Victoria Gotch Handicaps Super Bowl LVIII and Kneecaps Husbands Two Through Four
Legendary sports reporter Victoria Gotch comes out of retirement to file a report from Las Vegas. Special to TLC.
Hey, losers. I know, I’m as surprised as you are that I’m here versus where I’d ordinarily be this time of year - happily enjoying retirement (been two wonderful years), shuttling from our beachfront condo in South Beach to our house in Westport, traveling the world, kicking back and not thinking about all the locker rooms I had to walk through in my 30 plus years as a sports reporter dealing with every flavor of jerk acting like I’ve never seen dirty laundry before.
But here I am, and there you are. Which means someone owes us an explanation. So….two weeks ago I’m out by the beach walking my Labradoodle Franz (named after my loser second husband) and I get a call thinking it was Theo Epstein - we hadn’t spoken since he left the Red Sox to sign with the Cubs, it’s not completely far-fetched that I’d get an out-of-the-blue call from him…but cars were rumbling by, there’s a lot of ambient noise by the beach, which made it hard to hear. I just said yes, yes, yes, not knowing what I was saying yes to, and next thing you know I get a six-page contract from TLC’s Editor Charles Epstein with a note telling me how thrilled and honored he was that I agreed to contribute three - three! - posts for TLC’s special Super Bowl coverage. What kind of shit is this - and what exactly is the Loser Chronicles - was my first thought, as well as my second, third, and fourth.
Why would I want to do what I voluntarily walked away from two years ago? And why would I want to come back, even temporarily, for the Super Bowl? Everything about it is just over-the-top and offensive - the build-up, the hype, the media asking stupid questions: "If you were a vegetable what kind of vegetable would you be." (I'd be a fucking ear of corn, moron, how bout you?)…and those stupid Roman numerals like it’s some sword and sandals bullshit from a Cinecittà Studios backlot, but with commentary and commercials.
Please don’t get me started on those stupid-ass Roman numerals. Reminds me of Albert, my third husband, the living, breathing definition of pompous ass - so pompous he’d be the first one to provide you with the definition, its Latin root, and use it in a sentence with him as its subject. He was a sociology professor out of central casting - the tweed and leather elbow patches, the meerschaum pipe, the erudite quips with footnotes added for attribution and further reading. I mean, the fool would insert footnotes when ordering breakfast. One morning, we're staying at some fancy hotel during a three-day conference in Palo Alto. On the third day, we go down to the hotel restaurant for breakfast, the waitress comes to our table and asks for our order: "Loc sit," Albert wittily replies, meaning he'll have the same order as the morning before. Of course, she misheard and brought him a lox platter, which got a bad day off to a worse start.
So I’m looking at this six-page contract and thinking there’s a less than zero percent chance of me doing this, which means two days later I’m on the phone negotiating three posts down to one, provided I could write whatever I pleased, unfiltered, a car to and from the airport, a suite with a fully stocked mini-bar and baby grand piano in case I need to be entertained, an expense account and some walking around money. When they said yes, provided I accepted a Yamaha electric keyboard in place of the baby grand, I couldn’t say no.
So, let’s get to what you’re here for, and what I’m contractually obligated to do: make predictions. The first one’s free: I predict I’ll get hit on by at least eight drunken fools between now and the time this is posted on the TLC site. Vegas is a zoo on Easter Sunday, it’s total mayhem during Super Bowl week. The all-night parties, the hell-raising, the streets and hotels boiling with sexed-up boys and girls gone wild. People don’t even stop at traffic lights – to Super Bowl party animals, a red light is just a bloodshot green light…yellow is just a reminder that a urinal is in the vicinity. My first prediction is that it won’t be a ton ‘o fun, personally speaking. On top of which, my fourth husband Ralph had the unmitigated balls to call me last week from, you guessed it, Vegas. I hadn't heard from him in two months, we’d been separated for over six, and for all I care the lying bastard was about to get roughed up in an abandoned warehouse outside of town. So I pick up the phone, I hear his voice, he's sobbing, whimpering like a stray dog, apologizing for god knows what, and all I hear is the blood boiling in my ears.
Long story short – the asshole just won $350K at the tables, was feeling good about himself, and to work up the courage to order up a couple of hookers called me. WTF, right? Here's the deal: I met Ralph two years ago at a Super Bowl party. Tall, good-looking, over-confident, and slightly drunk – a carbon copy of husbands 1-3, I'll be the first to admit. Fast-forward he loses his job (money manager at a well-known brokerage house) and becomes poker-obsessed. First, it's every Wednesday at Fred's. Then it's Monday at Bill's and Friday night at Nunsio's. Then it's an overnighter in Vegas with Sal, Mickey and Stiv. Overnighters become long weekends which become week-long stays at the Bellagio. He's up, he's down, down, up, complete and utter madness.
It used to be I could tell he was lying – "Ralph, you lying sack of shit, I saw you take two hundred from my wallet." Two seconds later he's writing me a check – naturally, it bounces, I bust him for writing me a rubber check, and he presents me with an emerald necklace that two weeks later turns out to be his former wife's, I threaten to use it to strangle his pet cockatoo, he wins $2K at a cock fight, buys me a pair of mink panties, then parlays the rest into $10K his first night at Nunsio's, only I know it was actually $16K, which was ok because I lifted $3K from his billfold when I was going through his jacket pocket and found the number of a hooker he used to pass off as his second cousin "with the big tits." I've never in all my years been unable to tell when a man is lying. It's one of my special talents, along with shelling nuts and knitting mittens.
Ok, I know I’ve kept you waiting, and I’m not getting paid by the word, so without further ado, my predictions.
Pre-game arrests: Vegas strip clubs make your average strip club look like a meeting of den mothers in G-strings. There will be at least six arrests for public lewdness and gunplay…four Niners and two Chiefs will be charged and
released on their own recognizance in time for the game.Pre-game show: This will fast turn into a grisly multi-car
collision, with Phil Simms, Bill Cowher, Nate Burleson, Boomer Esiason and JJ Watt, Jonathan Jones, Ian Eagle, Charles Davis, Matt Ryan, Jason McCourty, and a procession of grinning idiots to be named later careening into each other. Someone will get seriously hurt amid all the forced horseplay - my money is on Boomer. Bonus prediction: In an inspired moment of complete madness, overweight in-studio host James “Please, Please, Please” Brown will attempt a split and need to finish the show on his back.Coin toss: The Niners will choose heads. The coin will come up tails.
First team to score: The Niners will kick a 42-yard field goal on their third possession.
The first time the camera pans to Taylor: late first quarter when Mahomes overthrows Trav on a slant pattern down the middle.
Total time
is shown on camera from the pre-game show to the post-game trophy celebration: 32 seconds.Percentage of 8-12-year-old girls who go to school on Monday sleep-deprived and unprepared to learn: 65%
Percentage of MAGA nation that wakes up sleep-deprived due to spending all night rage-tweeting: 100%.
First commercial to completely suck: Toss up between Popeyes and Hellman’s Mayonnaise. That’s a combined $14 million spent hawking bad cholesterol to an audience of 200 million couch-bound, artery-clogged Americans. Yuck.
First turnover: Two hours before kick-off one of the servers in the media suite will fumble a platter of cocktail franks…happens every time.
First injury: Niner QB Brock Purdy will get rung up, get to his feet and courageously call the next play from the middle of the Chiefs’ huddle before order is restored.
Point of the game that Jason Kelce removes his shirt: late first quarter.
Point of the game that he removes his pants: early second quarter.
Usher’s half-time show will be better than the Black Eyed Peas and Maroon 5, but not as good as watching Taylor in the executive suite mouthing the words to “You Make Me Wanna” while dodging a stark raving naked Jason Kelce.
There will be fewer TD's (5) than players who get STD's from time spent at the aforementioned strip clubs.
Final score: Who am I, Kreskin? Kidding. I’m predicting the Chiefs score II touchdowns in the IVth quarter and win by XIV. (Come back later this week when the above will be translated into Latin. A Roman Catholic prelate cleared of all charges will be online to assist you through some of the knottier passages.)
Bonus Prediction: I will meet husband five at the Anheuser Busch after-party, and live to regret it by the time pitchers and catchers report for spring training.
Victoria Gotch Handicaps Super Bowl LVIII and Kneecaps Husbands Two Through Four
Number 6 --- not 32 seconds but closer to 32 minutes -- I'm always pleased when you channel humor!
In honor of your subtitle, I bring you this 1 minute approval;
Two Goes Into Four - Kevin Ayers
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-yAyna1SxLM