Gronk’s Retirement Party

A lone shot of Fireball whiskey ceremoniously cascades down the ice sculpture of a real life version of Shrek, a hulking ogre of a man who hails from an Avatar universe built around all night ragers, all you can eat buffets (save some dessert pizza for the rest of us, guy) and high stakes games of pong in the garage whilst blasting the latest offering from Now That’s What I Call Music! because everything this football hooligan does is in the present moment. Rob Gronkowski, who has been called a walking Fathead poster by some and the record holder for most protein shakes pounded in forty five minutes in the parking lot of a Dave & Busters by others (seven pitchers and an Instagram story and a half later...), has announced his retirement from the NFL or the No Fun League, as he so gleefully dubbed it after the commish (think on it like Pivs in Old School as the Dean of Students who so desperately wants to be liked by the cool kids but with less shenanigans and the same amount of streaking in the quad...Gronk dropping trow and barreling through the imaginary line in the sunflower seed shells that divides the general ticket-purchasing public from their heroes and foes at a sporting event is like witnessing a solo goose migrating North for the Summer, separated from the flock but forever at one with his inner compass, buoyed by pretzel bites, a suspiciously bitter tasting cup of Seven Up and a furious set of triangle pushups to the tune of the 80s rock ballad of the day) laid down the pointy needle of the law by banning water balloons in postgame press conferences and most team functions on dry land.

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