There was the personal port-a-potty at our neighbor’s tailgate, a Portis Miami throwback and even a jacket listing every win over Dallas. I saw a Skins fan take an Eagles fan to the bathroom floor and later told a filly from Philly that she has “a mouth like a toilet.” But nothing captures the essence of Mr. Irrelevant at a Skins game like meeting a perfect stranger in our best-selling t-shirt who’s willing to pose with another man’s truck nuts:
That’s Pulitzer Prize-level shit right there, shit that can only be matched by the glory that is a Redskins band celebration in the end zone bar:
“Awww, D.C.” indeed.