Ticket Envy
Oh he's a big college professor in New Orleans now but when he was just a critter, a speck, an aphid on the family tree if you will, back in Texas, me and my older brother used to mess with his head a little bit, we did. My nephew doesn't seem any the worse for it now, I mean, I don't think he's worse off. You could take things out of context, like the fact that he has been seen more than a few times in public wearing colorful tights and a mask, imitating perhaps the sidekick of a popular superhero (and clearly in possession of an actual hollow leg where he dumps gallons and gallons of beer), and say, well, I think you guys effed up his head permanently, but you don't understand, that was just him being...it is in the context of...it's a seasonal thing...well, never mind, it's hard to explain. To meet him though you would think--what a fine young man, and such a lovely family, oh that wife of his, he doesn't deserve her you might kid him with a poke in the ribs. His three young children not just smart but handsome and pretty as well. Truly, what an outstanding man, what an outstanding family.
All right you bastard, I got you to read this far, I know you're reading this, now where is my damn playoff ticket. I know you have five of them, I know you took a chance and invested in a team that wasn't likely to be that good and got yourself some season nosebleed seats for that whole damn cute family of yours, and it's worked out for you guys pretty well I would say but enough is enough and somebody's got to sit home Saturday Night and I'm tired of it being me.
Here's what you do. G comes home from school today, proudly holds up his math test with a 99 on it. He's looking up the length of your towering bean pole self, waiting for that most predictable response from his proud father. But you tell him, in no uncertain terms, that 99 will just not cut it this time. The bar is being raised. 99, you scoff, crumpling the test paper into a ball and mashing it into the wood floor. You send him off to his room and in response to his predictable crying jag (and the balloon bubble above his head which says--my father is a whack job) you banish him from Saturday's game. Or look, it's already going to cost me a pretty penny to get a last minute flight from DC to NO, I should really start looking for deals right now, maybe you could call up the school and have one of his teachers break it to him.
I'm just kidding G, you know I wouldn't do you that. You too crazy about your sports for me to even think about sneaking your ticket away from you. But nephew, look, what about Izzy? Come on man, that girl is too young to really appreciate the importance of football. Here's what we could do...
Naw really nephew, I'm cool, I'll just hang here, by myself, try to take some consolation in the 50 inches of plasma Hi-Def. Yeah boy, high definition is really, you know, the bomb, makes everything look better. Even the president last night looked...well, like shit actually, but his skin tone was really...a little sallow actually, but...oh!!!--I think he almost correctly pronounced nuclear the second time it came up on the teleprompter. Like any of that world politics crapola matters. Go Saints.
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