The Human Computer
There’s always that one statistician who knows way too much to be any fun hanging around. He tries to logically out-argue anyone who isn’t prepared with facts and insists on being the on-site ombudsman and arbiter of final judgment in any dispute of Falcons history. He was once cool, back when we all played Joe Montana Football, but then came Madden, and then Fantasy Football, and now he’s just unbearable. What’s worse? He is perpetually single, closing in on turning 50, and instead of reading or watching sitcoms, gets his kicks from watching YouTube-uploaded episodes of Jeopardy when “sports” was the final category. But don’t play yourself -- this is exactly the person you want on speed-dial when you’re in Vegas betting on/against the Falcons, or trying to win back losses on FanDuel and DraftKings. Be a friend. Suggest a single friend you might hook them up with. Tell them she is also looking for some love between the (spread)sheets. Sanitize after shaking his hand.
Yes, your uncle. He’s always there. He always wants to talk about how good you’ve got it, what with you being all young, handsome, eligible, and not-stinky. He loves the Falcons, but he also loves the Patriots, because he’s slimy and has no loyalty to anything but his bowling league. But he did force a vote on naming his bowling league The Falcons, only because he’s a lonely jerk with little more than contrarian rabble-rousing to stimulate his intellect or justify his existence. He always tells you he once peed in the urinal next to Bobby Petrino at The Varsity, and how truly misunderstood that guy really was. He rocks his jersey tucked into his jeans, and he seems to always have a handful of beef jerky handy, though you never quite figure out where he’s pulling it from. He’s still family though. Hug him and move on.
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.
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