Surrounded By Psychopaths

This past Saturday I went to a Philadelphia Soul game. For your personal information, the Philadelphia Soul is the arena football team here in, where else, Philadelphia. Why they are called the Soul is beyond me, although I have my suspicions that the name comes from one of the owners of the team, none other than Jon Bon Jovi. Regardless of where the name comes from, if John Goodman is ever an out of work, starving (is that possible at his weight?) actor, he could get a job as the teams mascot, Soulman. But anyway, back to the story...

Everywhere I looked, at least everywhere in my immediate vicinity, were weirdos, creeps, goons, and the disturbed. In front of me were a duo I have labeled "Tons of Twins," although they werent themselves twins. They are two grotesquely fat brothers who ate just about everything they could get their hands on. I saw nachos, hot dogs, fries, pizza, you name it, but only briefly because shortly after blinking all the food was gone. Thankfully, before the 4th quarter started so were they, moving down for better seats, although I am not sure how they would fit in better seats if these better seats had people sitting next to them.

Naturally there were the two Bon Jovi ladies sitting in front of me, still stuck in the 80s, and drinking beer like they were planning on getting lucky later that night. Thankfully all they did was drink beer, not a noise was made by either, even to each other. Whenever they ran out of their dearly delicious suds they just pointed to their cups, went away for a few minutes only to come back with more beer. It's too bad they werent providing others with beer for I am sure that beer goggles were the only way that their plans would have been fulfilled.

A section over consisted of an Irish Catholic family of cheer stick sycophants celebrating one member of the brood's birthday. How do I know they were Irish Catholic? Well, there were about 45 of them, and all of them had red hair, except the elderly, they were all gray haired. Plus they were throwing beers back as if they were cheap and running out. One of the younger members of the family screamed, at the top of his lungs, for the duration of the game, prompting me to emit snide remark after snide remark only to find out that they couldnt possibly hear what I was saying because of the constant barrage of banging coming from the cheer sticks which each member of the family had a pair of. While I am sometimes easily set off, it takes a lot to really irritate me, unless a pair of cheer sticks is involved. 90 cheer sticks all banging at the same time naturally turned on my irritation switch instantly, but alas, the only food I had to throw was a severely burned hot dog, probably left over from the sixers game the night before and reheated, and that cost $4, so I wasnt about to launch that. Plus with my luck I would have hit a cheer stick, only adding to the booming noise.

Although, the cheer sticks did serve a useful purpose, they drowned out the cursing provided by the crippled man who also suffered from tourrets. One truly hasnt heard the national anthem until one hears it laced with obscenities. Apparently he had some kind of bladder problem because he kept standing himself up with his crutches and hobbling off only to come back a few minutes later. Or maybe he was just going out into the hallway to let out a cleansing scream: "Dirty nut muncher, fuck fuck ass shit, grab my tits GZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ, AAAAAHHHHHHHHHH, scrotum."

While all of these people are psychopaths to some extent, no one in the arena was more psychotic than the man sitting to my right. This older gentleman, although I am sure he is not one, has the complexion of an albino, complete with the uber white hair, shoulder length, and a scruffy white beard. His eyes werent red, but then again I didnt make eye contact for the fear of my life. He was wearing a tattered light gray T-shirt, dark grey corduroy pants, a black fleece vest and a black eagles cap. He could have easily been an extra in Deliverance, or just as easily could have been a member of any white power organization. Each time any hip-hop music began to play this fella would bob back and forth in his chair, almost seizure like, and nowhere near the beat. Then, when he would recognize a word or two he would spit them out a few seconds after they were sung. But what really made this ol' chap psychotic was what he was doing during the game: He held a tape recorder up to his mouth and did the play by play, horribly I might add. He kept mentioning call letters, WADD, of a fictional radio station. Fictional you say? Yes, fictional, as soon as I got home I went on the internet to find out if this radio station actually existed, and thankfully it did not. What kind of radio station would hire someone like this? I can only imagine what he was really recording the play by play for, perhaps for a friend in the slammer? Or maybe he is trying to get a job as an announcer, who knows! What was perfectly clear though was his third grade education and his matching mentality. Each time a cheerleader was insight he was using his binoculars to spot the ones he liked. And once he found one of his favorites the verbal molestation would begin. I am sure that if I looked over he would have had a chubby in his pants, but I resisted my urge to know. After a while I began doing a play by play myself, which he began to mimic. Unfortunately for him, and his listeners, the play by play that I was doing was completely wrong, but Sling Blade didnt notice. At one point he turned to me and asked me if I listened to Howard Stern. I told him I did, occasionally, to which he responded, "Then you know Robin Quivers? What color do you think she is?" When I told him that I knew she was black he responded, "She sure doesnt sound colored, she sounds like a white woman." That was the extent of our conversations as I tried not to gain his attention again. The highlight of the show, however, was when he loudly yelled, "YOU STINK," directed at the opposing team. He then slide to the bottom of his seat, placed the tape recorder next to his ass hole and farted, followed by this commentary, "I just farted into the tape recorder, hehehehehehehehe. That was a good one."

I must say that I really enjoyed my time at Bellevue Hospital, I mean the Wachovia Center. The Soul won, the company was excellent, and I have never felt so normal in my life. If you are ever feeling down in the dumps about your life, or perhaps you are contemplating suicide, I suggest going to a Philadelphia Soul game so that you can come to the realization that while life may be tough, at least you have it better than this amalgamation of characters.