JERK OF THE WEEK: Jerks at My Sister's Wedding - Part 1
I never thought I would be angry upon learning that my sister would be getting married, but that was the case last Thanksgiving when she and her fiance, Rich, made the announcement.
Sister: We're getting married!
Me: That's awesome!
Sister: We're having the wedding on Oct. 25.
Me: That's coo... wait, what day is that?
Sister: It's a Sunday.
Me: ... A FOOTBALL SUNDAY!??! I'M NOT GOING!!!
I was pissed. I normally don't show my emotions at all, but this angered me. I run this Web site for a living and employ half-a-dozen full-time employees, so missing such an important day on the calendar - every football Sunday, the NFL Combine, the start of free agency, the NFL Draft - would be catastrophic.
Despite my anger, no one did anything about it. The specific date was chosen because my sister wanted her reception to be at this specific restaurant, which could only book her on that day, for some reason. Making matters worse, A) I was asked to be in the wedding, so I'd have to be there all day for pictures and such, and B) There happened to be a 9:30 a.m. London game that particular Sunday. It's as if Roger Goodell learned of my misfortune and plotted against me. I could see him sitting in his fortress, tapping his fingers together and hissing, "You have made fun of me for far too long, WalteFootball, so it is time I have my revenge, tee-hee-hee-hee."
I was furious and nervous for months, wondering how I would possibly both go to the wedding and do my job. I work about 80 hours per week during the season, so falling behind so much would be crushing. I eventually came to the realization that I wouldn't be sleeping at all the week after my sister's wedding. Maybe I'd be able to take an hour nap, here and there, but I wouldn't have enough time to actually go to bed. I already pondered buying an entire case of five-hour energy and alerting ambulances to be on standby for my inevitable heart attack.
Fortunately, I have some great employees. Without even informing me that he would do so, Charlie Campbell communicated with Chet Gresham and Pat Yasinskas, and they all agreed to cover all of the games on Sunday. That was awesome, as it would shave off close to eight hours of my work week.
"That's awesome, I might actually sleep a little bit that week!" I told Charlie after thanking him.
While this helped me a ton, it was still going to be a very hectic week. I'd still have to watch all of the games after the wedding, since I'd need to know what happened so I could do my NFL Power Rankings, post my crappy NFL Picks and compile my Weekly Fantasy Football Rankings, which have been surprisingly good this year. In other words, while I would actually be able to go to bed that week, thanks to Charlie, Chet and Pat, it would still be a crazy schedule.
I'm typing this the Friday after the wedding, and I'm beat. I'm only a bit behind my work now, but I feel exhausted. I was only able to take a 2-hour nap Sunday night, and I've slept an average of about five hours the other nights. I'm no longer hallucinating, though, which is a good sign. I thought I saw a purple blob outside my house Tuesday (seriously), and I could have sworn my black laptop turned red late Wednesday night. It has since reverted to black - African American? - so I may have just imagined that. Or, the guy at Best Buy neglected to tell me that my new laptop is a chameleon. I suppose that's a possibility, and if so, I'm beginning to feel worried about the blob.
At any rate, my mom knew that I was completely frustrated with this situation, so she offered a consolation: "You'll be able to write about the wedding at least," she said.
That apparently is the case, as this is what I'm doing now - unless, of course, this is another hallucination.
As if dealing with this ridiculous schedule wasn't enough, I couldn't even go to bed early the night before because I was required to attend the rehearsal dinner. It was at some place called the Mansion.
Girlfriend: What do you plan on wearing to the dinner?
Me: I dunno, a button-down shirt and jeans?
Girlfriend: You can't wear that.
Me: Why not?
Girlfriend: It's at a place called the Mansion. You can't wear jeans to a mansion.
Me: Why not? I don't dress up like a mariner when I go to Red Lobster.
I called my mom to make sure, and my girlfriend was right - dress pants were required. Fortunately, I didn't have to put on a tie, which was a relief, since I'd be forced to wear one the following day. I absolutely hate ties. They're ugly, they're uncomfortable, and they're impossible to put on. I've never been able to do it, and please don't say, "Walt, just look at a YouTube video and learn how to do it." That never works. I must've watched five YouTube videos on how to tie a tie, and none of them have worked for me. I'm super terrible when it comes to doing things with my hands, so I don't think I'll ever learn.
At any rate, we arrived just before they were about to show a video of how my sister and Rich met. I had a few moments to scoop pieces of cheese and celery (with Ranch dressing, of course) onto a plate, but both my girlfriend and mom didn't think this was a good idea.
Mom: Walt, it's about to start! Come on!
Me: Hold on. Need more cheese and celery with Ranch dressing.
Girlfriend: Come on! We're going to be late! Put the food down, and let's go!
Me: Hold on, just a few more pieces. Wait, is there meat here?
Unfortunately, there wasn't, so I was stuck with just cheese and Ranch dressing. As the video was playing, I began eating. My girlfriend kicked me and told me to stop because it was rude. I thought it'd be ruder to just leave the cheese and Ranch dressing on a plate unattended, so I continued to shove food into my mouth.
Afterward, they announced that they were calling up tables to get food. I love when they do this because I get in line right away, even if my table isn't announced. I've found that this is a good strategy. First of all, it's essential, since there's always a risk of the best food being unavailable when your table is finally called. Second, there's no downside to it. What are they going to do, turn you away? Definitely not. Worst-case, if they are dicks and don't allow you to get food, you can just say that you misheard, but from my experience, it works like a charm every time. I recommend that all of you start doing this as well rather than conform to archaic, table-calling policies.
Once I scarfed down all of the delicious food - I piled turkey, pasta and potatoes onto my plate and grabbed more pieces of cheese - I said hello to everyone. Something that annoyed me was that every single person said "congratulations" to me. This confused me at first, and I seriously replied, "For what?" the first time someone said this.
I really don't understand. Congratulations for what? They can say congrats to my sister, obviously, but what did I do? I personally didn't accomplish anything worth congratulating, so why say this to me? I eventually began messing with people and replying, "Oh, thank you, I worked so hard for this day, and I finally managed to get the job done," but they just gave me odd looks and walked away.
I need to mention my cousin Megan as well, but not because she said congratulations to me. Megan showed me something interesting on her phone - results from an NFL picking contest that she had from work. Megan, apparently, is 64-50 against the spread this year. If you're not familiar with NFL handicapping, that's outstanding. Most professional bettors hit at a 57-percent clip, which is considered the gold standard, so she was just a shade off. I've been so miserable with my picks this year that I can't even get to 50 percent, which just seems absurd because flipping a coin would net better results. It's been so horrible that I can't even fathom what a winning week would feel like at this point (Edit: I wrote that on Friday, but I just had a winning week, though I'm not sure if it really happened.)
I just had to ask her, "How are you doing this?" Her response:
"I don't know any of the players except for like Tom Brady, but I think like this: For example, Oakland is playing San Diego. People in Oakland sound like they're tough, so they should be able to beat San Diego."
Wow. I was flabbergasted. I watch every game, study all of the metrics and matchups, pay Killersports $300 per year to house various trends, have access to information on where the money is going, have numerous sources within the league, and yet I'm worse than both flipping and coins and guessing how teams will do based on the perception of the cities they play for. And yet people were saying congratulations to me? It'd be more appropriate to approach me and say, "You're f***ing terrible, Walt!"
I sat back down and got to talking to the guy sitting across from me. He wanted to chat with me because he's a former NFL agent who happened to be familiar with my Web site. He complimented the site and told me that he could give me a list of National Scouting's prospect rankings, which NFL teams only have access to, for the most part. He let me look at one of the pages on the list and said that he'd be more than happy to forward the attachment over my way.
Pretty cool, right? Well, I got a Facebook message from him, saying, "Hey, did you want that National Scouting list? I can send it your way in exchange for $2,000."
WHAT!? Two grand!? I thought he was going to send it over for free!
I texted Charlie about this, wondering if I was underestimating the value of these rankings. Charlie laughed, saying that the list was probably outdated and definitely not even worth close to the money he was asking for. Charlie then said that if we needed them, he could probably get updated National Scouting rankings from one of his team sources.
I still can't believe that he asked two grand for that. It literally would take him no effort to forward it to me. Seriously, all he'd have to do is tap his phone screen a couple of times; it's not like he's going out of his way to help me. My sister just married someone he's closely related to, so we're basically like family now. How can you rip family off like that? I'm highly insulted. Like, if he would've asked for a link to his family business on the site, or perhaps some advice on FanDuel, that would've been perfectly acceptable. But two grand? Wow. Leave it to an agent to try and make a quick buck.
Believe it or not, I was yelled at/chastised for being late by five separate people, all of whom were in the wedding party. While I am chronically late, it was not my fault at all.
I told everyone that I'd meet them for pictures at 1:30. This was the earliest I could possibly do this because A) Buffalo and Jacksonville were playing in that aforementioned London contest, and B) I needed to make sure that everything was properly recording for the games. If the DVR didn't record properly - and sometimes it screws up - I'd be totally f***ed up the a**hole (not that there's anything wrong with that), since I wouldn't be able to watch any of the games. As it turns out, the DVR did, in fact, screw up, so I had to press record again.
Despite this, I was still making good time. The picture location was about 20 minutes away, and I left my house at 1:05. As I was getting into my car, I received a text from my girlfriend, who told me that I needed to go to my parents' house beforehand for some reason. The picture location was sort of on the way, so no big deal.
I rang the doorbell and instantly got mauled by the three dogs at my parents' house. My suit was now all covered in dog hair. I didn't even think I'd have to go inside; I figured I'd just ring the doorbell, and we'd be on our way, but my mom told me to let the dogs out to pee instead.
"Your dad's not ready," she said. "He's still putting on his suit and going to the bathroom."
At the same time? In that order? I never asked, but did as I was told anyhow. Two of the dogs tinkled, but of course, the stubborn Akita didn't.
"You'll just have to pee in the house!" my mom yelled at her. Eventually, my dad came downstairs, and we were on our way - but we were pretty late. I received plenty of calls and texts while on the way, and when we finally arrived at the picture place close to 2 p.m., I received the stink eye from everyone, and no one wanted to talk to me. I was officially the late a**hole with dog fur all over his suit, yet none of that was my fault.
The guy filming everything was my cousin. However, the older man snapping pictures of us was some short dude I've never met before. By the end of the afternoon, I wanted to strangle him.
I'm not exaggerating when I say this, but this guy told me to "put your chin down" 50 times during the photoshoot. Fifty damn times. I didn't even know what he meant, either. My chin wasn't up. I wasn't staring up at the sky. My chin was parallel to the ground. If I put my chin down any farther, I would've been looking at the ground.
Here's an example of what it sounded like:
Cameraman: Walter, put your chin down.
Cameraman: More down.
Cameraman: Chin still up.
Me: No it's not.
Cameraman: Put your chin down. Down, down, down.
Me: Ugh. It's down!
Cameraman: More down, Walter. More down.
Me: F*** YOU, A**HOLE!!!
OK, out of respect for the event, I didn't curse at him, but I definitely had a strong urge to.
This wasn't the only thing the cameraman instructed me to do.
Cameraman: Walter, move your foot to the left.
Cameraman: The other left. My left.
Cameraman: No, now the other way. Too much left.
Cameraman: Still too much left.
Me: All right...
Cameraman: Now, not enough left.
Me: Ugh. OK.
Cameraman: Still not right. Make it look like an "L."
Cameraman: Doesn't look like an "L," Walter.
Cameraman: Other "L."
Me: Other "L?"
Cameraman: Yes, foot other way.
I had enough. I wanted to strangle this dude and storm off - and I probably would have done so if everyone already wasn't mad at me.
Anyway, I was about to discuss the actual wedding, but I just checked and saw that I've crossed the 2,500-word threshold already. Holy balls! I guess I'll have to cut this into two parts and discuss the wedding ceremony and reception next week, since I have lots more to say.
Check back next week for that. If you don't see an article posted, however, please alert the authorities because there's a good chance a purple blob would have eaten me.