First The Packers’ Fan, Then The Pickup Line

Crime,Nationhood,Politics,Sport

            
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So I’m out power walking up the hill, in the gentle precipitation characteristic of the sublime Pacific Northwest. (I have yet to resume running since knee pain struck in October.) Ahead of me a man walks his dog. Both look forlorn.

I’m powering ahead, trying to decompress because of a laundry list of stressors, of which the least pressing are Pete Carroll, Russell Wilson and “Beast Mode”:

Well, at least we have a better Chris Matthews to help supress the bile that rises whenever the wide receiver’s namesake on MSNBC makes an appearance. (The other, lesser Chris Matthews is host of “Hardball,” an apropos name, given Chris’s well-known carnal affections for Barack Obama. The man spent the first two years of the Obama presidency in a state of sexual delirium. The crappy, MSNBC Chris is famous for fessing up to experiencing something akin to a (daytime) nocturnal emission during Obama’s coronation—”thrill up the leg,” Matthews called the accident.)

I pass the gloomy dog and his owner. The latter asks me how I’m doing. I reply: “Seahawks sad.” The guy says, “Oh, I’m a Packer’s fan, so I’m doing OK.” By Wikipedia’s telling, “The Green Bay Packers are the last vestige of small town teams common in the NFL during the 1920s and 1930s.” The team members look good. I might switch allegiances.

So far I’ve rooted for my home team, the Hawks. Why? It occurred to me that the football fetish in the US has arisen in the context of a country whose inhabitants share very little other than The Game. The host country’s history and founding documents have been turned into a liability by its educrats. The language has been dumbed down and demoted as the number of non-English-speakers clamoring for official recognition for their respective tongues rises. And the faith that once united those who fought to establish the republic has been banished from the public square and confined to the shopping mall, where adherents shop for God until they drop.

As I neared the end of my walking route, a car that had driven past a few time stopped. I imagined the occupant needed directions and sidled up to his vehicle. I’m wearing a thin anorak and a Jews-for-the-Preservation-of-Firearms-Ownership cap.

A young man looks me over and asks, “Want a ride, honey?” Really? In a family friendly neighborhood, in perfectly pleasant weather? I’ve seem “them” grisly cases on Investigation Discovery—a big favorite, bar “The Americans” and “The Fall” (first season, especially)—where women get shoved into cars by crazies.

First the Packers’ fan; then the pickup line. Perhaps I should pack a pistol next time I go for a walk in the neighborhood?