(no subject)
In which Fey writes about her Canucks Playoffs experience in 2nd person!
First of all, some context is needed. Context is always needed, particularly when you wish to make sure that all readers know about your bodily-related misery. First of all, you spent all day at a fair incessantly walking back and forth picking up various friends and standing in the heat to watch your friend belt out Sinatra tunes, vaguely aware that you're pretty much the only one cheering because hardly anyone else there is watching. You also got dumped by your friends to go off by yourself, because they all wanted to watch the new X-Men movie and you were determined not to flake out on your other friends. So you walk home, because you're angry and somehow walking more after walking all day seemed like a good idea at the time until you have a chance to sit down and realize that your feet are going to fall off, and that you should have really indulged in bubble tea and mini donuts like the rest of your friends because you're starving and no amount of weight loss is worth missing mini donuts. What were you thinking? You weren't, obviously. Did I mention that you're pale? Yeah, like sickly pale. Reflect-the-sun pale, though you obviously did not reflect the sun on account of the fact that it appears you absorbed the sun because your back and shoulders and nose are a deathly red even though you put on sunscreen.
There. Context. Anyway, you soak your feet for the better part of a half hour before having to walk out again - you knew you had to walk more and more and more later that day, why didn't you take the bus home you stupid girl? - but instead of watching the game with your friend, you wait in the entranceway of Staples to meet up with your friend because apparently the pens aren't neat. All the while, her boss chats you up and you sit there and hang awkwardly onto your purse because you don't want to talk back lest your friend get into heat. You're pretty sure he has some sort of strange disorder, because he's twitchy. Every two words, his eyes twitch - twitch twitch! - and you're pretty sure he's looking down your shirt. In fact, you know he is. Because that's where his eyes are twitching. Apparently this man had no father growing up to tell him, "Son, this is how you subtly check out a woman's tits". Your friend emerges from the washroom into the flickering fluorescent lights of the Staples, and she is decked out. She has stickers on her face. She has a giant #1 hand. She has a jersey. In fact, you're pretty sure that she bought out an entire store, and you're wondering if maybe you should have bought some stickers to put on your face or something because obviously your outfit just isn't cutting it.
On the SkyTrain there, you suddenly become aware that you are a minority. Everyone is in jerseys or in stickers or in other gear, and most girls are using their jerseys as dresses. You feel like you should have bought a flag. Look! I'm a Canucks fan too! You feel like shouting. I still have the bobbleheads and trading cards from when I was a kid, and where were you all season? Instead you just try to look invisible.
"Where were you all season" is a question that is easily answered once you step out of the skytrain and into the street where they've set up the big screen TVs, because these people aren't here to watch the game. They can't be, because it's hard to see the screen for the crowd and most of the people aren't even watching the game their shirts proclaim they live for. They are here for the party. You don't think you've ever properly seen the entities known as 'bros' before, but you've found them here. A plethora of them. They are loud and tattooed and shirtless and like to ride on each others shoulders and chant "SHOW YOUR TITS" which has nothing to do with the game but everything to do with the cute ginger girl who has somehow climbed on top of the pole. You're crushed in the street, and no part of you seems to be your own, because every part of you is touching a part of something else.
Also, people are crowd surfing. People actually do that? You never knew, on account of never having seen it done properly yourself, and you silently pray that they don't make it over to your area because that guy looks like he weighs 250 pounds and you weigh half that and have troubles doing push-ups. Someone has thrown a cup of beer. You have beer in your hair. Someone else shoots silly string, so you have beer drenched silly string in your hair. It's not a fun combination, and your team hasn't even won yet!
Then, of course, they do. You're certain it was probably a fabulous goal, but you wouldn't be able to tell because the guys in front and behind you have climbed onto each others shoulders so you can't see the screen again, and it's evident that no one else can either but no one else cares. The air fills with the stench of cigarette smoke, alcohol, body odour and marijuana. Can you get high off of second hand marijuana? You think you might be because if you can, it would be impossible not to in this crowd. The city's gone absolutely mad. You end up stumbling along with them for the next four hours. Are you the screaming type? Not really. But you are now, because that's just what you do in a crowd like this. The roads are swarmed with people, and cars can't move. If they try, people smack their trunks. There are tattooed men climbing up scaffolds and climbing up buildings and into partiers' apartments (you think privately to yourself that they're like real-life Ezios of Assassins' Creed but do not voice it). When the men jump on buildings, the crowd chants "Jump! Jump! Jump!" and you cringe and hope they don't because you don't like seeing people get hurt, and they don't because they're not drunk enough yet. A few girls have indulged the men pleading for their tits and do, in fact, display them. The policemen ought to be stopping some of the more extreme displays, but they get caught up in the fervor of the celebration and end up giving high fives too.
Oh, and the high fives. You need to wash your hands, because you've touched more hands tonight than you have in your entire life. Everyone wants to high five, so everyone's more or less flailing along the streets and hands are touching where they may. Where they may touch is your bottom, and you'd really like to tell them to cut it out, but there are so many people around that it's impossible to tell who it is. You meet a man dressed as Jesus as a Canucks fan, and that's pretty cool too. Some guys decide to hug you and lift you off the ground, which is unpleasant but at least they're not groping your behind. Some people are running backwards and they topple into you. The cars are all honking their horns incessantly, but whether they're angry or just celebrating is a mystery.
Your feet are really going to fall off at this point, so you duck into a Burger King with your friends. It's safe here, right? Wrong! Three fights happen! At Burger King! When the second fighter doesn't reciprocate, the crowd chants "Pussy! Pussy! Pussy!" and you're hoping one of them chickens out again because you think this could end badly, and of course it does. You finally head home on the skytrain - and it smells like piss, probably one of the worst things you've ever smelled - and try to avoid the drunks which is hard because it's absolutely packed. You stumble home, and everything hurts. Your throat hurts and you're downright hoarse from the shrieking, your arms and hands hurt from the flailing, your feet and legs hurt from running around, and other parts of you hurt but you're not even sure why. After the fact, you're a little shocked and ashamed at some of the behaviour your city has displayed when exposed to mob mentality, and a little surprised at yourself too, but mostly looking forward to the next game.
First of all, some context is needed. Context is always needed, particularly when you wish to make sure that all readers know about your bodily-related misery. First of all, you spent all day at a fair incessantly walking back and forth picking up various friends and standing in the heat to watch your friend belt out Sinatra tunes, vaguely aware that you're pretty much the only one cheering because hardly anyone else there is watching. You also got dumped by your friends to go off by yourself, because they all wanted to watch the new X-Men movie and you were determined not to flake out on your other friends. So you walk home, because you're angry and somehow walking more after walking all day seemed like a good idea at the time until you have a chance to sit down and realize that your feet are going to fall off, and that you should have really indulged in bubble tea and mini donuts like the rest of your friends because you're starving and no amount of weight loss is worth missing mini donuts. What were you thinking? You weren't, obviously. Did I mention that you're pale? Yeah, like sickly pale. Reflect-the-sun pale, though you obviously did not reflect the sun on account of the fact that it appears you absorbed the sun because your back and shoulders and nose are a deathly red even though you put on sunscreen.
There. Context. Anyway, you soak your feet for the better part of a half hour before having to walk out again - you knew you had to walk more and more and more later that day, why didn't you take the bus home you stupid girl? - but instead of watching the game with your friend, you wait in the entranceway of Staples to meet up with your friend because apparently the pens aren't neat. All the while, her boss chats you up and you sit there and hang awkwardly onto your purse because you don't want to talk back lest your friend get into heat. You're pretty sure he has some sort of strange disorder, because he's twitchy. Every two words, his eyes twitch - twitch twitch! - and you're pretty sure he's looking down your shirt. In fact, you know he is. Because that's where his eyes are twitching. Apparently this man had no father growing up to tell him, "Son, this is how you subtly check out a woman's tits". Your friend emerges from the washroom into the flickering fluorescent lights of the Staples, and she is decked out. She has stickers on her face. She has a giant #1 hand. She has a jersey. In fact, you're pretty sure that she bought out an entire store, and you're wondering if maybe you should have bought some stickers to put on your face or something because obviously your outfit just isn't cutting it.
On the SkyTrain there, you suddenly become aware that you are a minority. Everyone is in jerseys or in stickers or in other gear, and most girls are using their jerseys as dresses. You feel like you should have bought a flag. Look! I'm a Canucks fan too! You feel like shouting. I still have the bobbleheads and trading cards from when I was a kid, and where were you all season? Instead you just try to look invisible.
"Where were you all season" is a question that is easily answered once you step out of the skytrain and into the street where they've set up the big screen TVs, because these people aren't here to watch the game. They can't be, because it's hard to see the screen for the crowd and most of the people aren't even watching the game their shirts proclaim they live for. They are here for the party. You don't think you've ever properly seen the entities known as 'bros' before, but you've found them here. A plethora of them. They are loud and tattooed and shirtless and like to ride on each others shoulders and chant "SHOW YOUR TITS" which has nothing to do with the game but everything to do with the cute ginger girl who has somehow climbed on top of the pole. You're crushed in the street, and no part of you seems to be your own, because every part of you is touching a part of something else.
Also, people are crowd surfing. People actually do that? You never knew, on account of never having seen it done properly yourself, and you silently pray that they don't make it over to your area because that guy looks like he weighs 250 pounds and you weigh half that and have troubles doing push-ups. Someone has thrown a cup of beer. You have beer in your hair. Someone else shoots silly string, so you have beer drenched silly string in your hair. It's not a fun combination, and your team hasn't even won yet!
Then, of course, they do. You're certain it was probably a fabulous goal, but you wouldn't be able to tell because the guys in front and behind you have climbed onto each others shoulders so you can't see the screen again, and it's evident that no one else can either but no one else cares. The air fills with the stench of cigarette smoke, alcohol, body odour and marijuana. Can you get high off of second hand marijuana? You think you might be because if you can, it would be impossible not to in this crowd. The city's gone absolutely mad. You end up stumbling along with them for the next four hours. Are you the screaming type? Not really. But you are now, because that's just what you do in a crowd like this. The roads are swarmed with people, and cars can't move. If they try, people smack their trunks. There are tattooed men climbing up scaffolds and climbing up buildings and into partiers' apartments (you think privately to yourself that they're like real-life Ezios of Assassins' Creed but do not voice it). When the men jump on buildings, the crowd chants "Jump! Jump! Jump!" and you cringe and hope they don't because you don't like seeing people get hurt, and they don't because they're not drunk enough yet. A few girls have indulged the men pleading for their tits and do, in fact, display them. The policemen ought to be stopping some of the more extreme displays, but they get caught up in the fervor of the celebration and end up giving high fives too.
Oh, and the high fives. You need to wash your hands, because you've touched more hands tonight than you have in your entire life. Everyone wants to high five, so everyone's more or less flailing along the streets and hands are touching where they may. Where they may touch is your bottom, and you'd really like to tell them to cut it out, but there are so many people around that it's impossible to tell who it is. You meet a man dressed as Jesus as a Canucks fan, and that's pretty cool too. Some guys decide to hug you and lift you off the ground, which is unpleasant but at least they're not groping your behind. Some people are running backwards and they topple into you. The cars are all honking their horns incessantly, but whether they're angry or just celebrating is a mystery.
Your feet are really going to fall off at this point, so you duck into a Burger King with your friends. It's safe here, right? Wrong! Three fights happen! At Burger King! When the second fighter doesn't reciprocate, the crowd chants "Pussy! Pussy! Pussy!" and you're hoping one of them chickens out again because you think this could end badly, and of course it does. You finally head home on the skytrain - and it smells like piss, probably one of the worst things you've ever smelled - and try to avoid the drunks which is hard because it's absolutely packed. You stumble home, and everything hurts. Your throat hurts and you're downright hoarse from the shrieking, your arms and hands hurt from the flailing, your feet and legs hurt from running around, and other parts of you hurt but you're not even sure why. After the fact, you're a little shocked and ashamed at some of the behaviour your city has displayed when exposed to mob mentality, and a little surprised at yourself too, but mostly looking forward to the next game.