Sports, Satire and Bad Jokes
Saturday August 20th 2011

A drunken recollection of the Colts/Dolphins Monday Night Footbal Game.

It was a beautiful south Florida evening. And by beautiful I mean it wasn’t raining, and my balls didn’t start sticking to the inside of my thigh within 10 seconds of getting out of my car. It was roughly 5:30 pm, a little over 3 hours until kick off. The guy parked across the row from us in the Boston College jersey had the beer pong going in full effect.

Why someone would wear a Boston College jersey to a Dolphins/Colts game is beyond me? So is why some asshats would wear a Giants, Jaguars, and Ravens jersey, but I digress.

The parking lot was filling up and Mr. BC appeared to have been kicking the drinking into high gear as he took a swig straight from a bottle of Crown Royal. What a waste of good alcohol, since it’s just going to be coming right back up in a few hours. We get the tent set up and the grill heated, which means only one thing…Commence drinking.

Football fans in general are assholes. Now take your average football fan, make them a Miami fan, and your level of assholishness goes up exponentially. Like by at least 1000%. In order to cope with this level of douchedom I employ my own technique for coping. Other people have had major success with heroin, pain pills, and even weed, but I prefer alcohol. To make it even more bearable I make sure to develop my own little drinking game. Most of the rules aren’t set. Most are made up on the fly. I find that making the rules up as you go helps keep your beer from getting too warm from the sauna that is the south Florida humidity, as well as a quick way to jump start your buzz.

As I’m sitting there deciding what rules to employ, a family of 4 walks by. 3 out of the 4 members are wearing a Dan Marino jersey. Drink 3.

From the corner of my eye I spot a pretty sweet Ronnie Brown shirtzee. Those t-shirts that have a jersey name and number on it. The kind that says I’m too cheap to buy a real jersey, but not ready enough to commit to those knock off jerseys. Yeah those. Drink 3 and I vow to myself that if I puke later, it’s into a person wearing a shirtzees’ lap.

There’s a churning sound coming from right behind me. Sounds quite similar to the rumbling of a garbage disposal. Followed almost instantly by a sound much like water gushing out of a broken water main. I turn to  look. A guy, wearing a shirtzee, is projectile vomiting in between my car and another. Drink 3 for the shirtzee and 5 as a FML drink.

From across the row I spot a woman with one of those tea cup Chihuahuas. It’s wearing a jersey. A Dan Marino jersey. Drink 2, wait for her to put the dog down, then sneak over and try feeding it beer. Great idea. Grandest idea.

It might be 6:00 pm, it might be 6:30 pm, I lose track of time and how many beers I’ve had by this point. While digging through the cooler I spot people walking in between the rows of cars. Specifically right by my car. More specifically right where the guy puked up 1/3 of his body weight in liquid form. I quickly pull out a Keystone Light and without hesitation I drink 3.

Keystone Light? I don’t remember buying that….

Wrong cooler. I quickly finish said Keystone Light and retrieve a Bud Light from my cooler.

I drink 2 to make up for my inability to recognize which cooler was mine.

A crowd of 5 walks in between cars again. Specifically my car. More specifically the resting place of what used to be that guy’s lunch. It may have been some type of pasta. Looks like it had shrimp in it. I drink 5 and yell something that was meant to be “Watch out for the vomit” but came out mumbled and sounding like “mmmm ha vomit.”

It’s game time because my fellow pre-gamers are walking toward the main gate. I follow, but not before finishing my beer and loading up my cargo shorts with 5 more beers.

Jimmy Buffett apparently played pregame outside of the stadium. The smell of marijuana is intoxicating but nowhere near as intoxicating as the bile that is being spewed from the mouths of aged Parrotheads. Parrotheads who haven’t quite realized they’re far too old to be binge drinking. I drink 2, point, laugh, and continue on my way.

As my fellow beer compatriots and I maneuver our way through the security frisk stations I mentally tally 6 drinks for the shirtzee, 7 drinks for the Jimmy Buffett grass skirt, 5 drinks for every time I spotted a family that thought bringing their less than 3-year-old to a Monday Night Football game was a good idea. At some point I lose count and just decide to chug a beer when I finally reach my seat.

Motivational fan video starring Gloria Estefan telling Dolphin fans, “Fins up!” Drink 2, and try to mentally erase the barrage of “Fins Up!” videos starring the Williams Sisters, the Black Eye Peas, Pitbull etc. If at some point the supply of beer stashed away in your cargo shorts begins to run dry and you start to actually consider paying the asinine prices for beer, begin to double the drinks. The faster you drink, the faster you get drunk.

Quarters drop faster than a pass to Ted Ginn Jr. Your plethora of cargo pocket beer is thin. Your running on beer fumes, even sipping some of the backwash from previous beers that are now very much warm. It’s a close game, at least that’s what I’m told. The score is close and I’m informed that the stadium stops serving alcohol at the start of the 3rd quarter. I reach into my cargo pocket and pull out a Keystone Light. Wrong cooler again and I’m left to finish the beer.

I make my way to the concession stand and begin to unbuckle my pants for the anal rape that is about to begin. That’s not just figurative. I actually had to use the restroom so I figured why not kill two birds with one stone. $8 for a beer? It might have been more. Things around this point are foggy.


Cheerleaders get their sexy on for the halftime show. I belligerently yell out, “Show us your tits.” The family in front of me with the 7 and 10 year old are nowhere near as amused as I am. Drink 4, followed by shrugging my shoulders.

The 2nd half begins with the score all tied up at 13. I double take and begin to question whether there was a time rip that opened up an alternate time line. The more sober person next to me informs me that the interception toward the end of the half is overturned. I am mildly excited, because I remember I bet the over. Drink 3.

It may be the 3rd quarter, it may be the 4th, but at some point Dallas Clark makes another long reception. I exclaim with excitement because I remember that I took the Colts by 3. I’m also wearing an orange t-shirt, which is totally confusing the Dolphin fans around me. Drink 2.

Female Colts fan yells out “Go Dallas!” Female Dolphins fan sitting by me says “Dallas? Stupid bitch. Go Dallas Colts /sarcastically.” Drink 3 for the stupidity, and hope to god that somehow through osmosis your drinking will kill her brain cells. Drink an extra 2 drinks, just in case.

The guy dressed up with the Predator mask and gloves looks highly unamused. Drink 1 for every costumed freak. I counted at least 25. I drink baby sips. It helps slow the alcohol poisoning that had started to overtake my senses. Thinks are getting hazy, but not enough to the point where I’m about to buy more stadium beer.

I buy a stadium beer. Tunnel vision is in full effect. I feel my own stomach churning, or maybe it’s the nachos I bought during halftime. Peyton throws a touchdown. He might have been blitzed by a couple of bears. Not like the Bears from Chicago, but rather real bears.

peytonbearattackI’m not entirely sure. It might have been an acid flashback. Drink 3.

The stadium stopped serving beer almost 2 quarters ago, yet for some reason I am trying to bribe a concession worker with a $10 bill. Turns out it was a stadium cleaner and I was now $10 poorer.

Game ends, my liver is working overtime to metabolize alcohol. I’m told two things by security. 1) the game is over the Dolphins have lost and 2) That’s a broom closet, not a bathroom. I stumble through the stadium and out to the parking lot. I cut across a parking row. Specifically by my car. More specifically where the young gentlemen decided earlier would be a good place to leave a portion of his DNA.

Commence blackout/pass out.

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Related posts:

  1. MNF Preview: The Jets and the Dolphins
  2. Girlie Gate '09: Michael Vick hearts the girlie drinks.
  3. The Miami Dolphins' suck train just got bigger.

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