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I got a bit sidetracked while preparing to write about my Super Bowl prop bets. Quite the adventure ensued...
So — funny story about that article I was supposed to write about the Super Bowl.
There I was, desperately clinging to my New Year's resolution to cut back on caffeine and calories, searching for a sliver of joy in my third ice cold Pamplemousse LaCroix of the day. I was staring forlornly at a Google Maps route to Ithaca and dreading the impending task of settling my lost Oddball bet with Kirk.
In another browser tab, a hastily drafted five-bullet-point email to my overlords detailed how I had somehow crammed 70 billable hours into one chaotic week. I sighed and listened as my daughters, with the patience of seasoned diplomats, carefully negotiated access to the same coveted Barbie. A treacherous dusting of snow on the roads had cancelled school once again.
Needing a mental break, I took out my phone and found Zen in the Zillow updates that chronicled my endless house hunt, a modern meditation on impending chaos. I found Nirvana in the tech support plea from my aging father locked out of his iCloud account — which, really, was just the universe reminding me that even the Photos app gets existential. I found enlightenment in the vet's text asking me to pick up my deceased cat’s ashes, as if my grief needed a side of karmic symbolism. I found comfort in my wife’s report that FreshDirect had forgotten the essential ingredients for tonight’s dinner, a culinary crisis turned teachable moment. Then Kanye chimed in with an insightful tweet pledging his allegiance to the Nazi party, and CNN sent a breaking news alert about a satanic arsonist being appointed Secretary of the Interior. Bold advances in fire safety aside, it remained a mystery to me why it was so damn hard to find the headspace to write about a few stupid Super Bowl prop bets for my two dozen adoring readers.
Satisfied with the depths of my afternoon doomscroll, I moved my finger towards the lock button when a new text popped up. It was friend-of-the-site Tyrod Taylor!
ay yo, what up matty t? i copped a pair of tix for the big game. put ya kale salad down and meet me in secaucus. we can road trip together in my cybertruck!
And so the adventure began at Tyrod’s condo, where he conned me into helping him load a mountain of moving boxes into his car. He’s the only person I know who still buys complete seasons of TV shows on DVD. And maybe he’ll have to rethink that habit, since about three minutes into our drive to his storage unit, his Cybertruck, overwhelmed by the weight of his Smallville collection, burst into flames right in the middle of Route 24.
That was the end of our New Orleans road trip, but not of our Super Bowl dreams. Tyrod quickly called an Uber to Newark Airport, where we hopped on the next Spirit flight. Unfortunately, we were delayed on the runway because our pilot was doing too much DEI and was replaced by a 19-year-old computer hacker that the Department of Transportation found on 4chan. Things were mostly smooth once we got up in the air, but Tyrod couldn’t find any shows he hadn’t seen before on the inflight entertainment screens, so he decided to listen to a Kendrick Lamar playlist without headphones. “Gotta get jacked up for the halftime show,” he explained.
Unfortunately, as we approached New Orleans, our new captain decided to take an impromptu detour over the newly renamed Gulf of America, narrowly avoided a collision with the Goodyear blimp, got flustered, and ended up landing us upside down on the runway. I had a few minor scrapes and Tyrod got a nasty crick in his neck. But irregardless, we had made it to the Big Easy.
Our first stop off the plane was Pat O’Brien’s for a couple of Hurricanes. I knew we were in trouble when Tyrod swallowed his entire drink in one gulp, told the bartender it didn’t have enough Bacardi 151 in it, farted loudly, ordered two more rounds, and aggressively challenged the guys next to us to a game of pool. Turns out one of them was Jon Batiste, and while they scratched their way through a drunken game of 9-ball, Tyrod regaled him with the tale of our dramatic flight into town. Batiste was so inspired by our patriotic story of survival, he decided to sing the line “land of the free” multiple times during his rendition of the National Anthem.
After his eighth Hurricane and third bowl of jambalaya, Tyrod was ready for dessert. We popped over to Cafe du Monde for some beignets and ran into Jameis Winston filming a bit for Fox Sports. Apparently Tyrod and Jameis had some bad blood stemming from a disagreement over the Housing Tax Chance Card during a game of Monopoly at the 2015 Pro Bowl. Their arguing devolved into one hell of a wrestling match. At one point Jameis, covered in powdered sugar, tried to throw a coffee mug at Tyrod across the patio, but it was thankfully picked off by a highly caffeinated James Bradberry.
Furious that he couldn’t get any rum in his café au lait, Tyrod decided that it was time for a change of venue. “Come on, Talmage,” he urged. “My buddies are gonna meet us at the casino. Let’s go shoot some dice!”
A few moments later, we stumbled into Harrah’s and hit a high limit craps table with Guy Fieri, Aaron Rodgers, and Serena Williams. Tyrod crapped out immediately and Serena hit a few hardways. Aaron’s depth perception was all jacked up from the psilocybin bubblegum he was chewing, so he kept throwing the dice off the table and eventually just started meditating instead of playing. I did what I always do — made a few points, pressed, rolled a seven, and came out about even. I’ll never understand how to make money at that game. Anyways, eventually Guy was asked to leave after he ashed his cigar on the pass line for the third time, so we all colored up and went searching for a nightcap.
On our way out of the casino, we made a pit stop at the gift shop so that Tyrod could restock on Juul pods. And wouldn’t you know it? We ran into Patrick Mahomes rummaging through the selection of overpriced sundries and commemorative shot glasses. He was clearly in a hurry, wearing a team-issued tracksuit and clutching a protein bar, presumably en route to an interview on Radio Row. He clocked Tyrod immediately and tried to slink out of the shop unnoticed, but no such luck.
“Ay yo, what up Ma-homie?” exclaimed Tyrod, blissfully unaware of the social hierarchy at play.
Mahomes, sounding like Kermit the Frog trying to ward off Miss Piggy’s advances, mumbled something noncommittal and tried to move along, but Tyrod was having none of it. “Yo, hold up Ma-homie, real quick, you ever play Monopoly with Jameis?”
Mahomes sighed and shook his head, but Tyrod was undeterred. “Nah, nah, for real, bro. Man tried to convince me that the Housing Tax only applies to the player with the most hotels. Straight-up fraudulent.”
Patrick shuffled his feet and glanced at his watch. “That’s wild, Tyrod,” he muttered, clearly hoping the conversation would end.
Then, just as Tyrod began to launch into his theories about Mr. Milchick from Severance, Mahomes suddenly interrupted. “Hey, do any of you guys have gum? The gift shop is sold out, and I gotta do an interview with Erin Andrews in like ten minutes.”
Aaron, ever the generous (and definitely still-tripping) mystic, reached into his pocket and handed Mahomes a piece of his bubblegum. Mahomes popped it in his mouth without a second thought, gave us a distracted “Appreciate y’all,” and walked off.
We watched him disappear into the crowd, and then Aaron casually remarked, “Oh shit. That was my last dose.”
Patrick Mahomes went on to spend the entirety of the Super Bowl staring blankly at his hands, convinced he could see the molecular structure of his own fingernails, and muttering something about how time was just an elaborate illusion created by Roger Goodell.
Whoops.
After what should have been our final round of drinks but was most certainly not, we stumbled back onto Bourbon Street, where Serena decided to embrace the local customs and started earning beads the old-fashioned way — by getting topless and slathering her body in donkey sauce. We were cheering her on when we heard someone shouting behind us:
“Yo, is that Guy Fieri?!”
We turned to see the entire Kansas City Chiefs offensive line gawking in awe at our bleach-blond, flame-shirted companion. Creed Humphrey, clearly the designated spokesman, stepped forward. “Guy, man, we love you,” he gushed. “Dude, your Trash Can Nachos changed my life when I was trying to gain enough weight to make the team at Oklahoma.”
The rest of the linemen nodded eagerly, eyes shining with admiration, but their enthusiasm wasn’t just for meeting a culinary icon — they also looked absolutely starving.
“Bro,” said Trey Smith, rubbing his stomach, “we haven’t eaten since, like, 5PM. Can you cook us something? Like, for real?”
Now, under normal circumstances, Guy would have relished the opportunity to take some hungry football giants on a late-night ride to Flavortown. But unfortunately, he had just spent the last hour and a half pounding Hand Grenades with Tyrod, and to put it bluntly, Guy Fieri was fully smothered, covered, and kicked to the curb.
Still, never one to back down from a challenge, he squinted, cracked his knuckles, and declared, “Choo-choo, boys! The Flavortown Express is leaving the station. Hop aboard and I’ll make you something funkalicious!”
So we piled into an UberXL and made our way back to Guy’s Airbnb, where he immediately started drunkenly throwing ingredients around, slurring something about “maximum crunchification” as he attempted to whip up a batch of his famous Tatted-Up Turkey Burgers.
Aaron, the lone voice of reason, took one look at the unfolding chaos and scraps of animal protein and said, “I’m not eating this.” He continued to meditate like a total freak.
The rest of us, however, were ravenous, inebriated, awestruck, and absolutely not in a position to turn down a meal prepared by Food Network royalty, so we scarfed them down without question.
Big mistake.
Turns out, Guy was a little too blitzed to cook them all the way through, and within a few hours, the Chiefs offensive line, along with everyone else who partook, was suffering from mild botulism. Not enough to be life-threatening, but enough to ensure that when they hit the field the next day, they moved like they were wading through a vat of room-temperature queso.
Oh, and Tyrod forgot to set an alarm so we slept through most of the first half. By the time we woke up and shook off the Guy-induced paralysis, the Eagles were leading 24-0 and Serena was dancing on the stage at the halftime show. “Damn, she must have remembered to hydrate,” remarked Tyrod, tossing me a Pedialyte packet. “Oh well, Spirit has an 11PM flight home. Want to go shoot some dice ‘til then?”
And shoot dice we did, kids. I made a few points, pressed, rolled a seven, and came out about even. I’ll still never understand how to make money at that game. We downed a few more Hurricanes in the cab to the airport and immediately conked out on the plane.
It has taken me a couple of weeks to recover, and I’m slowly gaining the strength to make the journey to Ithaca. Stay tuned on that front and sorry for the radio silence. When Tyrod offers you a ride to New Orleans, you absolutely have to take him up on it. Just don’t help him move. Oh, and don’t accept any candy from Aaron Rodgers.