girls.

My initial response to the dearest Madam Tyrant has plagued my conscience for nearly a week... Much apologies to all of my beautiful and well adjusted friends.