Mr. Whistles.

I have realized today that you can't truly love something unless you hate a sliver of it, and for the sake of your love overlook that sliver. My love is football, my sliver is football fans. I attended Boise State's utter drubbing of Utah State today, and I had to endure the fan sitting behind me doing his high-pitched whistle into my ear every other second of the game. It seemed that this overly excited fellow found it necessary to show his support for even the smallest of victories by the home team. If a player managed to replace his shoe after losing it on the play, Mr. Whistles decided to give mad props and cheer the player's remarkable field vision for locating the missing shoe as well as an astounding dexterity by replacing the shoe with only one hand. I was tempted to let the Holy Spirit act through me and turn around and lay hands on the man, but I decided against it. I decided that perhaps Mr. Whistles' life sucked, and football was only thing worth living for. Maybe Mr. Whistles' gregarious exterior shown at tailgate parties was just a facade hiding his inner turmoil as middle life slowly destroyed what little soul was left from his youth. Maybe Mr. Whistles attends football games religiously because he has in fact lost God, or worse, God has looked upon Mr. Whistles and said "I forsake you." Perhaps football is the small thread keeping Mr. Whistles attached to sanity and Mr. Whistles, being who he is, can spin and twirl at the end of sanity like a small spider whistling his ass off at the smallest of occurrences on the football field because were he not to whistle he would no longer be named Mr. Whistles, and if he knew not who he was then the thread would break and he would tumble in the abyss.

Or perhaps Mr. Whistles is a jackass used car salesman who can't get it up and still thinks gold medallions are fashionable.