As all of you know—because you follow sports, know how to read, and are aware that California, the state, exists--my St. Louis Rams have fled my hometown, the New Rome, the place that made me what I am today for the glitz, glam, and "liberal propaganda" of Hollywood embodied by every celebrity besides the woman who played "D" in Clueless. As all of you also know—because if you clicked on the link on my Facebook page that took you here then you have, regrettably, clicked on a similar link that took you to a similar place at least once before—I have written about this event, or the possibility of it, Ad nauseam. I have dreaded this day, and cursed the man who brought it to my doorstep, through much of my recent past. I have spent the year of 2015 in a constant state of emotional oscillation. Sad one day. Pissed the next. Full of hope in some random moment. Then shattered and broken out of nowhere; shaken in disbelief just like that.
Dear Readers,
As all of you know—because you follow sports, know how to read, and are aware that California, the state, exists--my St. Louis Rams have fled my hometown, the New Rome, the place that made me what I am today for the glitz, glam, and "liberal propaganda" of Hollywood embodied by every celebrity besides the woman who played "D" in Clueless. As all of you also know—because if you clicked on the link on my Facebook page that took you here then you have, regrettably, clicked on a similar link that took you to a similar place at least once before—I have written about this event, or the possibility of it, Ad nauseam. I have dreaded this day, and cursed the man who brought it to my doorstep, through much of my recent past. I have spent the year of 2015 in a constant state of emotional oscillation. Sad one day. Pissed the next. Full of hope in some random moment. Then shattered and broken out of nowhere; shaken in disbelief just like that.
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Author's Note: This week I was featured in a local news story reading a letter I had written to Roger Goodell and 31 of the 32 NFL Owners in response to Enos Stanley Kroenke's blatant attempt to circumvent NFL rules and regulations in moving his franchise from St. Louis to Los Angeles, as well as his utter and complete disregard for the city his team has called home for the past 2 decades showcased in this relocation proposal he submitted to the league office filled with half-truths, outright lies, and pompous douchebaggery about the town that I call home. Here is the full text of that letter which, perhaps regrettably, is far longer than the 2 sentences I was allowed to read on television.
Spoiler Alert: Some of the content may sound familiar to the very few regular readers I currently possess, but this was an honest attempt to sum up my feelings and thought process in the most efficient and truthful manner possible. Thank you for reading, and thank you for supporting our efforts to Keep the Rams in St. Louis. Dear Readers,
As all of you should know—both because I have a fully-grown neck beard and because I have once again become a slave to traditional gender roles after I forgot to lock the bathroom door at work only to have the janitor walked in and immediately start making fun of me for peeing while sitting down—I do not wear perfume. Hell, I don’t even wear cologne. Or deodorant. Why not? Because McConaughey doesn’t wear deodorant. So, until they invent a deodorant that is designed to smell exactly like McConaughey’s undeodorized sweat, I’m going to follow Matthew’s lead and not church up my body’s scent either. However, unlike my refusal to indulged in perfume, or aroma enhancement of any sort, I do, in fact, watch television. And one of the things I have noticed most after spending copious hours sitting in front of a 40-inch screen while eating a copious amount of hot pockets and then wondering why I have a Body mass Index of 74.3—other than the power of Steve Harvey’s mustache and the surprisingly high amount of husbands that murder their wives (or vice versa) based on my watching of Friday night episodes of 20/20—is that the fragrance market is getting their advertising on. They are getting their advertising on big-time. And they are doing it by featuring big name actresses in commercials that make absolutely no logical sense. Dear Readers,
As all of you surely know—primarily because you all remember every Channel 5 news broadcast in the greater St. Louis region between the years of 1993 and 1998—I was a bit of a local celebrity during my childhood. It all started innocuously enough: a KSDK camera crew showed up at my soccer camp and asked to film a few shots of kids kicking around soccer balls and flashing the stations trademark slogan, a hand full of five fingers followed by the same hand slimmed down to one, and I, of course, obliged. Dear Readers,
As all of you should know—primarily because you are all, based on your current Internet reading taste, insanely well-informed people who I can only assume know how to work the Google machine—studies show that approximately 70% of Americans hate their job, a number which tells us a lot about our country and the way its citizens live our lives. This number tells us that acrimony is endemic to our culture. This number demonstrates that contempt is native to our society. This number represents pain that almost all of us feel, agony that the vast majority of us are compelled to battle against. This number is something that we are all, in one way or another, forced to confront it. Dear Readers,
As all of you should be sure of without a shadow of a doubt—both because you all possess taste buds capable of emitting happiness into your brain and because you know that veganism is the religion that ruined Tom Cruise and that chick who broke James Vander Beek’s heart in Dawson’s Creek forever—red meat may be the single greatest thing to have ever existed on the face of this Earth. Well first it goes America. Then it goes air-conditioning. Then it goes the St. Louis Rams. Then there’s the stuff that McDouble’s are made out of. Which isn’t bad company. A place on that list is as high as praise gets. A place on that list is, as they say, rarified air. 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. |
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