Image edited by Brett Gering
The Kansas City Chiefs are demigods, football is a religion and Arrowhead Stadium is the athletic mecca of the City of Fountains.
In Kansas City, it's that simple.
Arrowhead houses roughly 80,000 loyalists and plays host to countless traditions.
However, Kansas City hasn't notched a playoff victory since 1993—cynicism is etched in the DNA of Chiefs fans.
If you cap off your weekend draped in red, the following checklist details your typical Sunday.
The fans pictured in the accompanying photo are rapper—and Kansas City native—Tech N9ne, and what can only be assumed is a fossilized pirate disguising a middle-aged IT consultant.
There are two possible explanations for the image: It was snapped during pregame, or sunlight blinded the Oakland Raiders fan's good eye and disoriented him long enough for Tech to troll him.
"Raiders Week" tends to skew perspective and unearth the worst in humanity. Opinions are crystallized, venom is spewed and pictures are Photoshopped.
When Monday morning rolls around, both fanbases drum Twitter's "delete" button and stow skeletons back into their respective closets—figuratively for some; literally for others.
If there's ever an apocalypse that happens to fall on a Sunday, 79,451 survivors will inhabit the earth.
The invention of the time machine will be rooted in an overnight thunderstorm resetting the alarm of a Kansas Citian.
Within neighborhoods straddling the Kansas and Missouri border, missing the Sunday kickoff has proven to be nothing less than a one-way road to a sweaty-palmed panic attack.
Employees forge doctor's notes, college funds mount plasma TVs and nuns take vacation days to practice their second religion: Chiefs football.
Entering the season with Matt Cassel as your team's quarterback is like pulling up to a blind date in a Smart car: Technically, you could get lucky and score points; realistically, you'll be sulking in regret within three hours.
By all accounts, the ex-Chiefs passer is an exemplary citizen, but he often heaved prayerful passes that regressed to drunken ducks.
Due to his lucrative contract, the Arrowhead faithful were handcuffed to mediocrity for four grueling seasons, which resulted in many a Kansas City toddler echoing first words comprised of four letters.
As the national anthem reverberates within Arrowhead's walls, everybody who's anybody anticipates 79,000-plus people screaming, "...and the home of the Chiefs!"
It's a proprietary war cry that reminds opposing players to pop two aspirin when the clock strikes zero.
However, if "The Star-Spangled Banner" is playing, and you're going through the motions while on medication, pumping your fist and blurting out "Chiefs!" probably won't yield the same response at your daughter's graduation.
In the 80s and early 90s, the only things louder than Arrowhead's fans were their wardrobes.
To be fair, attires were overdosing on color across the nation—not just Kansas City.
During the aforementioned era, every TV show that bled into America's pop culture looked like it was sponsored by Fruity Pebbles: from Saved by the Bell's intro to the Fresh Prince pulling up to the house about seven or eight.
Unfortunately, Zubaz pants (see war-torn Chargers impostor) found a niche with season-ticket holders. Even more unfortunately, the Chiefs haven't logged a playoff win since Zubaz pants were acceptable by the seeing public. By default, they evoke memories of the "glory years" and therefor withstood the test of time for a select group of fans.
There's no doubt that at least one divorcee has served revenge by donating their ex-spouse's Zubaz pants to the Salvation Army (and the victim has never been able to love again).
The Chiefs have posted a 29-67 record over the past six seasons.
Year after torturous year, coincidences gradually mature into routines.
By Week 8, you're staring at your Facebook news feed, conjuring up excuses as to why you're being dragged out of town and forced to sell your Chiefs tickets.
By Week 10, you've posted too many expletive-laced Sunday statuses to throw the scent off your trail of lies.
A browser opens, the address bar is clicked and before the "S" key springs back up to its resting state, the computer scours through your browsing history and flashes the sell.stubhub.com URL.
As a Chiefs fan, it's the internet's way of offering a helping hand, then backhanding you with it.
Nationally, Arrowhead is fused with three trademarks: a sea of red, a deafening college-like atmosphere and barbecue.
The parking lot is littered with amateur chefs who disperse a collective aroma strong enough to bounce a dietitian from Fear Factor.
Grilling graduates from a hobby to a science. So much so, if an argument erupts within a circle of friends, the grill's lighter fluid can pull double duty and add fuel to that fire as well.
Nonbeliever? Utter the words, "These ribs could use some more flavor" in the parking lot and witness time freeze, eyes balloon and ears perk up like Scooby Doo in an abandoned psych ward.
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