Despite the many complaints of the minority community, Mr. Whitelock has not succumb to the better judgement of the masses. Many may have pejorative monikers for him, the majority of which I would be ill-advised to repeat--but has this changed him? Absolutely no chance, in fact, he has further rammed his Dumbo-esque hooves into the mud. If it weren't for Drew Brees and his lack of vertebrae, swaying back and forth like a balloon animal, I might be more inclined to shame him as the latest to double-cross the bare headed populace.
However, dirt on my face--because I should have let this be the last of my infatuation with the man in the Willy Wonka hats. He soon after crossed my trust and lost any semblance of pity I took upon him, for I was snubbed an autograph at an accidental encounter in Woonsocket, RI.
It was a casual night at Rocky's Oyster Tavern and I had ordered a Juicy Lucy with a side of corn chowder, as is customary. As the dainty lass emerged from the corridor doors holding my meal, I noticed her trudge past the hefty puddingfull Glad bag which is Whitlock. Imagine my shock, me? An aspiring blogger, chugging cold brew by the quart subdued with misery on a daily basis attempting to make a mark in an oversaturated industry, meeting a man who has truly made it? I mean, just wow.
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| "Cold Brew" |
I am not one to get starstruck, as a matter of fact, I received an autograph from Noah Munck (known by the masses as Gibby) back in 2013 at a church gathering on Christmas Eve and by the end we were chopping it up about the sweltering Mary Scheer. So as you can see, I know how to "play it cool", but with someone who could be looked at as a role model? I was shaken to be frank with you. I gallantly waited for his meal to reach conclusion, and as you may have presumed, the wait was hours. I sat, ass imprinted upon the booth as if I was a grandmother donning crochet needles at a local diner, eager to supply my family with form fitting fabrics.
After polishing off his 5th kielbasa and 3rd slice of key lime pie, following the all you can eat calamari and the large order of "Can't Believe It's Not Guac" containing smashed Boston Baked Beans with green food coloring and a diced variety of gummy bears, he waved me over as if I was an eager servant waiting upon his sexually deviant king.
I approached with the ferocity of a carnal schoolboy during the 3rd minute of "7 Minutes In Heaven", ready for my moment to shine, perhaps this was my foot in the door moment. I rounded the corner ready any possible greeting, be it dap or maybe even a hug--I mean hey, it's a small town and all, maybe he'll be glad to see a supporter.
He scampered towards the door, seemingly baiting me into a largely outnumbered alley brawl. How could a man so large be so fleet of foot? My mind was racing, what exactly is happening? Before I had a clue, he had vanished, not so unlike his contract with FOX.
Hours later, whilst dozing off into the off-colored grout lining the shower walls, I had the lightbulb moment of unbeknownst clarity. The remarks of many and denouncement of an entire demographic had seemingly resonated with me. My city, best known for the heavily fertilized Brussel Sprout farms and our Escape Room Libraries, will never hold habitat for this mice of a man.
Not once can he come across our gravel driveways and one lane roads, for as long as I hold service in this abyss of an existence. I've sworn off all cuisine resembling the gargantuan monstrosity which is his head and blocked him on Twitter. No longer will his havoc inducing, nor self loathing rhetoric come across my eyes or ears--be it virtually, edibly or tangibly.
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