Site Note: The following actions have been done by a professional and we here at Silver and Black Pride do not suggest you attempt try to duplicate any of the following...except maybe the emulation of Jim Morrison.

I have recently returned home after spending two weeks in Dallas, a city which I have concluded is the result of some town planners taking a visit to all the great cities of the world, visiting their worst parts only and throwing them together. If it wasn't for the heat (both the summer, which was preferable to our winter chill, and hot Mexican girls) I would probably have been wandering through the desert by now, dropping acid like Jim Morrison trying to communicate with a rattlesnake shaman and forgetting about that hellhole. Take the jump....

Anyway, while I was there I felt that I had to make a trip to Jerry Jones' Death Star. I did feel a little dirty doing so - but I didn't think I could go there without seeing the giant video screen. To give me cover, I took my cousin (a fellow brother in the Nation and a lifelong Dallas resident who's hatred for the Cowboys is near pathological, like a KC fan's hatred for deoderant or a Charger fan's hatred for a vagina not belonging to a whale) and we both smuggled in alcohol.

The stadium itself - I hate to admit this - is fucking amazing. But I don't really wanna talk much about it because it makes me feel jealous that the Arlington taxpayers were dumb enough to finance Jerry's penis extension while the Oakland taxpayers won't even consider it for big Al.

Anyway, to help with the jealousy I was swigging away at the bottle of Black Jack every time I could - by the time we were in the cheerleader's locker rooms (the one thing about the Cowboys I can stand, for obvious reasons) I was quite drunk. Then we went out on the field.

I had several options here as to what crazy thing I could do, but above all I really needed to take a piss. While I was standing in the end zone after catching an off-target pass from some other guy aimed at his mate. I really needed to go here.

You do the math.

Needless to say, I was escorted out very quickly and made clear that I was not welcome back and that I was lucky they would not press charges (not that that mattered, I was leaving the country that night anyway).

But now every time I watch a Cowboys game I will look at that end zone where I let rip and wonder to myself whether Tony Romo will ever get squashed into the turf for a safety at that spot.

One can hope.