Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?
“Well, if I’m honest, I’m stewing. Just, uh, mad as hell.”
Why?
“I flew all this way and I’m not even on the roster. Not saying I should start or anything, but I’m ready to come off the bench for my Chiefs.”
…
Different Chiefs, Bobby.
“Not the Tamalpais Chiefs?”
No. Kansas City.
“Ah.”
Besides, you don’t have the right shoes.
“No, no. These sandals have spikes on ’em.”
Really?
“Sure. The carpet in the luxury suite looks like it had smallpox.”
Okay. You get to hang out with any famous people?
“Ran into Joe Montana.”
How was that?
“Like talking to Walton, but you don’t get as bad of a neck cramp.”
Sounds right.
“And I got to meet the young lady who’s doing the half-time show. I think her name is Shipoopi.”
Shakira.
“No, that’s a Jewish holiday. The Dead never scheduled shows that night because the place would be half-empty.”
The woman’s name is Shakira, Bobby. She’s Colombian.
“Was she the one with all the hippos?”
That was Pablo Escobar.
“Shaniqua?”
Shakira.
“Sharkattack?”
Shakira.
“Not a large gal. I could fit her in my fanny pack and wouldn’t even have to move anyone’s stash.”
Petite frame on her.
“Y’couldn’t cast her as Red Sonja I’ll tell you that.”
Somewhat surprised by the dearth of rando commentary…