After the Chiefs lost the playoff game yesterday, I was hungry, but I had also lost the will to live. I had a hot dog in my fridge, and a can of croissants, which was good because I was out of bread. I wrapped the hot dog in a croissant triangle and ate it. I didn’t bake the croissant. I didn’t deserve it. Chiefs fans don’t deserve to have their baked goods actually baked. Before the game, I thought I didn’t have any food in the house. I was wrong. Here is a list of things I ate after the Chiefs blew a 28 point lead in the playoffs:
-Handful of almonds
-One large navel orange
-Half a bag of Tostitos Cantina Thins
-Hot salsa mixed with cold refried beans
-One large bowl of cookies and cream store brand ice cream
-Glass of chocolate milk
-A turkey hot dog wrapped in croissant dough that I did not have the will to bake
-Two bottles of Welch’s sparkling grape juice, white and red
I only stopped because I felt sick, not because the food had even started to fill the hole in my heart where my love for the Chiefs resides. A black hole now. Dark. Antimatter.
This one hurt so much because the choke job was literally one of historic proportions. I thought not physically living in Kansas City would make it hurt less. But it didn’t. And now I’m just here on the East Coast, all alone, me and my misery and an industrial sized dose of Pepto Bismol.
Maybe I did something as a child to deserve this. Maybe all of Kansas City did. I don’t know. This nonstop suckitude and crushing disappointment seems to be divine in its cataclysmic proportions, and really, who am I to argue with God? God hates Kansas City. It’s time we all came to terms with that. And I don’t want to hear your arguments that God has bigger things to worry about than football games. The proof is in the barbeque flavored tears of Chiefs fans. We don’t get to have nice things in Kansas City. We get the horseradish mashed potatoes at Sullivans and fuck you if you want more. We dared to hope for more. That was a mistake. I know that now. I should have known it before.
I feel sad. And seventeen pounds heavier. A little nauseous. But mostly sad.
Eighteen years later, the ghost of the still alive Lin Elliott strikes again. This isn’t the first time the Chiefs have let me down in the playoffs and against the Colts, no less. It’s an eerily specific curse. This one just hurts so much. It’s either worse this time around or I’ve forgotten the pain, somehow over the years pushed the trauma aside so I could function in my daily life, but now that scab has been torn open and is raw, bleeding, necrotic. Anyway, I’m sorry if you thought this blog was going to have a point. It doesn’t. I will never recover from this. I still don’t understand how it happened. I was wearing my lucky shirt and everything.