Hey, guess who I fucked last Sunday night?
If you said, “The #1 Chief’s fan!“, you win!
Now I am not a sports fan. Well, not a team sports fan anyway. Compared to the sports I’ve been participating in since pre-birth – motorcycle racing, fencing, and boxing primarily – watching heavily padded guys hand each other a ball, or swing a stick at one, is like watching a 3D printer churn out a scale model of the Taj Mahal. You gotta admire the skill it takes, but it feels like you could build the actual Taj Mahal faster. It’s no wonder they sell so much beer at the games. Only with anesthesia could you sit still that long watching nothing.
(I will give a grudging nod to the sport of hockey. When I actually saw a match in person the ability of sequoia sized men to skate backwards faster than I can drive and engage in MMA matches at the same time made quite an impression on me.)
I’ve seen exactly one basketball, one football, and three baseball games in my life, and I consider them five of the most excruciating experiences of my life. And I used to go to community theater.
I’m not a sports fan.
Neither is NewWifey(tm). Like me, once she experienced the sphincter clenching thrills of full bore motorcycle racing, the only thing other “sports” were good for were as soporifics.
Which is why I stopped dead in my tracks when I came home from a photo outing yesterday and saw NewWifey(tm) glued to the TV watching a football show.
“Honey? Are you…”
She shushed me. “Quiet, I’m trying to hear what the Chief’s pass rushing record is!”
I was stunned. Not just because NewWifey(tm) was watching a sports program, but also because she was doing so decked out in what looked like a brand new football jersey and matching face paint.
“Baby, I – ”
“SHUT UP! Talk to me during the commercial!”
I squatted down next to the sofa. I couldn’t sit on the sofa because my half was taken up by a large cardboard FedEx box overflowing with what looked like more sports stuff.
Finally a commercial. But before I could say anything NewWifey(tm) reached into the box and pulled out a red sweatshirt and threw it at me. “Quick, put this on! And get me a beer!”
“Baby, I -”
I knew I’d have to wait until the next commercial to get a word in so after fetching her beer I put the sweatshirt on and squatted back down. It was a Kansas City Chiefs shirt, with a gigantic arrowhead in the middle. The guys on tv were now comparing how each team’s center snapped the ball or something.
“Ok baby, what’s going on. Why are you watching football? And what is all this stuff?” I waved my hand at the 4 foot long box that was reclining where I should be reclining.
“It’s the Super Bowl! WOOOOO!!”
“Um, honey, we’ve been together for over 20 Super Bowls now and we haven’t watched a single one. You hate football.”
“But the Chiefs are in it! And I’m their #1 fan!”
“You hate football.”
“BUT THE CHIEFS ARE IN IT! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!”
“How did you even know?” I said.
“While you were out this morning the FedEx guy banged on the door and dropped this box off. It’s from my brother.” She handed me a note: “SIS! THE CHIEFS ARE IN THE SUPER BOWL! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
I looked in the box. In addition to the shirts, bro had packed a giant foam #1 finger, a Chiefs hat with novelty beer holder attachments on each side, several little flags on sticks to wave, Chiefs scarf in red and gold, a plastic bow and arrow with gigantic arrowhead in team colors, and a Chiefs Christmas ornament for some reason. “There was also a case of Boulevard Beer from Kansas City” she said, “and a pound box each of smoked brisket and pulled pork from Jack Stack BBQ. They’re in the fridge.”
I checked the shipping label. Her brother paid $118.14 to have that pile overnighted to us.
I had to wait for the next commercial break to ask the next question.
“You hate football.”
She enunciated very clearly, like she was trying to explain to a retarded 8 year old that “just because the cat poops in a box….”
“I grew up in Kansas City” she said. “The Chiefs are the Kansas City football team.”
“Yeah, but, I grew up in the greater New York metropolitan area. You don’t see me whoopin’ and hollerin’ and waving giant foam fingers when the Giants or Jets make it to the Super Bowl. If they ever have. You know why? Because it’s football. We hate football.”
NewWifey(tm) looked at me like I’d just asked her to explain why we need to breathe.
She spoke very slowly again, but this time with a subtle threatening undertone. “I grew up in Kansas City. The Chiefs are not football. They. Are. Our. Religion.” Her eyes narrowed. “Do you believe in the Chiefs?”
“I’m not a sports fan.”
“Then get the hell out of here. Only Chiefs fans are allowed in the living room today. I’m their #1 fan, and I say so.” She pointed to a novelty parking regulation sign that I somehow didn’t see was included in the box, and which she nailed to the wall behind me. It said, “Parking Reserved For #1 Chiefs Fan“.
Fine with me. I hightailed it to the computer room to play some Minesweeper and watch porn. Around 7:30 I went to bed.
At 8 o’clock the bedroom door burst open and NewWifey(tm) came running in. She flung herself on the bed next to me, sobbing in great heaving sobs. I turned the light on. Her face paint was smeared and running down her face, and she had giant globs of BBQ sauce all down the front of her new jersey.
“Honey! What’s wrong??”
Between sobs she managed to gasp out, “The…Chiefs…are …down…by….10 …in….the…….FOURTH!!”
I didn’t know what that meant, but I gathered from her demeanor it was not what she wanted.
I put an arm around here. “There there, sweetie. I’m sure they’re gonna make a comeback in the 5th with some more runs or whatever. Don’t lose faith!”
She flung my arm off her. “Don’t touch me! YOU’RE NOT A CHIEFS FAN!” And she went running from the room again.
I drifted back to sleep.
45 minutes later the bedroom door burst open.
But this time….
“WE WON! WE WON! THE CHIEFS ARE THE SUPERBOWL CHAMPIONS! FUCK YEAH! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! GOOOOOOOOOOO CHIEFS! CHIEFS! CHIEFS! CHIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEFS!!!”
NewWifey(tm) leaped back onto the bed, her red and gold face paint now smeared as one single orange color from her hairline to sternum. She reeked of smoked pork and midwestern beer.
“Say it!” She yelled at me. “SAY IT!”
Despite the tornado that just blew in, I was still groggy with sleep.
NewWifey(tm) grabbed me hard on each side of my head, and shook. “SAY IT!!”
She tore off her pants, tore off my pants, and hopped on. “SAY IT AGAIN!”
There was no confusion this time. “Go CHIEFS!” I yelled. “Chiefs! Chiefs! Chiefs! Superbowl Champs! WOOOOOOOOOOOOO! CHIEFS!!”
NewWifey(tm) bounced up and down in her stained jersey, head back, eyes closed, mouth open, blurting out gutteral “Chiefs! Woooooooooo!” at random. BBQ sauce and face paint smears were everywhere, including Little Elvis somehow. The room smelled like a hops farm.
A half hour later she was passed out on the bed, still in the splotched jersey and war paint. I nodded off next to her, and 6 hours later I was on my way to work.
As a football fan.
No…a Chief’s fan.
(I sure hope the Royals make it to the World Series next. I bet I know who the #1 Royals fan is….)
Random Picture Blast
My local photography club theme for the month of March is “Cemeteries and Tombstones”.
I’m submitting my picture of a dead soldier, with the grieving widow by his casket:
It’s a shoe-in for first. Place your bets.
ps. GO CHIEFS!!