Tuesday, September 25, 2012

How The Boys Beat the Bucs

So, as it turns out, there is actually a performance clause in my contract with Down and Distant.  So instead of going with "Plan A" which consisted of me cruising to retirement and not doing much, I am forced into "Plan B" which is "contribute".   So, seeing as I have to work for my beer money this weekend, I submit the following post.  I must warn you that some of these facts may have been stretched and there is at least one outright, blatant lie.  I will leave it to you to pick it out.  

After seeing Poons post about his lost weekend learning new terms like "bear" and "power bottom" in Chicago, I decided I was going to steal tickets to a Cowboys game and kidnap three random gringos to haul with me.  I made them call me "friend" and by the end of the day, proved Stockholm Syndrome works like a charm.  We will call these brave souls Richard, Johnson, and Peter.

The story begins (for most of us) at 8:45am as we triumphantly walk to our chariot, our cooler full of the raw materials for the Micks favorite daytime drink, the Red Beer.  I say the day started for most of us at 8:45, because one member of our travelling band, Richard, decided that Oktoberfest would be a great "pregame-pregame". As his truck came stumbling down the street, we could smell his alcohol infused pheromones from half a block away and as Richard poured himself out of the truck, he proclaimed that he was too drunk to think of a good excuse to back out of the days festivities. So here he was.  

We hop in the hoopty and head on down the road to Arlington, TX, the fun time capitol of DFW for sports and merriment.  This city also provides the best excuse to start drinking before 10am on a Sunday, if you need one.  

Relevant Quote: "You can't drink all day if you don't start early in the morning."

Pause for a Life Pro Tip: If you have read down this far, I am going to let you in on a pretty good parking secret should you venture down to Jerrys Death Star.  We found a small business that is a preschool during the week that whores its limited parking spots for 35 of your American dollars on game days. The best part about this is it is right across the street from Lot 15 which, if memory serves, is an $85 parking lot and puts you about half a mile from the stadium.  Not too shabby.  This place also allows for consumption on site.  They don't mind and old man Rufus, the attendant, is more than friendly.

Back to our story.  Peter, Johnson, Richard and I are standing outside the Mick-mobile in our newly rented parking space talking about the upcoming game and recent TV show marathons we have gotten sucked into.  I started talking about "How the States Got Their Shapes" and starting wowing them all by dropping all kinds of useless trivia on them.  I walked away from the group with my chest out in pride to get pour myself another red beer as I had surely left them reeling in wonderment at my superior knowledge of power grids and the Canadian border.  When I returned to the group, I found that the conversation had taken an awful, terrible turn.  

"I think I may have just shit myself" uttered by Richard was the first thing i heard upon my return.  How oh how did we stumble upon this conversation!?  I don't know if it was the beer talking but I was suddenly extremely jealous.  With that one statement, all attention had been drawn from my vast knowledge and onto Richard.  And here I was about to share with them that the Texas state capitol is deliberately 15 feet taller than the US capitol building.

The time came head to the stadium.  Super Secret Parking put us about a half mile from our gate so we had some time to people watch and get the stumble out of our sober.  Richard continued to be in a bad way, mumbling from time to time about "little infected poop needles" and the need to find a restroom.  

Now, Richard and Johnson are not big sports fans and like to make nonsensical comments about any event we attend.  As we waited in line to get into the gate, Johnson stated that we may not even get into the game until the "middle inning".  It was about this time that I saw a video board that showed a text short code to report unruly behavior.  I had a feeling I was going to need this to report myself as a preemptive effort.  This same Johnson would later comment upon an interception by the Dallas Cowboys that we just "hit a home run".  

After loading up on the maximum amount of beer allowable by the stadium, we proceed to our seats.  As you can tell from the photos, these were not bad seats by any stretch.  Sure, they could have been mid field, sure they could have been a little higher up to see all of the action on the field.  But in the end, not one of us had an issue with the view.  

It is at this point that I found out that Gangnam Style is now considered a Jock Jam, which I do not all the way disagree with.  

Some game stuff happened.

The scenery had moved on so we decided to do a little walking around to see the sights.  We went outside into a courtyard area and was greeted by a loud carny who proceeded to challenge our collective manhood and appeal to our inner show boat.  There was a truck, with blocking dummies attached to the bumper.  The idea is to push it ten yards to beat a pre-established time.  Easy enough.  My companions and I look at each other, shrug, and proceed to attempt our best impression of a three point stance.  Our first two efforts went well, I had forgotten how much fun blocking dummies were. Our best time was .5 seconds slower than the fastest time which encouraged us to keep going.  5 more times.  I am light headed at this point and need to stop.  

"Lets push a truck they said...  It will be fun they said....".  This is the reason that 2 days later my legs still hate me and my shoulder is sore something fierce. I am not 17 anymore.  I am still not all the way convinced that the game wasn't rigged and the e-brake wasn't on the whole time.  Carnies.  Never trust them.  It was out of this frustration that I proceeded to pick up the F150, Hulk Style, and heave it over the roof of Cowboys Stadium.  

Inside, football continued.

The consolation prize for trying to push a truck 10 yards was a Dallas Cowboys foam finger.  In my frustration, I grabbed my foam finger and bashed it against one of the tables outside like I was Billy Joe Armstrong on a drug bender making an ass of myself at a rock festival, breaking it in half. 

The foam finger excited Johnson to no end, however, and I believe it was the favorite part of the game for him.  From this point forward, he would point at people at random and shout "I have a foam finger!" every time people cheered around him. 

Things get hazy at this point.  By this time the game had started to wind down and we made our way out of the stadium and toward our ride.  We paused before the ride home to finish the beer that we had in our cooler.   If you ask me, our conversation was prim, proper, and in no way offensive to anyone.  if you were an outsider looking in, we probably more resembled monkeys grunting at each other and laughing uncontrollably.  

It was time to go, so we punched Peter in the gut until he was sober and slid him into the driver seat. Richard proceeded to promptly pass out and I have not heard from him since  He is presumed dead.  

And, dear reader,  that is the story of how the Dallas Cowboys beat the Tampa Bay Buccaneers by a score of 16-10. 

Yours In Christ, 

1 comment:

poon4life said...

I love you. I would read your mesmerizing articles all day if I could. However, I have tiny poop needles I must take care of.