Fanscots of Glory

This weekend, Ben and I had the enormous privilege of being invited to the official NFL Fanscot reunion, held in scenic Canton, Ohio (home of the Football Hall of Fame-- because that's right, bitches, we have two halls of fame to your none, unless you live somewhere where there's a hall of fame, which you probably don't).

This was due, in large part, to the fact that Ben's sister is dating the Philadelphia Eagles' fanscot Birdman, who, in real life, is an awesome guy named Joe. Awesome enough, in fact, to lend us these Birdman beaks and masks, so we could experience the sensation of being a fanscot, if only for a few moments. (The sensation was that of being stared at a lot.)

Following the Hall of Fame parade (in which many bands appeared, although none of the trombonists had the good sense to keep their horns up, nor did any of them perform horn swings, much to my chagrin), we went back to the hotel where the fanscots were staying. There, each fanscot had decorated his or her door with team paraphernalia-- Joe, for instance, was stationed across from the Hogettes, who had covered their door with Hog Balls. Which is highly upsetting.

Throughout the day, I learned many interesting things about the Fanscots-- what they do, where they live, what they look like without their pope hats on. I learned that Big Dawg was at a wedding and couldn't make it (although a very strange fellow named Brownie the Elvis Elf was there in his stead, giving me horrible Aurora Greenman flashbacks), so that kind of dashed my hopes of meeting my own personal Browns Fanscot, although Joe promised to arrange a meeting one of these days, which will probably just make me pass out, because I have a weird mascot fetish that I don't care to discuss.

All in all, I learned that Fanscots really are just normal people. Who really, really like football. And dressing up. Which, when you really think about it, couldn't that be said about any one of us?