The building I work in is located next to a resort, which is kind of cool because it looks nice and it’s a fairly tranquil place. Or at least it used to be. It’s primarily a conference resort, which means that during the week you have a lot of staid businessmen walking around, and in the summer it’s virtually abandoned since no one with more than two functioning brain cells wants to go to a conference in Phoenix in August. The disadvantage of this, of course, is that in terms of making money, this strategy blows porcupines. So they added a water park some years back, and that’s when everything started getting a little crazy.
First of all, let me state for the record that I have personally enjoyed the water park with my kids on numerous occasions. They’ve got a wave pool, a lazy river, and most importantly a bar that lets you charge drinks back to your room, which is awesome because those drinks are effectively free. Oh, sure, when you check out, you’ll find that your room rate has mysteriously soared to over $1,000 for two days, but that’s not anything you can’t handle by having a chat with the manager.
Me: My bill seems a little high for just two days.
Manager: Well sir, perhaps you’re forgetting your bar tab, which you charged back to the room.
Me: Still, it seems a little high…
Manager: I agree, it does seem a little high until you realize that it also includes the charges incurred when you ordered a keg, fourteen bottles of absinthe, and a “bevy of hookers” from room service.
Me: Hmmm, I see… Well, this all seems to be in order then!
Manager: Thank you for staying with us sir, and may I just add that I hope Child Protective Services gives you your children back soon.
They also have a couple of really tall, bitchin’ water slides which are so brutal that (and I happen to know this for a fact) they will deliver large, angry looking ass bruises when you sneak into the park after midnight and drunkenly ride them again and again until a couple of obese security guards chase you out of there.
But working next door to a place that is all of a sudden flooded with tourists isn’t always a lot of fun. For every one attractive woman in a bikini that walks by, for instance, you see 20 women who shouldn’t be allowed out in public wearing anything less than a tent. And drunks are incredibly entertaining when they happen to be me, but when they’re staggering around and you’re trying to get productive shit done, they’re decidedly less awesome. Still, it’s not a bad place to work, and the scenery is fairly pleasant.
But the Super Bowl is in town this week, and the Seattle Seahawks just moved in next door. All of a sudden I work in Germany circa 1936. Little guard huts have popped up all over the place, and if you try to get within ten miles of the place, cops are stopping everyone and demanding to know the answers to some pretty ludicrous questions
- Who are you?
- Where are you going?
- Can I see some ID?
- Why are you driving around with no pants on?
…the end result of which is that I not only have to take a 20 minute detour just to get to work, but I also have to put some fucking pants on, which is complete and total bullshit.
I’m also not crazy about the fact that half of the Phoenix metro police force is standing around the place doing absolutely nothing, and it’s on my fucking dime. Why should the taxpayers pay for assloads of donut-scarfing cops to protect a bunch of millionaires who play for a team owned by a billionaire, which plays in a league that makes more than the GDP of Peru on NFL logo’d protective cup sales alone?
“Sorry your mom was raped and thrown down a sewer, kid, but we have to make sure no one asks the third string nose tackle for an autograph.”
If the NFL can spend $450 million to perform medical studies that conclude that the reason NFL veterans start drooling at the age of 32 is because they’re genetically “extra drooly”, they should probably be financially responsible for their own fucking security.
So the Seahawks can eat a bucket of dicks, and I hope they lose by 130 on Sunday.
Except for Marshawn Lynch. Marshawn Lynch, in case you don’t know, is Seattle’s running back, and he’s been in hot water lately for refusing to speak to the press. This, of course, is perfectly understandable. The press are nothing more than a pack of ravenous hyenas who are known for asking moronic and callous questions such as, “Ma’am, how did you feel when you watched your baby get thrown into a pool of flaming gasoline?”
One time the SWAT team got called into my neighborhood. But it didn’t involve me! (I know, I’m as shocked as anyone.) No, some guy had threatened his wife with a gun, then holed up inside his house and refused to come out. The SWAT team sent in a negotiator, and when the guy came out to talk, they tased him in the nuts because no one makes the SWAT team miss Wheel of Fortune. Fucker.
Anyway, after it was all over I happened to be walking down the block when a news van pulled up. “Hey, can you tell me what happened here?” asked the reporter, breathless and drooling at the prospect of reporting some Bad News.
“Go fuck yourself, you jackal,” I replied.
“Hey, I’m only doing my job,” he said. Which, of course, is to profit off of the misfortune of others. What a dick hole.
Anyway, it’s totally understandable that Marshawn Lynch should refuse to talk to the press. These people, after all, would be the very first to trip all over themselves to report any small embarrassing thing that he would do, like pick his nose in church, or choke-fuck a hooker in front of an elementary school.
So he refused to talk to the press, and the NFL fined him. He refused to talk to the press again, and they fined him some more. And then, because the Super Bowl is Fucking Important, they threatened to fine him half a million dollars if he didn’t talk to the press. So he showed up, and for five minutes repeated the phrase, “I’m only here so I don’t get fined.”
This, of course, royally pissed off the NFL, which then had his family summarily executed. Haha, no wait, that’s just what the NFL wanted to do. Instead, they got Really Mad and threatened to fine him for (I’m not making this up) wearing the wrong hat during the interview.
Marshawn, what you really need to do is go to the next interview, answer the questions honestly, but in such a profane way that the results of the interview could never be used. And I would be willing to help.
Reporter: Marshawn, do you expect that the top priority for the New England Patriot defense will be to try to contain you?
Marshawn: The fucking Patriots are a good bunch of cock-sucking football players, and their fucking coach is smarter than shit, so I expect them to do all kinds of crazy fucking shit on Sunday. One time I fisted this bitch so hard, I swear I felt her tonsils on my knuckles.
So give that a shot, Marshawn. And then go rush for 400 yards in the Super Bowl, because you’re awesome, but still I hope your teams loses by like a million because a 20 minute detour to get to work is worse than throwing a baby into a pool of flaming gasoline.
They lost by 4, so the Seahawks should be moving out quietly today, and the cops can go back to doing their jobs.
Every year I sort of want to watch the game at whatever ungodly hour it is on tv here. But it only takes about 15 minutes for me to get pissed off because play is fit around the ads, instead of the other way around.
Oh, I dunno about moving out quietly. They certainly didn’t act like good losers afterwards.
I’m just glad I made it through without my stomach exploding. Oof.