There is a Super Bowl in Guatemala, you know soccer, or soccer-football, if you’re from the Barbara Walters’ generation. Barbara was listed as one of the dangerous people in America in one of those faux provocative works of non-fiction whose authors have the lung capacity to discuss their work with Chris Mathews. Before the Super Bowl thread is lost entirely, let’s examine Barbara’s danger quotient: she often seems to squint while posing a question. Viewers, in turn, squint with her. This is difficult for elderly viewers. Many nursing homes in the Tampa St. Pete area report old timers falling on the floor while Barb works her magic on a subject. That’s damned dangerous.
I remember winning a huge bet with my father, who truly was dangerous, on a Super Bowl game so destined for upset that even if Barbara had grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and whispered “why?” I’d have done it anyway. ( He’s your father, David. This is his home bar. Yet you come in…and bet him in front of all his friends…couldn’t you sense the humiliation? Are you squinting?
Making the bet was easy, Barb. Collecting was the issue. I had to go back to the Home Bar where the old man was surrounded by a squadron of non-union hod carriers. They were laughing at some slob who couldn’t decide between Schmidt’s and Genessee, two of the worst beers ever brewed. Schmidt’s on tap. This is like selling urine samples. My dad greeted me like a long lost friend. Where ya been? Whacha doin? Too bad about the Guatemala situation. He patted an empty stool. I never sat down on those things, Barb, not in the Home Bar. You sit down and twenty years goes by while everyone in your life moves away, grows up, fights crime, whatever. Always remain standing.
Instead of collecting two hundred bucks, I got out of there with eleven beer soaked singles and a brief history of Guatemalan football. You never said which Super Bowl…the old man produced a guy reputed to be an actual Guatamalan to back up the story. It’s Super Bowl weekend, Barb. Somewhere.