In case you didn’t think to look directly this post for Part I, it’s right here. And now, Ramon continues with his outrageous adventure.

It’s cold. Madison is behind me, as is another $3 Rockstar (cherry, with the ginseng, guarana, vitamins and more). It’s dark, an evil dark, and in the middle of Illinois the ghostly voices of Jeff Joniak and Tom Thayer crackle through the FM. (RandBallers, I never thought I’d say be thankful for Paul Allen). My bladder’s full. I’m rooting for the Packers. I’ve gone insane.

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Imagine there’s no heaven/It’s easy if you try/No hell below us/Above us only sky

- “Imagine” by John Lennon

Honda Elements are terrible in the wind and I’m driving exhausted through central Illinois rooting for the [redacted] Green Bay Packers. Joniak and Thayer are trying to kill me. Not only are they clueless and have no idea what’s going on on the field, they’re also the sleepiest radio team I’ve heard. I could put a Low CD in and be more awake. Not only that, but they — Joniak and Thayer — are more depressing. I’m not one for the homers we have on KFAN, but these guys actually sound like they hate the Bears. At the half all they could talk about was how the Bears didn’t deserve to be in the game.

Then Thayer says “Let’s send it down to Jay Hilgenberg on the sidelines. I raise my Rockstar and shed a tear for uncle Wally.

In a town called Effingham (no, really) I sat in the Hilton parking lot. The signal was weak, but not as weak as that Packer kicker, Morgan LeFay. Joniak says something about Vikings fans on the edge of their seats and I remember LeFay losing the game for the Pack against the Vikes. I know it’s a setup. Thayer basically said so. He and Joniak almost sound disappointed when the kick is blocked. I know what’s going on here. I know what Goodell is up to. I don’t wait around for overtime and check into my room.

**********

Wake up to 1/2 inch sheets of ice covering the car and road. Drive 30 mph for four hours past jackknifed semis and tarp-covered bodies. I’m sad. Visions of Kyle Orton throwing TD passes in Tampa. Finally, Tennessee. The ice turns to rain, and for 60 miles I’m stuck behind a semitrailer with 20-foot high images of LenDale White and Kerry Collins smiling at me. My corneas are burning. Titans uniforms are the leisure suits of the NFL. The radio crackles. Kerry Collins’ lips are moving. Tim McGraw’s drawl changes. It’s Collins. “That’s right Mr. Minnesota license plate! 41 points… 5 TD passes… so easy… so easy… and here I am. And you can’t get around me… because Honda Elements are terrible in the wind…. Bwaahhhaaa….”

I have to pull over. I’m shaking. And I’m not even half there.

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