“Got plans for the Big Game on Sunday?”
THE KANSAS CITY CHIEFS ARE IN THE SUPER BOWL, CAN YOUR ASS BELIEVE IT!? I have spent a cumulative $450 dollars (1.5x my rent) in the past 48 hours ordering meat, chip, and dip products for Sunday. They are all in my garage fridge. What are your plans!? Don’t you dare desecrate the magnificence that is our first Super Bowl appearance in FIFTY YEARS because your kid has a YMCA basketball game. You sure as shit better have a way to celebrate the greatest day in the history of our city or I will drag you to my home, give you the best seat on the sectional, and pump you full of Bud Light (or Coke, no pressure!) until we bring the Lombardi home!

“Patrick Mahomes is just a class act.”
I would die a grizzly and humiliating death for him and any person that he loves or has a passing aquaintance with. Sometimes I think about him during sex. Not as a sexual being, but as the source of pure power and goodness and truth that fuels my carnal urges. There are no other quarterbacks alive on this earth. Tom Brady is an Ugg model with above-average hand-eye coordination. When I lift free weights at my basement gym, I imagine I am the great Pat Mahomes II preparing to shoulder the hopes and dreams of a city at the tender (not in a sex way!) age of 24. If I ever saw him in person, I would nod politely without uttering a word.

“You just love to see the city come together.”
I actively fight the urge to kiss everyone I see fully on the mouth. Mayor Quinton Lucas has been quoted in the New York Times, and now he is the godfather to my children. The city is my children. My barista and I got matching tattoos of Kansas and Missouri doing a chest bump. If I had a firm grasp on what restaurants were national chains and which ones were specific to Kansas City, I would put all the other places on the first Southwest flight out of town. (With barbecue gift sets of course.)

“Where’s your red?”
You un-enthused piece of shit. How dare you pass up an opportunity to bask in the reflected glory of the men whose stadium we willingly spent 475 million of our tax dollars on! I’m not asking for full face paint (especially not if it’s offensive to native people — that shit’s messed up, man, it’s 2020!), but at least get a goddamn visor from Price Chopper. These protein-packed millionaires represent all of our hopes, dreams, and fears, show some gosh darn respect, fucker. Your accidental or intentional abstention makes me sick. Would you like the Butker jersey off my back? It’s signed.

“It’s nice to see our little ol’ town on the map!”
Kansas City is the goddamn pride of the Midwest. Every year we watch these ocean ass-kissers doing coastal shit like eating fresh fish or flying within the continental US for longer than three hours. But no more. This is OUR TIME. OUR MOMENT. We say “soda” AND “pop.” We can always find parking. We had the first Shopping Center in the goddamn United States and now we have Andrew Fuckin’ Reid and a defense that isn’t the worst. The rest of the country had better wake the fuck up to our great city. And if they want to visit, I will pick them up at the airport and they can stay on my couch.

“No matter what happens, I’m so proud of our boys.”
I love them more than my own blood. If we lose, I will become thoroughly despondent — a hermit in the cavern of my own mind, watching game film, cursing Joe Buck, and imagining what could have been. I will not speak for months. Except to say good morning to all of my neighbors.

[Acknowledges a stranger wearing CHIEFS gear] “Go Chiefs!”

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Read Taylor Kay Phillips’ Guide to Midwestern Conversation.