Don't get us wrong. We love watching the Chiefs, and we especially love a good thrashing, particularly when it's magnified on multiple plasma screens and giant TVs mounted in every conceivable space -- even the booths. If there's anyplace other than Arrowhead where it's possible to be fully immersed in the game, the Ameristar Casino's three-month-old sports bar is it. Its décor was more upscale than a typical sports bar (no signed jerseys on the wall, but a fake skylight crisscrossed by steel beams and exposed-brick walls), and the place was quickly filling up when we arrived twenty minutes before the game. Later, those in the coveted seats told us that the trick was getting there an hour before kickoff.
With its affable bartenders, hostesses in hot pants and five types of beer brewed on-site, it was, as Research Assistant Cat put it, a guy's wet dream. "Girls with slutty clothing -- it's a mini Man Show," she said. "All you need are strippers behind the bar." Or perhaps even your very own bottle, which a group of four women sneaked into the casino; during the game, their empty bottle of rum slid out of a purse and hit the floor with a distracting clank.
But when the score was 28-5 at the half and a chunk of the crowd had left (either to gamble or because of the drubbing), our thoughts turned to other matters. It occurred to us that, after the Royals' great season and the Chiefs' incredible one thus far, what better time than now to have another contest? More specifically, because we are all about drinking, and because there's a strong correlation between drinking and sports-watching, we decided we wanted to hear other people's sordid and/or embarrassing tales of alcohol-related mishaps while watching, playing or tailgating.
Of course, we don't mean to make light of the lawsuit filed against the NFL by the family of a two-year-old girl who was paralyzed from the neck down in 1999 when a guy who drank fourteen beers at a New York Giants game tried to drive home and hit her family's car. We highly recommend alternative means of transportation when attending sporting events.
For example: Last season, we accompanied our ex-BF, "Enrique," to the Chiefs-Dolphins game. We had been to Oktoberfest the day before, where he had sampled quite a bit of beer. Afterward, we'd gone to Dave's Stagecoach and, forgetting the liquor-before-beer rhyme, switched to vodka on the rocks. The result: not good.
Kickoff was at noon, and Enrique still looked pasty and queasy that morning. "Do you have a grocery bag?" the Night Ranger asked him. "You better bring one, just in case." This seemed like a good idea, because we were taking the bus to the game. Unfortunately, we didn't think about the back roads the bus would take to the stadium -- the very bumpy back roads. Enrique held up fairly well until the bus pulled into the parking lot in front of the stadium. That's when he lost it; pulling out his bag, he made an incredibly loud retching sound as he hurled.
The bus went ominously silent. The middle-aged couple in front of us, who had been chatting animatedly, suddenly froze and pretended not to notice their precarious proximity to possible projectile splashage. The bus driver, peering back at us in his mirror, asked, "Do you need to get out?" Enrique, in postvomity state, raised his head and said, "No, thanks. I have a bag." That's when the Night Ranger, who had been trapped between him and the window, became the nonsupportive GF and started cackling.
And the bag? Well, when Night Ranger told him to bring a grocery sack, she'd meant a white-plastic one. He, however, had brought a clear produce bag. As we stood up to leave, we noticed another couple about our age across the aisle, laughing silently. "He had a little too much to drink last night," the NR stage-whispered to them. "I know," the woman replied. "I could tell from the contents of the bag."
To make matters worse, Enrique was the only person on the bus wearing a Dolphins jersey.
We're not proud of this story, but there you go. We suspect that there are plenty of other drinking-and-sporting stories just as gross and humiliating. Now's your opportunity to throw them up for others' enjoyment. E-mail your tales to firstname.lastname@example.org, send them to 1701 Main, Kansas City, MO 64108 or fax them to 816-756-0502. A panel of research assistants will vote on the winner, who will receive a $50 gift certificate to Minsky's.
In the meantime, make sure your empty bottles are secured firmly in your purse, and throw out those produce bags, for God's sake.