When I lived in Texas, I learned that monkeys riding dogs was a thing. There’s a guy who refers to himself as “Wild Thang” and trains costumed monkeys to ride around on dogs. During my three years in Texas, I attended rodeos, barn dances, and hootenannies, hoping to catch a glimpse of said monkey/dog duo. I never fulfilled that dream.
Flash forward to when my pal Patrick invited me to see the NY Giants. It was my first professional football game, and my knowledge of the sport extends no further than Tim Riggins and various terms I picked up from my young adult book club’s fantasy league.
The day started at Penn Station. We met up with our Belgian friends Reggie and Victoria, who’d bought Giants t-shirts and read up on American football on Wikipedia. We had a lively discussion about European soccer on the way to the game.
The stadium was mayhem, but we entered through the VIP entrance and headed to our private suite, which belonged to a charter jet company.
The staff in our suite asked us what we’d like to drink and mentioned that if they didn’t have what we want, they’d run out and get it. I ate three plates of buffalo chicken mac and cheese and a dozen chicken fingers.
I learned that Giants fans are intense. To our rear sat an over-served woman who provided constant commentary. If not for her, I probably would’ve had no idea what was going on. We cheered in sync with the crowd.
I was sitting there, taking it all in, when lo and behold — halftime arrived. And then I got blitzkrieged with… MONKEYS RIDING DOGS. It was unreal.
I’ll end this story with this: