What follows is an answer to the chorus of complaints from the legions of fans tired of being distracted by “sensible” analysis, backed by “facts” and “knowledge.” If you seek shelter from the twin storms that are “reality” and “logic,” then this is your port of call.
This week at the Six Pack we have an exclusive, our first ever. We were actually able to get our hands on the running and extremely (in fact often explicitly and frighteningly) detailed diary kept by none other than Vinny Cerrato. This is a real coup, in the same way that finding your sister’s 7th grade diary is a coup except that Vinny’s has way more drawings of unicorns. In fact, were it possible to gauge something like this, we’d say way too many unicorns and way too much attention to certain details. But we digress so we’ll just get out of the way and bring you, the lucky readers, the page by page account of how it all went down in the Snyder box at Ford Field.
What a glorious Sunday this is, time for some football. Mr. Snyder is sitting right here next to me … well, “next to me” is not entirely accurate; he’s curled up at my feet, which is admittedly odd. But, still, it’s not every day … OWWWW … dude, what the hell? Danny just bit my ankle … hold on … he’s motioning to me frantically with his tiny hands, it’s actually kind of cute. I can’t understand a word he’s saying, he speaks in the high pitched lilt that is common to the tiny highland elves from which Danny is descended. Imagine Alvin and the Chipmunks on fast forward and subtract the cuteness factor and that just about approximates it. Now he’s scribbling frantically on his “I’m a Lil’ Devil” chalkboard I bought him. You should see him hold the chalk, it looks huge in his tiny, effeminate hands.
OK, he’s handed me the chalkboard, apparently he wants me to describe him as tall. I told him I will agree to that arrangement only if I can put him in people’s gardens and make it look like the lawn gnomes are having their way with him. He declined … lame. I might do it anyway; he’s so tiny he’d be unable to fight back. I reach down and tussle his hair, his right leg starts moving spastically, it’s so cute when he does that. He just hopped up and did his elaborate dance with some pompoms and streamers (set to Tiffany’s long and justifiably forgotten hit ‘Danny’) which is meant to indicate he is ready for the game to start. It’s adorable, even the parts when his stubby legs fail him and he falls down on his face. The cruel mistress that is nature made his arms too short so he’s not able to push himself back up, that’s when I spring to action. I grab him by his suspenders and hoist him and his flailing but tiny limbs into the air to set him back on his feet. I sure do love that little maniac.
Well, that drive by the Redskins offense started off promising but we failed to score again. Starting to wonder if maybe we should have drafted an offensive lineman but Cody Glenn actually fist bumped me at the draft! He totally knows I exist! What choice did I have? And Robert Henson said “you my dawg VC” AND high-fived me! Um, hello, like, totally! Although that pick hasn’t ended up being very “tweet.” Pun! I start to share my awesome pun with Danny when I realized he’s nearly drowning in a dixie cup. Tom Cruise (who is somehow shorter) is panicking and reciting his “help me help you” line from the wildly overrated ‘Jerry Maguire.’ I grab some ice tongs and pluck Danny out of the cup and towel him off vigorously with a cocktail napkin. Crisis averted by V to the C! On the field is another story, even the defense looks bad right now. Sometimes I think it’s funny when Greg Blache says the only tapes he watches are re-runs of the ‘Golden Girls’ and sometimes I kinda wish he would watch game tape. Oh no! Oh no! Albert Haynesworth just collapsed on the field. That’s bad. Fortunately Danny missed it as he and Tom are fighting over a cocktail wiener I dropped on the floor next to me. They both lost to a particularly determined ant.
Danny has actually started watching the game now. We’ve found that stools and tall chairs are out of the question since he falls out of them so easily when the AC kicks on or someone coughs even two suites over. Instead we bought him one of those things babies sit in where you attach it (the thing, not Danny, trust me, we made that mistake once … live and learn) to the top of a door frame and put them in a harness. The ones they sell in the store are way too big so we rigged one up with some shoelaces. He’s dangling next to me and he seems to be unhappy though it’s virtually impossible to tell by looking at his face. Not because he’s stoic or anything like that (far from it, he’s in a state of constant panic like a small bird) but because his face lacks the distinguishing characteristics (a la eyebrows, lips you can see) that might suggest emotion. It’s been said he looks like a rat but rats have those cute little whiskers and Danny is incapable of growing facial hair. His press conference stand in has all of those things but the real McCoy is like a china doll minus the collector value. Uh oh, he just threw his juice box at the window which means he’s mad. It’s largely an ineffective gesture since his arms can barely generate any power but it does mean it’s time to put him back on the floor where Tom is wrestling with (and losing badly to) a gnat.
Danny is using his red phone to call down to the field and demand some changes. It’s not actually connected to anything; in fact, it’s not a real phone. I took a red plastic child’s phone, peeled off the stickers and replaced them with pictures of the coaching staff. For some reason he is pushing the button for Danny Smith, I don’t think he knows who actually does what. He’s also dragged out his shoe box of NFL player cards circa 1995; he wants me to go sign Troy Aikman. It’s so cute. I glance down at the field, the game is over and Zorn is … well, he’s standing there, unblinking and staring off into space. I wish that didn’t remind me so much of his interview. He tends to space out like that … well, a lot, I call it the Zorn Zone, he calls it “staying medium” and a doctor I consulted calls it “an acid flashback.” But who really knows? I grab some tweezers and pick Danny off the floor and slip him into my wallet. I have no idea where Tom is, I think a rat ate him. C’est la vie! It occurs to me, belatedly, that I shouldn’t write this all down. Oh well, that’s why I wrote ‘For VC Only (and Danny, if he ever learns to read)’ on the outside. Foolproof plan! Byeeeeeeee!