These Trivia Blog posts come from the emails I send out as Quizmaster of the Gael Pub Trivia Night every Tuesday. But seeing as how they comprise most of the writing I seem to do these days, I thought it fitting to include them on the Pale Writer blog as well. I won't include things like info about categories or drink specials, but will keep the bulk of the rest. Hopefully you enjoy, so much so that you come out some Tuesday at 8:30 (3rd Ave. b/t 82nd and 83rd)...
They're not collector's items. They're failure memorabilia.
So the Super Bowl has come and gone and taken football season with it. Seven sad, football-less months are now ahead of us, but at least you Giants fans can relish your team's victory in the meantime. (Courtesy, in major part at least, of the University of Michigan's own Mario Manningham and his incredible catch. Just sayin'.) A bit of advice, though: Try to avoid being such giant knobs on the way to future victory parades, eh? This morning's subway ride ranked somewhere between "Delayed for 30 minutes for no apparent reason" and "Masturbating homeless guy clears out the car in 2 seconds" for me. I don't know who's manning the deli counters and spray-tanning booths of Long Island today, because they were all apparently jammed into my subway car, shitfaced drunk at 9:30am and (literally) knocking over old ladies in their scrabble to take the 1 train downtown. Just... act like you've been there before, Pauly. But I digress.
Watching coverage on NY1 of Giants fans flocking to Modell's to buy Super Bowl gear reminded me of one of the things I love about the aftermath of any major sports championship, and that's the idea that there are actually thousands of pieces of congratulatory merchandise featuring the losing team that wind up being shipped to some impoverished area of the world to help clothe the less fortunate. It's great that they're helping folks out and all, I just love the idea of Jim Kelly traveling to some third-world country and being confronted with a village full of reminders of four straight Bills Super Bowl losses. And then completely losing his shit and turning into some sort of weird, Colonel Kurtz-like figure, ruling the village and its people while muttering about Scott Norwood missing field goals.
It makes me wonder if, somewhere, there is a magical village that views these loser-related gifts as bounties from some supreme deity, and the people choose to worship the concept of losing as a result. Maybe it's a place called Loserville or Losstown or Newark. The name's not important; we'll figure that out later. But imagine a place where every meal is served on Kerry-Edwards or Dukakis-Bentsen flatware. Where, prior to eating, they chant their pre-meal prayer: a selection from Nickelback's latest album. Where, after dinner, they gather to watch a stage revue of scenes from movies that didn't take home a trophy on Oscar night (Johnny Depp night would be particularly popular), or monologues pulled from Jon Hamm's Emmy-nominated clips. Where every lottery ticket is already scratched off, showing that you needed just one more damned cherry to win the $500. Where, at night, instead of ghost stories, they tell spooky stories about perennial winners that swoop in and snatch away happiness and awards, to keep their kids ever-mindful of their need of losers: "And now, children, I'll tell you the Tale of Meryl Streep..."