More recently, we have a choice weekend log from Kluwe's diary, which chornicles a weekend as an NFL punter. Calling this Gold would be an understatement.
Saturday (travel day) 8 a.m.: Special teams meeting. Give every indication of alertness while silently thinking of ways to successfully invade Russia in winter. Nod vaguely and grunt if name is called.
12:45 p.m.: TSA patdown/groping/arranged marriage. Emerge disheveled, but unscathed. Collect books and dignity, head to bus.
1:30: Board plane. Promise not to eat king size bag of peanut M&Ms because it’ll only cause nausea. Drink a Gatorade.
1:35: Eat king size bag of peanut M&Ms.
4:35: Check into room, browse available adult movie selection to learn what current city views as acceptable morals. Mentally time when each wave of players reaches their rooms as selection decreases. Drink a Gatorade.
9:15: Team snack. Wonder briefly at how a five course buffet line with complete roast suckling pig can be considered a “snack.” Fill bowl with chocolate ice cream and hot fudge until spillage seems certain. Return to room to gorge upon saturated fats.
9:30: Pass out in ice cream induced torpor. Dream of diabetic sheep.
Sunday (Game Day) 10 a.m.: Walk around field. Greet old acquaintances, mutually complain about special teams coaches. Wave and smile at special teams coaches. Warm up.
10:45: Begin pregame kicking. Berate self constantly for any imperfect kick. Assure special teams coach that ‘frothing seizure’ is not on the game plan.
11:00: Watch rest of team warm up. Continue to refine Russian invasion plans.
Noon: Game starts. Immediately begin counting down time until game ends. Glance wistfully at hotdog vendors. Punt occasionally.
[H/T, S/G: Guyism]