9) Sunday, January 19th
– “Hell Freezes Over!”
Two days later… and less
than a week into the new FCC regime… Mick Updegraff and
David Lee were watching the NFC Wildcard game and pounding down beers in a
noisy, upscale joint in Georgetown with a big sixty over the bar and several
44’s situated at strategic points here and there. A Football Team running back plowed into the
line, gaining a yard, maybe two…
“That’ll
bring up second and nine,” said the unapologetic “Voice of the Football Team”
Biff McLaine, beginning to speculate again. “With all due respect to Coach Zorn, it’s
about time for Washington to stop playing like they’re ahead by three
touchdowns and open up their offense…”
“Vargas
again… no gain, well, maybe a yard,” Biff’s sidekick, Puson
Snead, said grudgingly. “That’ll bring
up third and eight…”
“You
know, PS, a wise man… maybe Freud, Einstein?… he said that the definition of
insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, even after the same thing
is patently not working…”
“You say patently, I say obviously…”
“That’s
why America loves us…” Biff answered.
“Shut
up,” Mick put his hands over his ears “Just shut up…”
The patrons… up-and-coming
Feds, lobbyists and Congressional aides, a few civilians… also exhaled
collectively, and there were more than a few muttered “Assholes”, directed
against the broadcasters or the Football Team, or both, and the management
peremptorily turned the volume way down on all the sets. David cracked peanuts morosely…
“I
miss Lainie…” he finally said. “Hope she
gets hired back after the nutcase gets impeached, both nutcases and somebody,
anybody, gets elected Speaker to take over, sweep out those two bogus
Commissioners and the new regime gives Vern and Kristi their walking papers.
“Anybody? Even the Squad? And Miz Ford?
Freaky, dude, were you her boy toy or something? She’s like… sixty-three?”
“You
know what I mean. “Hey, she was the real
boss after lunch after Gobs had had a few… him, now, well…”
“He
still in jail?” Mick inquired, glancing up at one of the smaller screens where
the Football Team’s third down pass had fallen incomplete, but a zebra had
thrown his little yellow flag, strutting in a manner that augured a defensive
penalty.
“Dunno. As of Tuesday… Pete went over to check him out, maybe
they’ve cut the poor bastard loose by now.
Cooth’s an asshole, but even the terrible twin
Commissioners are leaning on him to cool it… they’re not going after Pete’s
pension… that was the deal they cut with his lawyers, not to sue…
“Like the deal the
so-called moderates in Congress are trying to cut to get Hillary named Speaker
and take over the Presidency when she’s been in office for… what?... two weeks,
muscling out Nancy Pelosi’s protégés out of… ahem!... respect for the
deceased! The appointed Congresswoman plucked out of retirement from the acting Governor of Minnesota? According to the Breitbards,
those two old biddies were brawling in a House cloakroom – rolling around on
the floor, pulling hair and slapping and screeching, just like Dynasty, as if
played by the Golden Girls!” Mick held up his fingers. “New President, new Commission, new
bureaucrats, new morning…”
“That’s four,” David
countered. “Didn’t know you followed
Breitbart. And even a President Clinton,
let along one of those Squad girls, ain’t gonna move against the Commission for awhile, not
even after all the procedural shit gets shoveled and Trump and Meldrim get impeached… convicted, whatever… not with all
that other shit goin’ down. Terrorists, the stock market crashing, all
those creepy Executive Orders that won’t be repealed for weeks, maybe months…
trade deals giving away timber in our national parks to Shanghai so they’ll
roll over our debts…”
“We need cash - they need
wood,” Mick said. “Things never seem to
change, no matter what party gets in power, Americans get screwed…”
“Money talks, bullshit
walks,” David agreed. “Speaking of
which, you spring for your own slice or stein, as it were, of the American
dream?”
“In progress, mi amigo, en
progreso!” Updegraff added, for he had been alternating
his beers with shots of tequila.
“Actually, I was going to cop a set from Giga-Plex, but thought I’d make
sure I still had a job…”
David
was quaffing house-suds out of a mug; he wet his tongue, then
clarified: “It’s not that bad… except I do miss Lainie,
nothing sexual there, though, let’s get that straight…”
“Speaking
of which, Kristi’s little cabin-boy is a major prick – and if that is to be
construed as a microaggressive slur against the gay
community, so be it…”
“Calling
aggressions micro is another microaggression. But I hear you. Who could say anything suspicious about us, a
couple of guys without dates out drinkin’ together in
a spiffy place like this…”
“I
coulda
brought a date,” Mick said, slightly offended.
But it’s just, you know… some chicks don’t dig football… not even the
Playoffs. Super Sunday, that’s
different… but you man, if not Lainie, I say you got hots for the Ice Queen!”
“Sheesh!”
Above
them, the game continued, though at an inaudible volume… Washington going
three-and-out and punting…
“I mean – look at the
details. She’s older, but not that much,
wears those conservative but tight suits, look like they’ve been sprayed on…”
“Sort of a dominatrix
chic?” David shrugged. “They do say that
right-wingers are better in the sack, once they get over that hump…”
“The hump against humpin’? Maybe. Milo says so.”
“Mmmm…
I guess I could explain, but I’d be wasting my time…”
“Why? You an’ the bitch have been out on two
lunches and one dinner already… six days into the new regime?” He began to half hum, half sing… “…six days
on the road and I’m gonna make the Ice Queen mine.”
“Those meetings were
business. Kristi needs me, outside of doing whatever Vern tells her to do… which, of
course, is whatever the money people tell the Commission to tell him to do… she
is genuinely clueless about telecommunications policy. And
she paid… I mean, the Commission was payin’. Goblin never took my out to lunch, hardly
ever offered me a drink… cheap prick…”
“That’s what we’re gonna
change the name of the band to,” Mick brightened, “…the Five Cheap Pricks.”
“Metal band or the
doo-wop band…”
“Acapella, of course,
“…can’t say doo-wop anymore, it’s considered another ethnic slur, bad as the
‘Football Team’ furor. Metal band gets
Cheap Prick. You say business now, with
the Chainesawyer… but, truth, is she even a fuckin’
woman?”
A table of university boys
finally broke down and called for the commentary to be restored as David,
cracking more peanuts, asked: “You mean
is she a fuckin’ woman or a fuckin’ woman?”
“Both!” Mick
answered. “There any difference?”
Sharing
rueful smiles, they glanced up at the big Hi Def, expecting their glum
sentiments to be accompanied by a Washington collapse.
“Dallas driving, first and
ten on the Football Team’ twenty-nine,” Puson Snead
confirmed their pessimism. “Prescott
back… he’s looking for Ezekial, he’s got Staley open,
he’s… intercepted!”
“Intercepted in the
endzone,” Biff chortled.
“Touchback. And now, as for that
nail in Washington’s coffin – well, it’s rusty and the Football Team will have
yet another chance…”
“She’s
a person of the female gender,” David said, unimpressed by either Ms. Chaine or the local team’s eerie good fortune, “beyond
that…” he shrugged, and cracked another peanut.
“I
hear she puts out for Vern…” Mick tried to get a rise out of him
“That would be predictable,
but repulsive, even to contemplate…”
So
David ordered another beer and Mick called for a beer and a tequila while, on
the playing field, Washington lurched downfield courtesy of a run of penalties
and missed tackles; finally lining up inside the Dallas ten as the little
onscreen clock showed fourth and goal, one minute and twenty-seven seconds to
play. Snead and McLaine
waxed fairly rabid at the prospect of an upset.
“This
time, last year, Chuck Frear was quarterbacking
Barcelona and selling cellphones in the offseason, today, with Alex Smith on
the sidelines for the duration, he’s nine yards from taking the Football Team
into the Division Playoffs against the winner of tomorrow’s Seattle-Green Bay
contest.”
“Have we mentioned that… if Rodgers can pull
off another miracle,” Puson added, “…the trip to
Green Bay might be considered a booby prize?”
“I think we have. Fourth down snap… Frear
drops back,” Biff observed, “Kennedy’s covered, Randall covered, he’s taking
off…”
“Gower
misses the tackle…” Snead whistled…
“He’s at the two, spins,
dragging four Cowboy defenders with him and down at the goal line,” Biff
exclaimed, “we’re waiting for a signal…”
“Touchdown! He’s over, and Washington ties it up at
nineteen. Extra point, and they’ll take
the lead… it’s good, Washington’s ahead!
Hell freezes over!” Snead
shook his head.
“That’s
when they start calling it Lambeau…”
Onscreen,
Puson Snead turned to his cohort, face droopy as
Deputy Dawg. “One thing about the Packers
– no matter how cold, how bad the weather gets, they never, ever call off the game.”
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