Wednesday, December 3, 2008

Tradition-al Side Effects: The Top Ten Worst Things About Games at InVesCo

The work just keeps crankin' itself out here in Tradition Week, and I've compiled a list of loathsome things I subject myself -- and on occasion my wife -- to at least once a year, and they are all tied very tightly to attending football contests at InVesCo Field at Mile High Stadium. It's quite possible that I've, at one time or another in the past, listed each of these things in one post or another. It's also quite possible that I don't care; I'm sayin' 'em again. Don't get me wrong, here. I love these games, and I would one day like for my team to win one of them, because that would be awesome, the largest, most grandeur of monkeys off of my pasty, hairy, non-physiqued back. Therefore, without any further ado, I bring you "The Top Ten Worst Things About Games at InVesCo." But, you'll have to click your mouse to read them.

Number Ten: The Digs

I once had the pleasure of attending a Chiefs game at the Old Mile High. That was an awesome stadium. InVesCo is but a poorly engineered pile of plastic heap in comparison, one that reeks of corporate newness and outright lameness.

The Broncos won a ton of playoff games there. The place was raucous and downright frightening. InVesCo, with its cheap, hollowish-plastic floors that facilitate the supreme gayness of Rocky Mountain Thunder, totally, completely blows.

Number Nine: The Lot

Now, InVesCo, like Mile High sits in the heart of downtown Denver, so the possibility of having sprawling acres of parking like we do at Arrowhead seems, well, un-possible. I can't imagine, however, a design more poorer than the one in place.

There are roughly 179 "lots" to park in at the new Mile High, and each costs the equivalent of a season ticket per game to stow your vehicle and belongings in. I'm not going to sit here and wax tailgating, because any smart fan in any city can tailgate well, and my Mile-High companions do just that. There's just little convenience attached to the process.

Number Eight: Getting Tickets

One great thing about tickets to Chiefs games is that our crew seldom has to worry about not sitting together. Now, it's possible that there's a direct correlation to the winning and non-winning of the franchises here, but I'm not trying to be logical. No, stubborn and grudge-holding is more my forte. But don't sell me obstructed-view seats. And please, every once in a while, throw a guy a bone.

I'm already at a higher elevation in the parking lot. When I finally get to my nosebleed seats, I don't want to be reminded that I'm a fat, out-of-shape, chain-smoking midwesterner (who still has time and occasion to marry each of his sisters). How about a gondola, or a dumb waiter? At the very least, some oxygen coming out of my cupholder would be awesome if you're not going to make lower-level seats available.

Number Seven: Number Seven

Broncos Fans -- John Elway hasn't taken a snap in over ten years. If you wish to jerk off to the Horse-Faced Colts Draft for the remainder of your existence on this planet, please do so in the confines of your own home.

He was a great quarterback. He didn't win any Pulitzers, and he, last time I checked, didn't cure any major diseases. Get. Over. Him.

Number Six: The Jerseys

An insider tip tells me that both Webster's and Random House will be removing "1) having or showing a lively mood; merry. 2) bright or showy: gay colors. 3) homosexual. 4) a homosexual person, esp. a male" as their definition for "gay" and replacing it with "the collection of hometown fans' jerseys on any given Sunday at InVesCo" in their 2009 edition. For real.

Still sportin' a Romanowski? You're gay. Like how you look in that oversized Mecklenberg throwback? You. Are. Ghey. Let me guess: You pick special Sundays to bust out that Bailey road replica. What? I'm right? Santa's sled rings geigh bells when he prepares to land on your roof. And, please, if you are the proud owner of a Shannon Sharpe jersey, then you, your father, his father, and your in the mouth. The aforementioned of course excludes any of the following: a) my friends, b) their friends, c) anyone I've ever met, and d) anyone capable of kicking my ass. We're all cool.

Number Five: The Pisser

Hey, remember when you thought it would be a good idea to have like six portable bathrooms within 10 square miles outside your stadium and more for women than men inside?

Good thinkin'. Fucktards.

Number Four: The Cheer

Look, call us Chiefs fans rednecks. Call us hillbillies, and ridicule us for goofing with the national anthem. At least we're original. I will never, in all my time on this planet, understand why BroncosCountry is so infatuated with the two words "Go" and "Broncos." It is with this three-syllabled phrase that every orange-and-blue-clad fan of the Denver club communicates whenever they're discussing football. It is the capital city of Lamesville, the president of Dullvania.

I don't care who you are. When you -- no matter the cadence or the pitch -- shout "Go Broncos," you sound as tough and admirable as pile of dead leaves. I'm begging you all for your own sakes: Coin something new.

Number Three: The Chant

This one's the greatest, and lobbied for a two spot, even. I love it when Broncos fans acknowledge how totally obnoxious, tired, and should've-been-buried-already the "In-Com-Plete!" chant is, and has been, since like two weeks after Steve Bono inspired your old PA dude to say it. Now it's transcended announcers, and the fans keep it up, and even, when the time is right, gather to holler it in opposing venues.

That chant bothered me for about one quarter of Chiefs-Broncos football many moons ago. Now, it only instills empathy from within my heart, for you sad, sad breed of people. But keep doing it. You know, for aesthetics.

Number Two: The Team

I can't say this in any other fashion that would more passionately and confusingly express my sentiments: I hate the Denver Broncos.

I would like more than anything to attend Chiefs-Broncos games, only without the Denver Broncos present.

Number One: The Truth

All name-calling and finger-pointing aside, the Broncos, in my lifetime, have abundantly had more on-the-field success than their 'cross-the-plains rivals, my Chiefs. I never got to fulfill my dreams of taking a knight stick to John Elway's knees in a quiet Englewood pub, and I never got to cram a glowing-red bag of hot, rusty nails down the non-enunciative mouth of Shannon Sharpe. Truth be told, I'm likely too chicken to do either, and certainly not crafty enough to pull those feats off without getting caught, maimed, and/or killed, so maybe it's for the better. The fact remains, though, that no Broncos fan can possibly hate the Chiefs with as much vigor as the reverse. The one exception would be anyone that jumped on the Bronco bandwagon since 1999, and we all know that there has never, in the annals of time, been a Denver fan like that.

Over the course of 30-ish years, Denver has molested the pigskin with better digit manipulation than Kansas City, often at the expense of the Chiefs, and that burns, burns, burns, like, you guessed it, a ring of fire.