cultural oddsmaker
AJ Daulerio's Cultural Oddsmaker runs every Friday. Email him to let him know what you think.
There's a piece in this month's Philadelphia magazine about Eagles fandom, the lunacy, the sadness, the love, and, well, more lunacy of it that captivates the city all year round. One of the many amusing anecdotes in the 5,000-word story is about a woman from the Delaware Valley, baptized in Eagles green, whom told her father about her intentions to marry a boy. The father stopped her short, questioning the decision because her future husband was a Cowboys fan. Her dad said it was going to be a problem.
It's a sweet story in that treacly, Mitch Albom-type of way, but it got me thinking about how the rest of that wedding day played out: the dusty church ceremony, the VFW reception hall, the drunk father shit-talking his new son-in-law at the bar, the son-in-law pointing to his hands to show off how many rings the Cowboys have, and the father subsequently grabbing his new son-in-law's scrotum and yanking it to shreds. Once, that was a far-off, unimaginable type of occurrence, only fathomable in the context of an Eli Roth movie. Now, it's an unsettling reality, thanks to the actions of one Sooner fan named Allen Michael Beckett and his redneck rage, who did just that to an unsuspecting Texas Longhorn supporter who was just stopping by a bar for a beer.
Who hasn't had nightmares about this? I can't even fall asleep with my jeans on because I'm always afraid that I'll roll over the wrong way, get my sack tangled, and riiiiip. Thinking about it gives me that swallowed-a-rotten-oyster indigestion and forces me to run around the room, shaking my hands like they were just sprayed by pansy gas. Yaghaghahgaghaggah.
And that's why I sleep in a kimono.
What's even more disturbing is the more national attention this gets, the more the likelihood of copycat instances. Just like high school shootings, there's also the one-upsmanship factor that makes this even more terrifying to think about.
So this week, I'm putting on my Rotten.com pajamas, flipping through my auto de fe handbook, and placing odds on the next horrific brutality to happen between rival sports fans.
Don't come if you're squeamish: Brace yourselves for the disturbing images and methodology, after this MORE.
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