He sells water for $4 and Hawks umbrellas for $40. He still sells tickets to the game in the last quarter, because somebody might be willing to pay up. He will shoot and print a photo of you with equipment tightly strapped to his body. He’s got glow sticks for $3 apiece, which is dumb because it’s daytime. He has Falcons straw hats, even though it’s cold as opposite-hell outside, plus iron-on T-shirts, counterfeit jerseys, “signed” paraphernalia, edible Falcons undergarments, Falcons-flavored electronic hookahs, and even rare copies of a Deion Sanders rap mixtape. Nothing is authentic about him except his money, and even the police don’t have the heart to arrest him, even though he’s quite likely a billionaire. He even sells goods branded with the logos of whatever team the Falcons are playing that day, and accepts credit cards, pesos, and even Bitcoin... Sorry -- no checks.
The Reminiscing Dad
There he is, with his tapered jeans, his detached-but-along-for-the-ride matriarch, and the kids. The whole family is wearing a matching Falcons uniform, and they’re sporting a smile that would look lovely on camera but is super-creepy in person. Dad is doing what he can to keep the family together, even though his daughter is extensively pierced, his son can’t keep his eyes off all the random tailgate-twerking, and his wife is smiling in a way that suggests she’s covering her real face with a human version of one of those Eyes Wide Shut masks. Dad doesn’t care. He’s bringing the tribe out because that’s America, and he remembers the days when Sundays were all about the most important American traditions: church, drinking, and refereed violence. He believes in wholesome values. Judging by the twinkle in his eye when he looks around at the lot, he would never consider trading a day with the Dirty Birdz.