Author’s Note: This post is meant to describe all of the thoughts that were going through my mind during a particular moment in time during the town hall meeting to discuss the Rams’ potential relocation back to LA that the NFL held in the Peabody Opera House this past Tuesday evening. This is not meant to be a political statement in support of the stadium proposal currently being introduced to the St. Louis Board of Alderman. If you want one of those follow me on Twitter, or read one of the next several links I will post.
 
Peabody Opera House, 10/27/2015, 7:22 P.M.
An 81-year-old man known as “Pops” is given the microphone, but quickly becomes too emotional to speak and hands it over to his wife so that she can read a statement he has prepared. Pops went to his first Rams game in 1946 when, as a child in Los Angeles, he sold newspapers outside of the LA Coliseum in order to make a buck, sure, but more importantly to earn free entry to each home contest after the first quarter. For the past 7 decades there is very little, besides his family, that Pops has cared about more than his team. Soon after the Rams moved to St. Louis Pops’ wife got a job offer in Illinois and he enthusiastically encouraged her to take it so he could have the chance to once again watch the Rams in person. Now, some 20 years later and unable to relocate back to LA due to age and cost concerns, Pops was begging and pleading with the NFL to keep his team here, to not take them away from him again. “Owners are the caretakers of the franchises,” his wife read off of her husband's notes, “but the teams ultimately belong to the fans.”

​Dear Readers,
As all of you should know—primarily because The St. Louis Cardinals are the most American team in the most American, and 4th most popular, sport that our country has ever seen—this week a great tragedy befell our most blessed nation. The St. Louis Cardinals lost to the Chicago Cubs. Not in Spring Training. Not during any early season bender when the Ringling Brothers Circus has rolled into the Gateway City and any reasonable person would forget about baseball in order to be out getting wasted with the bearded woman. 

​Dear Readers,
As all of you should indubitably be sure of—especially if you are one of the lucky elderly fellas who is able to catch a glimpse of my naked bod while I’m lathering up after a tough workout at the South City “Family” YMCA (you’re welcome for the confidence boost Benjamin)—I am in fact, despite several high school sports chants designed to imply the contrary, a man. And as such, I understand the expectations and social norms that my genitalia, and thereby our culture as a whole, have thrust upon my shoulders and wholeheartedly assume that I will live up to. Grow a baller neck beard (check). Eat delicious meat while not knowing if it is genetically modified (check). Shoot crossbows at homeless people for sport (check). Put my hands down my pants in public without giving a F about what any housewife celebrating her child’s 7th birthday at this particular Arby’s franchise has to say about it (double check).

​Dear Readers,
As all of you assuredly know—both because you were, hopefully, born with ears and because you are not as good looking as Jake Gyllenhaal and therefore are not capable of going around and taking pop stars' virginities in between takes of the Source Code—Taylor Swift is the most talented person on the face of the Earth. She can sing. She can sort of, but not really, dance. She once beat Reggie Miller in a game of Pig. She can read. She can write. She is capable of snapping her fingers and ruining music critics’ lives. She can play guitars with teardrops on them without letting the moisture damage the strings whatsoever.