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Rocky’s Bulldog, Buttkiss, finished devouring the wild turkey and possum carcasses while treading water in Favre’s 100-meter pool. Then he felt something moving inside of him in an uncontrollable way.
Up sprang to the pool surface a King Size Snickers Bar. Then another one. And another. A three-fer.
“Yo Buttkiss,” says Rocky. “You pooped the pool.”
The crowd turns to check it out.
“On to Philly,” says Favre. “We’re outta here. Buttkiss pooped my pool.”
“Can you believe this bumbling bumble Buppkiss?” asked Stephen A. incredulously. “This is garantuanally grotesque. It’s damned despicable. Here I am smoking Cheech’s weed-eating dead possum and them Buttkiss Buttkisses in the pool pervasively.”
It’s a mad scurry into the caravan of cars. The runners put on their shoes. Off they go on highway 81 North for the 1,068-mile trek to Philadelphia for the massive football clash between the Eagles and Washington Football Team this Sunday night at 8 pm on prime-time television with the NFC East championship at stake.
As the caravan of cars followed by the runner’s cruise into the Philly area, Rocky gulps a glass of six raw eggs and hops out on a sketchy back alley street, and starts jogging.
A few blocks in Apollo Creed, Clubber “Mr. T” Lang and Ivan Drago join him for the run through the streets of Philadelphia. Drago looks silly in his Russian boxing shoes and Mr. T’s mohawk is thicker and higher than ever. Angry he is.
“I pity the fool who gets in my way today,” says T. “You’re all parasites and leeches.”
Forrest Gump runs alongside the four famous boxers.
“Run Forrest run,” the Philly fans cheer.
A reporter asks Forrest asks why he’s running and he says he doesn’t know.
Buttkiss runs with them and stops to Buttkiss again along the way. Undeterred and feeling lighter on his feet, the bulldog catches the leaders 10 minutes later.
The stream of runners, numbering in the hundreds, run up the stairs of a Philly government building, bow to the Rocky statue, then head back sprinting toward the parking lot tailgate party outside Lincoln Financial Field.
Near the gaggle of George Foreman Grills hang dozens of pieces of Philadelphia steak the size of Rocky. The Italian Stallion starts punching them as if he’s angry at Mr. T. Hands bloodied, sweatshirt damp, Rocky’s does some damage to the dead meat.
Everybody watches.
“Yo, George, fire up this bloody meat and make dozens of Philly cheesesteaks,” says Rocky.
George Senior takes his machete and carves up the bloody steaks then lays them out on the grills.
Near the grills, there’s a new sound the crowd hasn’t heard before. It’s Elton John singing “Philadelphia Freedom,” a hit off his Captain Fantastic album.
Everybody’s feelin’ good especially Buttkiss because he Buttkissed during the run. The vibe feels good like a sip of Bailey’s Irish Cream on the rocks.
They’re all tailgating again on the next stopover on their tour that will careen into a crashing crescendo at the Super Bowl on February 7th in Tampa Bay. There Tom Brady will snatch his seventh Super Bowl and prove he’s the biggest reason the Patriots won six Super Bowls and not Bill Belch.
All’s good. A terrific tailgate. Time stands like a statue as the tailgaters feel soothing tingles. It’s a moving moment of merriment.
Then Dan Synder walks up.
The owner of the Washington Football Team says to Favre: “Hey Mississippi, I need a quarterback. I cut Dwayne Haskins this week and we need to get one for next season.”
“Don’t do it, Mississippi,” says Sammy Sportface. “Let me handle this.”
A life-long follower of Synder’s spectacularly sorry ass football franchise, Sportface gets one inch from Snyder’s face and unloads:
“Hey Danny Dimrod, you drafted a guy in the first round, Haskins, because he’s a local DC boy who went to your son’s high school, Bullis, and you figured that would draw in more fans and fill your pockets with more cash. But Haskins has proven to be a monumental bust. It’s the latest of hundreds of thousands of decisions you’ve made that have made your franchise the most dysfunctional, disrespected, unworthy, despicable, and deadbeat of any sports franchise anywhere in the world. So no, you can’t have Farve. I won’t allow it. He’d be the five-hundredths over the hill underachieving guy you’d overpay just because you think it’s cool to hang out with guys who used to be good football players. None of them play well once they join your team because they see you for what you are, a jock-sniffing, shallow, insanely insecure cuss who likes to rub elbows with stars when you’re the farthest thing from a star and least likable person in all of sports. You can’t even fathom how many people don’t like you and don’t respect you and want you to not spend one more day as the owner of this once-proud franchise. You sucked every bit of joy out of this team that hundreds of thousands of people once loved like their children. You ruined that joy all for the sake of lifting yourself up emotionally and psychologically so you could feel more secure and important and powerful and worthy of respect. The great irony is you’ve got no respect from anyone anywhere. Your team blows. Your personality blows. Your ownership skills blow. Your judgment of football talent blows. Your interpersonal skills suck spectacularly. Your interference with your coaches has messed up your teams every year you’ve been the owner. Why do you think so many coaches take your money then leave after two years? Because they don’t like who you are, what you stand for, and how much you meddle in football decisions you know nothing about. Why do you think you’ve got the worst football franchise in the world? It’s because of you. Only you. Totally you. One hundred percent you. All you. Danny the Defeated, Danny the Dummy, Danny the Doorknob. Today your team will choke up Philly cheesesteaks like they always do when they’ve got a chance to do something good. You had the chance to win the division last week but your terrible team threw that in the trash can. And it’s all your fault. All of it, from day one. You’re to blame. You, Danny, are the biggest loser the sports world has ever known and ever will know.”
By this time everyone at the tailgate, and several nearby tailgates of fans who don’t even know Sportface, have become riveted on the tailgate scene. They’re wondering what’ll happen next.
To be continued…
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Sammy Sportface, a sports blogger, galvanizes, inspires, and amuses The Baby Boomer Brotherhood. And you can learn about his vision and join this group's Facebook page here:
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