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.
Please, please tell me that dude is wearing pants. Please.
ReplyDeleteAnd speaking of misplaced anatomy, where are Ms. Del Rio's nips? These photographs are the height of wrongness.