The Unauthorized Biography of Travis Kelce

I tried to ignore the delivery notification of the screaming, buzzing, hovering drone that had just arrived at my home. It was only eight in the morning. Damned drones weren’t allowed in my neighborhood before ten in the morning. I wasn’t expecting a delivery of any kind.

I imagined that the doorbell camera would show it extending a pointy metal finger with knuckles like a man and actually pressing the doorbell repeatedly as if it was suffering from some type of mental illness as opposed to a mood disorder. I didn’t know if machines could be programmed to exhibit the signs and symptoms of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Well, apparently, I might be just as ignorant about everything as I was often told behind my back! And, the bloody camera was broken anyway, so the point was moot.

As usual, I had fallen asleep on the couch fully clothed. My hair was tightly bound in a silk scarf, and I didn’t care if I had drool stains on my face and clothes because I hated these freaking drones!

When I opened the door, it pulled back a few paces and extended its horrible metal imitation of humanity arms and pushed the brown paper covered box toward me. I snatched it, slammed the door behind me and dropped the package on the floor behind the door where I left all my mail until I cleaned house because it and anything in that stupid box was going straight into the trash because I never recycle anything because I want to destroy the planet Earth itself! Just call me Pinky, not the brain!

Before I could even drag myself back to the sofa where I now practically lived because it was winter, and I was too lazy to take my new electric radiators out of the boxes to properly heat each room in a house that lacked proper insulation with my dad as the landlord, and because I didn’t pay rent or utilities, he didn’t feel obligated to keep the house up, and my two fat cats just found that damned box and started scratching it, ripping the paper and the cardboard like the box was filled with that damned “crack for cats”, catnip, I suddenly had to go back one half step and pick it up as opposed to throwing my slippers at the cats because I was barefoot and as such unarmed and ill-prepared for a ludicrous battle that I was destined to lose anyway.

I picked up the box and tried to read the label, but I was practically blind with or without reading glasses, and some retarded genius who had broken into my home had stolen all of my prescription glasses new and old as if they were worth something to anyone other than me. I was pretty sure that the street value for such gems was probably less than zero. I guess in dollars and cents as opposed to sense the sum might actually round up to zero in terms of dinero anyway!

Since the cats had done such an excellent job of destroying the box, and I was still too lazy to even open the sliding glass door and aim the box and its contents in the direction of the trash and again not in the direction of the recycle bin, which might destroy my reputation of not caring about the environment and humanity itself, I opened what was left of the box and the contents, dozens upon dozens of photos both black and white and color, printed and Polaroid, spilled upon the floor. And, since there was already a bunch of trash on the floor because my charitable act of destroying the environment had to begin at home, I was going to leave the photos on the floor where they belonged until I realized that all of the photos seemed to be singular in subject: a white guy in athletic apparel at a stadium. This piqued my curiosity because I was an equal opportunity hater. I hate all people equally regardless of race, creed or color. Just in case these photos might be important, I picked up a few. Lo and behold, someone had sent me dozens and dozens of photos of star Kansas City Chiefs Tight End Travis Michael Kelce. There were even trading cards. Then I realized that some of these photos were aerial shots. Some freaking psycho was stalking him! Wow!

I kicked some trash out of my way to reach the kitchen junk drawer where I might if I was hopefully unlucky not find a pair of reading glasses, but “No Murphy’s Law” today. Eureka, I found them, and was unfortunately able to read the label. The box was addressed to my neighbor Devon Price. I knew that he was a registered sex offender, but I didn’t know that he was into men. I didn’t care about him or Kelce. I was more of a Patrick Mahomes fan. I even had two Mahomes #15 jerseys in my closet. So, I turned on my gas stove and burned the address label and threw it in the sink. I then sorted through the stuff that had fallen on the floor and picked out all of the trading cards and put them with my other trading cards from various sports because those might actually be of value because Kelce was talented.

The photos, even though they indicated that that talented baller might be in eminent if not clear and present danger were destined for the trash because I hadn’t paid my phone bill, and I didn’t have service. Also, this was obviously an out-of-state issue. Mr. Kelce would need help from the FBI. I also hadn’t paid my Internet bill because I was studying to become a hermit in the middle of suburbia. Finally, who else was I going to tell about this problem, the intended recipient, a registered sex offender or the anonymous sender: there was no return address.

I scored with trading cards. Thus, an annoyance for me had actually turned into a productive experience. And, Kelce is a big dude. He could easily defend himself from that anonymous stalker or if he couldn’t, then that stalker might hit a home run and score a touchdown. A win-win for him, but maybe not Travis Michael Kelce, after all.

The End