Real Fake People: Al Davis

GREETINGS.

Unmanned fireworks.

As some of you are undoubtedly already aware, I celebrated my 80th human birthday on July 4. In keeping with tradition, towns and municipalities sent up unmanned “fireworks” to mark the occasion. There was a time when I considered such displays important, even necessary, and I would lose my temper with those who did not comply, as I did in 1939 when I vaporized the entire state of East Dakota. Such displays are few and far between these days, prompting speculation about whether I’d broken my ray gun or been forced out as secret head of the FBI. (Neither of these claims is accurate: I was not fired as FBI shadow director; rather, I resigned in protest in 1974 after Richard Nixon fired Special Prosecutor Archibald Cox. And while the ray gun is indeed broken, I dropped it in the pool, not a steaming vat of gravy, as was reported in the June 1993 issue of Vanity Fair.)  Truth be told, my newfound restraint comes from a desire to honor the 56 signers of the Declaration of Independence.

Now at this point you’re probably asking, “But Al, I thought you fought alongside the Redcoats in the Revolutionary War?” This is true; I’m not going to deny it. I think it all stemmed from the fact I didn’t drink tea, which meant the exorbitant taxes didn’t really affect me. Also, King George III offered to build me a stadium in Hollywood Park as soon as somebody discovered California. Yet it was impossible not to be taken with the revolution: It’s a matter of public record that I appropriated George Washington’s “Just win, baby” quote as my own, but did you know I thwarted a Timecop sent to destroy Johnny Tremain?

Such is my affection for the American colonists that I recently traveled back in time to sell them plutonium. I was motivated partly by selfish concerns — Javon Walker’s roster bonus was due and I was short on furs and spices with which to pay him. I would have just called the North Koreans, except Roger Goodell just added a provision to the personal conduct policy banning trade with rogue states.

Lane Kiffin.

Then I remembered the time machine sitting in the garage: I had it commissioned a few months ago to stop Lane Kiffin’s parents from meeting, but surely it could help facilitate the process of interdimensional arms dealing. I had to take that chance. Not just for me, but for the Raiders. This was the only way we were going to be able to give Charles Rogers a five-year deal.

As it turns out, nobody was interested in my plutonium. They did like my Raiders jumpsuit, but I turned down all offers, directing them instead to the NFL Shop Web site. I’m not made of jumpsuits, you know? Ben Franklin actually came close to buying. He got really excited when I told him that plutonium helps to cure gout (which is true), but insisted on paying me with a box of spectacles. That was a deal breaker for me. I mean, I can’t pay my team in vintage eyewear — who do I look like, Mike Brown? I explained this to Franklin, who said he understood, even though he didn’t know this Corey Dillon person I kept mentioning.

Crestfallen but wiser, I arrived back in the present and returned the plutonium to the trainer’s room.

Follow me on Twitter: http://twitter.com/VeryFakeAlDavis

Comments

Add a Comment