The room is slathered in a patina of garish mauve, the walls are seeping. A lava lamp glows upon the dresser.
"Have a seat," says Ben Roethlisberger.
"I've never been here," I respond. Ben roots around in his burlap NFL-issue Steelers satchel; I hear rustling, crinkling.
"Yo Ben." A voice from outside. "The cops are here man and-"
"SHHHHHH." Ben's intonation is soft, yet fills the room and the inside of my frontal lobe. Finally he has the desired item.
"Try them." He has me by the throat.
"No thanks I'm not a fan of cool ranch-MMMPHHHH"
"DON'T YA LIKE DORITOS BOY HEH HEH HEH"
I catch a glimpse of the big game on the hotel TV. The Packers punt and Will.I.Am signals for a fair catch. From my perch in the broadcasters' booth I see Jerry Jones throwing a flag. Then he picks it up, then sits down on the field Indian-style. He seems confused. It is snowing.
Chris Berman and the PC from the Mac commercials are talking to the Cowboys cheerleaders on the sidelines about how Paul Westerberg just died. A thousand puppies roll Betty White down a jagged cliff for a bottle of Miller Lite.
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