Tailgating with Ooga

Me and the Hunkering One are leaving about 3 a.m. tomorrow. He says it’s better for tracking small woods creatures as well as avoiding ambushes because his senses are keener in darkness. We’re gonna pull into our parking lot before the crack of dawn and park our SUV across three spaces. Not saving it for friends, we just like to park it across three spaces, so be advised. I’m installing an infra-red radar that will fry the meat off your body if you even take a step in our direction to complain, so I advise you to just count to ten and get over it. Sorry, that’s how it is.

Ooga and I plan to throw the pigskin for a while, so you’d best be on guard. He’s got terrible accuracy, or maybe he likes to throw it in a lot of different directions, and also the ball is spiked. If it skewers your toddler, my opinion is you shouldn’t be bringing your toddler to football games. Also don’t bring your best car if you’re worried about the paint finish, because if you do you must like getting your car repainted and it’s your own fault. That’s the way I look at it.

On our tailgate menu is a live goat. It’s not really my favorite meat (kind of stringy like hyena), but it’s a several-thousand year old family tradition for Ooga and he insists on it. It works well because he offers the live goat as a sacrifice to the football gods, then we chow down after the ceremony. I hope the screaming of the goat during our first bites don’t drown out your tailgate music, but you’ve got plenty of other days to listen to music, that’s the way I look at it. When else do you get to hear the death cry of a mountain goat? You should be getting pumped about the game rather than complaining about being splattered by a little goat entrail here and there. Also, I should mention, DON’T bring your beautiful teenage daughter. Knowing Ooga is in town as you do, I shouldn’t even have to mention this. He can go through thirteen or fourteen of them by kickoff. They shouldn’t be there, and they shouldn’t be wearing wenchish tank tops, sorry but that’s my opinion. In his culture, a tank top is your signal that you’re offering your daughter to Ooga as a wife.

If you’re sitting in our section, just remember you had months to call the ticket office and ask for the other side of the stadium. I can’t help it if a meal of wild goat has that effect on Ooga’s gastric system. At least you’re outdoors and don’t have to ride home with it. We also take no responsibility for any collaterel damage during the occasions when he jumps all around and swings his spiked club in every direction, which is basically every play of regulation, all during pre-game calisthenics, whenever the baton twirlers are anywhere in sight, and for several hours after the game.

By that time, Ooga’s special firewater will have rendered him “undependable” in behavior. You really need to be in a different county by that time, maybe a different region of the US. If you’re not, that’s your fault. I can really take no responsibility. Sorry, that’s just the way I see it, and I hope we don’t have to call Lothar the Litigator to wade through so many lawsuits this season.

Other than these reminders, have a great game experience and let’s GATA!

Sax

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