Shooter from the Grassy Knoll
I like any other Colts fan was fuming Monday night. I was so mad I re-watched the game again and got little sleep. I had such a bad taste in my mouth the next day that I actually went to the dentist and had a root canal just to get that horrible aftertaste of the game out of my mouth. In hindsight, the game tasted a little better than ground up, drilled tooth shavings.
I tried to relax and do the water on a duck’s back thing, but lying in Dr. Crankenstein’s chair all that time gave me time to think. For one thing, that **** pina colada numbing gel sucks! Who the hell tasted it and said, “Oh yeah, pina colada!”? To be more accurate, it tasted more like Banana Boat tanning lotion than a tasty tropical alcohol excursion from reality.
I went home with half my face numb and tried to convince the rest of body that the left side of my face had the right idea and that it should follow its example. One of my relaxation techniques I like to use is to think of music and often times I will hum, whistle or sing along with the tune. In this case I started thinking of Billy Joel. So I started humming “My Life” while wandering around the house in attempt to lift my mood. My internal CD player (yeah, I know I’m behind the times) was on shuffle and “We Didn’t Start the Fire” started in my head. Well, that one you just have to sing along with! I was well into Mr. Joel’s history lesson, 1950 to be exact, when I walked into my master bathroom. Just as I was reaching Studebaker, television, North Korea, South Korea, I looked up in the mirror just to see myself sing “Marilyn Monroe.” I burst out into hysterical laughter and had to finish the song while watching myself in the mirror. For those of you that weren’t paying attention earlier, half of my face was numb and not functioning properly. It was one of the funniest things I have witnessed in a long time. If you have access to safe numbing agents and know the words, I highly recommend it for a good laugh. Needless to say, my mood was lifted. I just wish I had videoed it. Maybe “Numbing” could replace “Twerking?”
Unfortunately my good mood was not to last. While scouring the interweb looking for more kittens playing the piano videos I came across the story that has all of the sports talking heads all worked up into a lather and calling for the head of Alfredo Garcia on a plate. Starring as Alfredo Garcia in our little community theatre production is the one and only Jim Irsay.
Let me start out by saying that I have read, and re-read Mr. Irsay’s Twits and I have also read most of the responses from the so-called professional journalists and even some from non-football related people that like to hear the sound of their own voice too much. I have come to a conclusion. It was Colonel Mustard, with the candlestick, in the conservatory.
I am not personal friends with Jim Irsay. Not to say that given the chance to hang out in his suite or at his house by the pool with a few cocktails, starlets and a few rock stars wouldn’t be fun, let’s just say I’m not on the guest list. I know this because the security guards all know me by name now and we often talk about our kids just before they gingerly escort me off the property. That being said I have determined that Mr. Irsay is actually more of the victim here than people are being led to believe.
What Mr. Irsay said, and I’m paraphrasing here, is that we won a lot of games and put up some monster stats in the past but we only reached the ultimate goal once. He further stated that the team he is trying to build now is more balanced and won’t have to rely on one player to carry the entire team on his shoulders. John Fox, Denver’s Head Coach, took the opportunity to grab some bulletin board fodder and proceeded to work up our old, future Hall of Fame quarterback on the premise that his previous owner wanted to humiliate him on a national stage for not winning when it really counted. You are so WRONG Mr. Fox, or should I say, Mystery Man behind the curtain?
Look at this logically. Jim Irsay came out last week and announced there would be a big celebration in honor of Peyton Manning before the Colts/Broncos game. Why would he spend his time, money and resources on a celebration for Peyton only to take personal shots at him the very next week? It doesn’t add up. Mr. Irsay is a smart man and his heart is always in the right place. I can’t say the same for his texting ability, but he is genuinely a nice guy. I have seen his generosity personally on several occasions and he asks nothing in return. Did you know that when a youth football league had all of their equipment stolen, he purchased the entire league new equipment out of his own pocket? No, you didn’t, but it happened. He does stuff like that all the time. Again I think this is all a case of classic misdirection and there is much more under the surface.
I’ve stood back and really looked at this. The conclusion I’ve come to might surprise some of you, but the rest of you are going to see it and agree with me completely. How I see this playing out is like a parade progressing down the street. There is Peyton Manning riding along in an open top car waiving at all the fans along the parade route. Off to the side of the parade route, on the grassy knoll stands Jim Irsay, the man who planned this wonderful parade for the returning hero. Everyone is cheering Peyton’s journey on his way back to the stadium he helped build. Just as the motorcade turns onto West Street shots ring out! Pandemonium hits the streets. Everyone looks to the grassy knoll where they think the shots came from. But what everyone sees when they do, is Jim Irsay and John Mellencamp both playing guitars singing “Pink Houses” looking as confused as the rest of us as to what the big fuss is all about. We all wondered who would want to stir up this kind of controversy during such a happy event? Just then someone spots a shadowy figure in the sixth floor window of the old school book depository. It doesn’t take Scooby and the Gang from Mystery Incorporated to see that the creepy old man behind this media $#!+ storm is none other than the NFL Commissioner himself, Roger Goodell.
Who benefits from this? The NFL that’s who! Jim Irsay was planning a party for the conquering hero’s return and the NFL saw a way to make this big game a huge media event and not spend a dime doing it. Think about it, what else are the sports talking heads talking about? Do you even know who The Patriots are playing or who the Jets starting quarterback is? The media machine that is the No Fun League saw an opportunity for a ton of free promotion and ran with it. How do I know this? Jim Irsay said the exact same thing eight months ago in USA Today about having a balanced team that didn’t rely on just one player to survive and not a word was said and most of you probably weren’t even aware that he had said it back then. What people keep forgetting is that this is a business, an entertainment business. Granted it’s not as contrite and pretended as professional wrestling, but they are definitely cousins, in fact kissing cousins. Sorry Kentucky.
Most of the people breeding the negativity are either has-beens or never-was-wannabees. It’s funny to hear Shannon Sharpe talk about how insulted Peyton should be over the obvious insult from his previous owner. Shannon, I haven’t forgotten the comment you made on your pregame broadcast several years ago directed at Mr. Manning. I believe it was something like, “I has a better chance to hit a homerun in Yankee Stadium with a toothpick dan Peyton do of winning a Super Bowl.” Sorry about the grammer, ewwww, I need a shower. That is much more of a slap in the face in my opinion. So to all of you negative media whores that ALL said that Peyton was a choke artist and couldn’t win the big games just take a good look at yourself in the mirror. If you are good with what you see then you are even a bigger douche bag than I thought you were. And if you are not, just shut the hell up and let’s play some football. Let’s all do something a little more productive and get ready for Sunday’s game.
So sayeth the Meanie
p.s. I had a good one about Shannon Sharpe’s picture hanging up on the wall at my daughter’s stable to help out with the artificial insemination, but I took the high road and left it out.