10 Reasons Why the Implosion of Texas Stadium is Just Like Real Life

Note: Texas Stadium, the former home of the Dallas Cowboys for nearly 40 years, was demolished yesterday. I really don’t care for football. Never have. But with this being Dallas, where there are local ordinances requiring that even the tiniest bit of self-importance be elevated to behemoth proportions, this was a Big Thing. All of the media outlets in the metroplex had people stationed at the demolition site, with reporters salivating at the chance to turn this into something more than it was. After nearly 24 hours of non-stop coverage, I’ve had time to reflect…

1. Some people will get up at ungodly hours in order to do questionable things.

  Most of the parking lots in the area (and there are tons of them, I know this well because I have to drive through the massive acreage on my way to work) were closed to the public for the Big Bang.  But they did keep one lot open, allowing people to park there, beginning at 2am for the 7am explosion.

  Two o’clock in the morning. On a Sunday. Seriously, who would do that? Yet we have video footage showing carloads of people lined up at 2:01am, with the vehicles crammed full of people doing “the wave” as they motor past. Do these people not understand that they have 5 hours until the button is pushed? Save your strength.

2. Some people will stay awake at ungodly hours in order to do questionable things.

  At 2:02am in the coverage, it became clear that some of the cars were stuffed with people who had never been to bed, and had probably driven directly from the bars after last call. These red-eyed enthusiasts were unable to perform “the wave” with any degree of coordination, but they could certainly lean out the car windows and grunt at the cameras as they feebly tried to keep their go-cups from spilling.

3. There are some really skilled news reporters out there who can put an interesting spin on anything.

  During the inevitable lag time between the opening of the sacred single parking lot and the actual destruction of the stadium, the mass of reporters had a chance to prove their worth. Some failed miserably. (Reporter: “So, are you a fan of the Cowboys?” Oh, come on, girl. Of course they’re a fan. Are you sure you made the right career choice?) But others struggled valiantly to score a scoop.

  Reporter: “So what does this moment mean to you?”

  Van driver: “Moment? Is this a moment?”

  Reporter: “The whole explosion thing? What are your memories of this beloved stadium?”

  Van driver: “Are we at the stadium? This isn’t Whataburger?”

  Reporter, grimacing: “Can you tell me about the good times your family has had watching the Cowboys play?”

  Van driver: “Cowboys? Wait, is this Fort Worth? I thought we were in Dallas.”

  Reporter, trying not to claw her face: “Okay. Well, do you have any kind of connection whatsoever with this parking lot and that stadium right over there that is about to blow up?”

  Van driver: “Do you take coupons? I’ve got one for a free order of fries.”

4. Climate change is affecting our entire world.

  Weeks before the planned hitting-of-the-button, the city of Irving sent out a warning to all of the residents within a one-mile radius of the stadium that they should probably shut off their air-conditioning during the time of the implosion. You know, so your unit won’t suck dust into your home and make everybody sound like Darth Vader.

  This brings up two points of discussion. First, the Dallas Cowboys were playing in a stadium that wasn’t located in Dallas. (For forty years.) By default, this would make them the Irving Cowboys, not the Dallas Cowboys. Am I the only one who thinks there’s been a miscarriage of justice?

  Second, I see a lawsuit coming. Yes, the City of Irving did the right thing. They tried to warn everybody about the dust cloud. But there’s going to be some bitter wretch who files a lawsuit anyway. It’s going to be in the vein of that stupid woman who sued McDonald’s because she didn’t understand that coffee is HOT. And she WON. Right there, in that moment when stupidity was rewarded, the world shifted on its axis. Now you can sue anybody for anything, logic be damned.

5. Bored people will cheer for no good reason.

  Okay, up to the point of pushing the button, the on-site reporters were doing their best to present human-interest stories of people totally devastated by the implosion of the sporting venue they have loved since childhood. Yet, as soon as the carefully-placed bombs started going off and the stadium began to devolve into dust, deranged fans were jumping in the air and celebrating the destruction. What happened to the trauma? Why are you clapping?

6. Okay, not everybody was clapping.

  We did have a nice segment where a reporter was interviewing former Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders as they prepared to watch the destruction. To be fair, one of them was truly moved, weeping copiously as the clock ticked down. She was the only one. The rest of her counterparts were scouring the vicinity for any agent that might sign them for a tell-all book tour.

7. TV cameras apparently emit a homing signal to lure idiots with no concept of reality.

  Do you really need any examples? Didn’t think so.

8. Repetition is soothing in a medicated society.

  We watched the stadium fall at least 100 times on three different channels. As if something different would happen if we just kept watching. Meanwhile, tax forms remain incomplete, there’s not a single clean dish in the house, and my crops have withered in Farmville.

9. People watching the same exact scene will have differing interpretations.

  Despite careful planning by the implosion crew, three of the stadium support towers did not completely fall. Each TV station had their own explanation. One reporter informed us that unexpected piles of debris caused blockage of some kind. Another assured us that this non-falling was intentional, with plans to sell the tower pieces on eBay or some such. And yet another anchor babbled incoherently that the remaining towers symbolized God’s wrath over the Mississippi lesbian who wanted to wear a tuxedo to her high school prom. I’ll let you guess which channel THAT was.

10. When anything at all happens that concerns the Dallas Cowboys, everything else on the local newscasts becomes secondary.

  Even the most progressive and inclusive news programs will have 29 minutes of Cowboys-mania, with all other events shoved into the final 60 seconds. This wrap-up is usually presented by a disgruntled, lesser-known anchor who has an attitude because he didn‘t get to work on the lead story: “Um, okay, there was a gas leak in Forth Worth, the Dallas City Council voted on something, the high tomorrow will be 84 degrees, and some guy died in Poland. Have a great night!”

Beer Busted: The Return, Part II

(Click HERE to read the first part of this story, if needed.)


  Smudge just continued to stand there, smiling cryptically and waiting for me to make a move. “Don’t you need to go outside?”

  Of course I needed to go. My car is out there. And I don’t live here. “Is she serious with this? Mrs. Kim?” Or is this one of those things that only exists in my head?’

  Smudge kept grinning. “Oh, it’s real alright. Now get out there and do what you need to do. I’m bored, and I can see everything from this window right here. Go!”

  Hated her a little bit. Then I sighed. This was ridiculous that I was just standing here, not wanting to leave a decrepit little beer shack because there was an apparently horny woman waiting outside to proffer herself wantonly. Seriously, nothing was going to happen other than a second or two of awkwardness, and me and Awkward go way back. I can handle it.

  I marched toward the front doors, still clutching the 12-pack, the evil object of desire that had gotten me into this mess in the first place. As I clattered through the little foyer, I heard Smudge mutter, from her place at the window, “Wish I could smoke in here.” She was enjoying this far too much. Hated her a little bit more.

  I cautiously pushed one of the front doors open, and furtively glanced about. By some odd alignment of the stars, there were no cars in the small parking lot that fronted the building. There’s always at least two or three hoopties, belching smoke while one of the many occupants is inside the store, foraging for cheap wine and beef jerky. My car was hiding around the corner, in the little strip of parking slots that provide the best chance of not becoming road kill around this dangerous place.

  Twilight was deepening, but the heat of the day was still lingering, creating that humid transitional mix of fading vision and budding passions as the innocence of the day yields to the sultry temptations of the night. I half expected a young Elizabeth Taylor to come waltzing up, wearing a stunning, low-cut dress and handing me a mint julep dripping with heat sweat.

  I turned to my left and there she was. Not Elizabeth. Mrs. Kim, standing in the middle of the wooden porch/walkway thing that led to that side of the property. She had her arms wrapped around the bag of ice, which was roughly half her size, so I could only see arms, legs, and a tiny head sticking out from the four sides of the moist plastic.

  She strained to shift the bag to one side, then reached up to rub one wet hand on her cheek. Ah yes, the international symbol for “you have a smooth face and I want you”. Why was she so invested in this clean-shaven thing? Mr. Kim was smooth as well. In fact, from what I could tell, he never even had to shave, so she already had a hairless lover to frolic with as she pleased. Especially when you threw in that “already married to him” business.

  Was it the fact that I was only temporarily clean-shaven? I have a heavy beard. I get five o’clock shadow at 10am. Maybe that was the appeal, the delicious possibility that at any given second, stubble could appear and slightly roughen our forbidden romance in a way that Mr. Kim could never-

  Okay, hold up. Why am I standing here thinking about this, filling my mind with the possible motivations behind the lascivious needs of the heated wife of the proprietor of an alcoholic venue where you get free ice with a 12-pack? Why do I think so much? Why can’t I just grunt and crawl through life like most people? It’s madness. Dude, just go to your car and get out of here.

  I took a step forward.

  She strains under the weight of the ice so that she can also take a step forward.

  At this rate we are going to be here until next Thursday.

  I start to head to my right, with the intention of just leaving the walkway and going around her through the parking lot. She suddenly shifts into Plan B, heaving the bag of ice up against the front of the store with a crunchy splat, and racing to cut me off. She’s now right in front of me, gazing up at me with the fading daylight making little glints in her dark eyes. Considering her height, there must be considerable neck strain, her chin thrust into the air as she tries to maintain her balance.

  Suddenly, a string of Korean words shatter the humid silence of the night, and a man steps around the corner of the building and onto the walkway. There’s a dim glow in one of his hands, and a wispy cloud of something evaporating above his head. He was apparently in the side lot taking a quick smoke.

  It’s Mr. Kim.

  Mrs. Kim lets out a startled squawk and leaps backwards an amazing three feet or so. It’s such an astonishing and agile move that if this had been the Olympics, judges would now be on their feet, waving placards sporting double-digit scores while tears stream down their faces.

  Mrs. Kim quickly finds her voice. “Ice to the car!” Like this will fully and completely explain everything.

  Mr. Kim studies her for a second, studies me for a second, then spends decades studying the half-melted bag of ice now collapsed against the wood siding, with a growing river of wetness gushing forth and spilling across the porch. He takes another drag of his cigarette, then looks back at Mrs. Kim. This time his expression changes to one that clearly asks “then why is the ice over here, and you were, before the astonishing Olga Korbut move, way over there, lustily gazing at the white man like he was a pogo stick”?

  And then all hell breaks lose. Both of them both launch into surprisingly loud streams of Korean, accessorized by waving hands and making gestures. This goes on for a bit. Then there’s a brief pause where they mentally regroup for round two, during which Mr. Kim flicks the remaining stub of his cigarette toward the ice bag, without even looking, and the butt lands expertly in the pool of water surrounding the base of the bag, sizzling to death immediately. (Wow, these two have incredible athletic skills, not to mention an admirable respect for fire safety.) Then they both launch again, even louder.

  A slight bit of movement on the left catches my eye, and I can see Smudge in the window, her face practically mashed against the glass while she drinks this all in. She sees me looking, gives me a thumbs up (“This is SO fun!”) and then completely loses interest in me as she turns back to the Kims. They are standing toe-to-toe, letting out what must be years of frustration and bitterness. Suddenly, another voice rings out. This one in English.

  “But I’m GAY!”

  The duo stops yelling and turns toward me. Smudge, face still mashed in excitement, flicks her eyes toward me, her mouth in a perfect “O” of realization. (“So that’s NOT his brother that comes in here with him some times.”) Out on the road, one car slams on their brakes and someone in another car honks their horn, which instantly plays a brief medley of Judy Garland hits.

  Oh wow. I guess that voice was mine. In all the excitement and frenzy, I apparently felt the need to out myself here at the Cool Breeze United Nations.

  The Kims stand there silently for a bit. I think I see Mrs. Kim’s face fall slightly, but I’m not sure. It’s hard to tell. It’s most likely that she had been  in the midst of formulating another vicious vindictive to hurl at her husband. Then Mr. Kim takes a step backwards while still staring at me.

  Okay, wait, what does that mean? Is he concerned that HE is now the object of my unbridled lust for members of his family. Come on. What is wrong with these people that they think I want anything carnal to do with anybody in this building? I just want beer.

  Then Mr. Kim reaches over to a pack sitting on one of the window sills. He was only going for another cigarette, which he quickly lights before turning back to his wife. For some reason, he starts off in English before quickly changing over to Korean. But I catch enough to realize he’s mad that she was carrying the ice. Something about her back.

  Oh my GOD I’m an idiot. This isn’t “The Long, Hot Summer” after all. It’s a bad episode of “The Love Boat” where Gopher gets confused. This is what happens when you think too much. And this is why I need to get out of here right now.

  I glance at Smudge, who mouths “they didn’t understand you”, and then waves me to my car. Ever polite, even when embarrassed or misinterpreting a situation, I wish the Kims a good night as I slip past them and run to my car. I don’t think they even noticed me leave.

  It takes me a few days before I go back to Cool Breeze, but eventually I do. The lure is always there, being the closest beer store. So I suck it up, get over my shame, and pull into the parking lot. As I approach the door, I once again berate myself for letting my imagination run wild, then grab the wooden handle.

  Smudge is inside at the counter.

  She motions me over immediately. “You are not going to believe this.”

  Really? “What?”

  Smudge: “Mrs Kim’s mother is here. And they’ve been talking about you since you pulled in.”

  What? I glance over at the Kim corner, and there they both stand, Mrs. Kim and a more seasoned version of the same face. Both of them are the same height, both are watching me look at them, and both raise a hand in a professionally-synchronized manner and proceed to rub their smooth cheeks. Then they burst into giggles.

  I look back at Smudge, confused. I don’t get this. What is going on? Wait. Are YOU behind this? Did you… are they… but…

  Smudge just smiles. Again.

Idiot Fondue: Case Study #5

(Note: This is a re-post, per request, from the Idiot Fondue/Dr. Brian blog.)

My slutty but hard-working secretary just handed me my mail, and we have this question to peruse:

Can a hangover result in death?

And Dr. Brian responds:

What an odd question. Of course it can, this happens all the time with rock stars, bored rich kids, and bitter politicians. Especially after mid-term elections.

So you clearly have much deeper issues, and think that you are cleverly hiding your real delusions behind this innocuous query. Amateur. Surely you must be aware of my powers. I can easily and competently diagnose anyone in a 5-mile radius without even breaking a sweat. You have offended me with this childish act. I will now rip you to shreds.

First, there are the grains of sand that irritatingly fell out of the envelope when I opened your letter. You reside near a beach, or at least perform your postal activities near a beach, same thing. There are two types of people who frequent beaches: weak people with no direction in their lives, and strong people who thrive on giving direction to those weak people.

The weak go to the beach in the hopes of finding a tiny bit of fulfillment in their miserable lives, even though they are doomed and they sub-conciously know it. At first, everything is pretty and the sun is nice. But soon they see all the more-beautiful people around them, hopes fade, and their thoughts turn to the ocean. The powerful ocean where perhaps they could fling themselves to a salty death.

But because the weak ARE weak, of course they don't do it. In their minds, they race to the water a hundred times, leaping over crabs and empty beer bottles in a stunning ballet of impending demise, finally catching the attention of the beautiful people as they gurgle and sink. Instead, the weak people give up their dreams and drag their sun-burnt bodies back home, and iron their clothes for another soul-crushing day in their part-time job at Sunglass Hut.

The strong people go to the beach because they mistakenly assume that God created the beach in honor of their glory. The strong don't simply walk onto the beach, they ARRIVE, wearing designer thong-wear and stomping around like Godzilla attacking the city, shooing away the weak people from the prime real estate. They carry harpoon guns to shoot any idiot servant that does not immediately provide them with requested beverages or snacky things.

And as you would expect, the strong people are there to torment the weak people. This is how life works in any environment, but especially in natural settings involving water. They laugh at the attire and hairstyles of the weak. ("I think you might have sailed right past the look you were going for, Chlamidya.") They are terrible to the children of the weak. ("Mommy drinks because you're ugly.") And they do their best to get the weak to follow through with the suicidal thoughts. ("Do you see that island over there? Cuba? I bet you can make it!")

You, dear patient, are obviously one of the strong. This is clear from the sand that poured out of your envelope, as I can see that you have personally autographed each grain. Do you have to purchase an extra airline ticket for your ego when you travel?

Now, let's move on to the stamp on your envelope. On the back of said stamp, we have the driest saliva I have ever seen. Are you SO anal that you cannot even produce adequate body fluids for postage? Do you even HAVE bowel movements, or do you just pay someone to take care of that for you?

And the stamp itself? I was unaware that you could actually purchase stamps trimmed in 24-karat gold. Amazing. Or did you just apply the goldleaf yourself? Most likely. I'm sure you've never been satisfied with anything produced by anyone else, and you always have to embellish and upgrade. Who knows what you've done with that vagina of yours. Is it wi-fi capable now?

Yes, I know you are a woman. This is not a sexist statement, although I am sure you will attempt to take it that way, and you are already alerting your fleet of lawyers. No, it is based on the fact that you indicated your return address as "Ultimate Diva Supreme, 123 Goddess Way, Nirvana, FL." So you're either a woman or a drag queen. Oh wait, with the available surgical procedures these days, is it possible that you-

Well, drat. There's the bell, time for my next patient.

Could you possibly return for another session? Have your people get with my people. (I know you have people, anyone with your level of maintenance has GOT to have people.) My pulse is pounding at the thought of further dissection. I'm all aquiver...

Cheers,
Dr. Brian