Throughout the course of history mankind has been witness to countless days of tragedy: the day that bastard comet wiped out all the dinosaurs, the bloody St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre, and I think there was probably one more.
On Sunday, January 20, 2008, the world once again felt the bitter pangs of unspeakable heartbreak. On this day that will live in infamy, the Green Bay Packers lost to the New York Giants in the NFC Championship game by the score of 23-20. Being a Packers fan, I now know exactly how those Huguenots must have felt as the Catholics chased them through the streets of Paris with crosses and torches. (And I bet they couldn’t bear to watch the Super Bowl the next week, neither.)
Maybe it’s unfair to compare this Packers loss to a horrific massacre that claimed the lives of tens of thousands of innocents, but I think it’s what they would have wanted. The thing is, Wisconsinites (“people from Wisconsin”) like me really only live for three things: the Packers, cheese related products, and girls named Bertha that wear dirty 1996 “SUPERBOWL XXXI” sweatshirts. I miss you Bertha.
Basically, I love the Packers more than anything in the world. I love the Packers like I love some of my family. And even though it’s an addiction reserved for us cheeseheads, I am sure you all can relate to the pain that has set my soul ablaze with misery.
Still, I wish I could somehow relate to you,
mom loyal fan base, just how sad I am that the Packers lost the NFC Championship game. I think I’ll try a metaphor: think of the people in your life that you love more than anything else in the world, like your family and your best friends. Now imagine that they all got together and lost the NFC Championship game.
Was that too blunt? I guess what I’m trying to say is that it feels like all my hopes and dreams have been ripped out of me through my stomach and kidnapped by some horrible people. And when I contact the police to help me find my dreams they take me to an abandoned warehouse, but when we get there all we find is a monitor playing looping footage of a video where my dreams are spinning around on the Wheel of Fortune and they keep landing on a crappy prize like a Chrysler Sebring while Vanna White and Michael Strahan stand there punching them in the face, and everyone’s naked.
Wait, that was kind of…weird. Let me try again, because it REALLY does feel like someone stole my happiness from me while I was studying at the library and I start to file a report with the librarian but she’s just so devastatingly old that I don’t even bother. And this time, I can’t even go to the cops because the chief of police is corrupt and also harbors a jealous grudge against me because we used to be childhood friends until I signed a minor-league contract but his dad needed him to work in the oil fields ‘cause times was rough. So when I finally DO find where they took my happiness I have no cover fire, but it turns out it doesn’t matter because my happiness is a two-faced bastard that was against me the entire time and the whole thing was just a set-up to lure me into Eli Manning’s dimly-lit man-cave because it is His feeding time and He has an insatiable thirst for blood. It’s disgusting.
Well, hopefully that clears everything up. I’ll admit that right now I find myself treading water in a shallow pool of self-pity that unfortunately offers no relief from the unquenchable fire of defeat. That’s why I hope that maybe you can respect me during this time of mourning and stop all those text messages, wall posts and e-mails saying awful things like “PACKERS LOST!” and “PACKERS SUCK!” and “Listen, Will, you REALLY don’t have to submit any more articles. Just…stop.”