Another trip back to the sunny skies and baggy jeans of Super Bowl XXXII at Qualcomm. This was our gametime spot in the parking lot. Dave fucking Rouse showed up with some boytoy and expected us to share our beer with the both of them. Note the Packer RV of NFL Films fame in the background. That cat needed to make it back to work -- in Green Bay -- on Monday night after the game.
Through some good old-fashioned journalist work, I was able to uncover this Super Bowl scoop: I got grifted on my Super Bowl ticket deal! To say my situation is bummin' would be a grievous understatement. I'm leaning heavily towards bailing on the travel altogether unless I get a Deadhead-sized miracle in the next 36 hours. I'm working on convincing myself that the Super Bowl event itself is Babylon anyway (it's in Dallas for crissakes). And I'm trying wholeheartedly not to wallow in my own trip and focus on what's not only everything but the ONLY thing -- the fucking PACK are going to the Super Bowl, and what's more, our D is going to corner Rapistberger in a filthy public bathroom and fuck him for a lot longer than 30 seconds, I tell you what (doesn't your mind totally picture the can at the Wildcat when thinking about Big Ben's sexy den?)!
Also, if this Lil' Wayne Packer classic somehow escaped your clutches, don't miss it:
Download: "Green and Yellow" Just simply send me $2114 via Western Union in the next six hours.
Not only did no one in the bar besides me and T-Bone come to the defense of 66, who was being thrown out of the dump, no one inside or out on Bourbon Street even recognized him.
