Warning: Fractured Post Ahead
The weatherman said it was going to rain today. I was all excited, like, “Yes! Rain! Now I don’t have to water the basil plant today!” And then this morning I awoke to a slightly-gray-but-not-gray-enough-to-produce rain sort of sky, and when I took the dog outside, the basil plant was all wilted and falling over and sputtering, “But … you and I … were going … to make … pesto … together … Why? … Why?”
Delicious, yet entirely too melodramatic. That’s the problem with basil.
We went to the Cleveland Browns’ pre-season football game last night. On the way home, I asked Marc if we could please not sit in the Dawg Pound any more, should we decide to take in future Browns games. For those of you not in the know, the Dawg Pound is the section of bleacher seats located at one of the end zones. Ask a Browns fan, and they’ll tell you that people who sit in the Dawg Pound are the most dedicated Browns fans. Ask me, and I’ll tell you that Dawg Pound people are certifiable.
Bleacher seats are, ostensibly, cheaper than the rest of the seats in the stadium, but this is a relative concept because the bleacher seats still cost forty dollars per ticket. I know there are people out there who think paying forty dollars per ticket for any sort of event – NFL games, NASCAR races, concerts in any way involving Dave Matthews – is de rigueur for entertainment, but I’m rather of the opinion that there is almost nothing worth forty dollars per ticket. Jesus Christ Live and In Concert, maybe. But probably not. They’d probably wind up putting out a DVD anyway, and then I could rent it.
Here now is a partial list of Dawg Pound goings-on last night:
- Local celebrity/rabid (pun intended) fan "Big Dawg," rather husky gentleman who outfits himself in rubber dog mask and cap with attached felt ears, wields giant rawhide bone, periodically using said item to beat living hell out of any inanimate object within immediate vicinity. Throughout game, fans approach him to ask for photos and autographs.
- Husband and I periodically hit with flying detritus including popcorn, peanuts, and beer. The latter sometimes arrived in cups, sometimes not. Husband spends five minutes fishing peanut shells out of our shared Dr. Pepper.
- Arm-wrestling content two rows ahead of us between massive drunken man and drunken man sporting canine face paint.
- Five rows ahead of us, two women begin making out. Not "we are two women in love and want to express it here and now in presence of contracted National Football League players" making-out, but rather "This kiss is at the behest of the 50 or 60 screaming inebriated men surrounding us. Observe as we slide our tongues in and out of each other’s mouths in a decidedly unrealistic but wholly pornographic manner! Hear the cheers of throngs of appreciative men" I hoist Marc’s jaw from where it has fallen against the concrete floor and reaffix it to his head.
- Fight breaks out between random drunken woman and Make Out Girl #2. Police are summoned.
- Six uniformed officers arrive to put stop to fisticuffs.
- Five minutes later, fight breaks out between two gentlemen in the next section. Again, police show up.
- Five minutes later, Marc and I leave to "get a head-start on traffic." We have become people who leave events early to avoid traffic. We are now officially old.
And now I must go get ready for a party in which attendees have been asked to dress as martians (no, i don't know why). Unfortunately, my Ray Walston costume is at the dry cleaner's so I think I’m going to have to get creative.
posted by Kate at 5:19 PM link/comments
