Recapping the Recap: or, Time to Puke, Rally and Get A Few Navajo Tacos

I admit, I love Kansas City. It's the single best midwest/rust belt/southern/east coast/Atlantic coast/Canadian city I've ever had the pleasure of visiting. It makes Detroit feel like a thousand pool cue blows to the grundle. Its many fountains humiliate the very idea of Des Moines. Would you rather live in Topeka? Maybe Little Rock?

Saying that, I feel cleansed. Because the way I feel downstairs after watching the Chefs worm their collective helmets up their collective shit-chutes is positively dirty. Vanessa Del Rio dirty.



I plan on making this tradition an annual occurence for as long as I'm alive, employed and not living beneath an underpass on I-70. I doubt I'll see many editions wherein the home team plays like the South Pueblo School for the Criminally Retarded's JV team. Everything was wrong in Chiefsville: the game plan, the performance, the attitude of the guy in the gold chain who impugned our patriotism for not maintaining a respectful silence during a halftime show that would have made Leni Riefenstahl spontaneously begin masturbating. It reflected that of the whole crowd--who ever heard of KC fans clearing out with 8 minutes left? Craziness.

(And before all you Chefs loyalists start pointing the poo-stained finger of our last Chargers game, consider the relative spread. Down by 38 is a lot worse than down by 16. And we were down by 38 1:33 seconds into that game.)

Anyway. It should also be mentioned that a totally obliterated gentleman showed us his balls--"here you go Denver! Got the Bat Wing!"--his wife showed us her tits and a totally different lady mooned us. And we parked next to a kid wearing Chefs-print Zubaz and drinking Crown Royal at 8 a.m.

God, I dig the midwest.