It’s official- your do-it-yourself cheese-head had is an unqualified disaster.
The design seemed simple enough: grab some foam rubber, cut it into a wedge, then cut holes in it. Easy!
You forgot, however, that you have no crafting skills. So you’ve ended up with an amorphous beige blob on your head, and now you’re sweating bullets as you enter Lambeau Field.
Your first blow comes as the lady scanning tickets eyes you up and down, stares at your head for what seems like an eternity, and finally busts out laughing. That laugh wasn’t designed to make you feel good. The pointing didn’t help either.
A man standing next to you in line at the snack bar asks if your mother made your hat for you. You excitedly tell him that no, in fact, you made it yourself! You also inform him that your mother has been dead for twelve years, but it’s okay because there’s no way he could have known. The man pinches his nose while he shakes his head – maybe he had a brain freeze, poor guy.
Finally, things reach a breaking point in the stands when the guy sitting behind you grabs your custom hat off your head and asks you “What the fuck is this shit?” before busting out in a deep, drunken chuckle.
“That’s my hat! Give it back!” you shout at the rude hat-stealer man. You try to swipe your hat back from him, but he lifts it above his head, just slightly out of your reach. You jump to grab it and he lifts it higher.
Now the other people surrounding you are laughing. You make a desperate dive for your hat, and the hat-stealer throws it to a woman in the row in front of you. “Keep away!” she shouts.
You run and claw desperately between half a dozen people in the stands all playing keep-away with your hat. You were not told this game was going to happen and you are slightly upset by it. The entire west section is shouting “KEEP AWAY!” in rhythmic unison. The camera on the Jumbo-Tron is following you back and forth as you try to retrieve your hat.
Eventually, you give up. You sit down in your seat and cry. The Jumbo-Tron operator hits the wrong button and switches to the Kiss Cam. Not one to scoff in the face of tradition, you lean in to the ten-year-old boy to your right with pursed lips. His father punches you before you make contact.
The police are called and you are arrested for attempted carnal knowledge of a juvenile.
In prison, you are given job training on fabric work and sewing. Next time, you’ll make the best gosh darn cheese-head hat those jerks have ever seen.