One of the many Raiders female fans getting high on football.

Perched on a beer cooler, Gloria shares enough of her life story that in a matter of minutes I'm ready to watch a TV show about her. She's 64 years old, a widow of two years, and she insists that her late husband and father, who never got to meet in life, hang out together in heaven on Sundays watching the Raiders game and "throwing shit down" from the clouds when someone fumbles or commits a bonehead mistake. She was born with fantastic hair. Her dad and her godfather started taking her to Raiders games when she was 12, and she'd drive them home whenever they "got too much Hennessy in them," propped up on pillows so she could see over the steering wheel. Once, she knocked down a belligerent Broncos fan because the woman pointed a finger at her. She says "finger" as if it's obvious how offensive it was. After she shoved the lady, she ran away. Sometimes, when she's at home during the week and feeling sad, she'll put on one of the dozen or so Raiders games she has recorded, just to feel an "oomph."

Maybe it's the "phone call" working its magic, but I feel a sudden sweep of jealousy. Not of her thirsty knuckles or her grabby hands, but of the fact that Gloria loves her team so much she can use a TiVo'd football game to self-medicate, whereas it takes me two glasses of wine and a Xanax to feel the same aforementioned oomph.

During a break in Gloria's monologue, Cindy walks by, and Gloria grabs a handful of her skirt, lifts it up, takes a peek underneath, and then announces to no one in particular, "I just had to check, okay?!"

Moments later, Cindy swings through again, this time with a blond twentysomething in tow. He wants a picture with both of them. "Me?" Gloria double-checks, seeming vaguely flattered. "He wants me in it?" Yes, it's affirmed, he does. The three pose in front of an old pickup truck, kid in the middle. Just before the picture's taken, Gloria reaches over and pats the kid's crotch. "Oh, my God, look at you!" she gushes, like he's a nephew she hasn't seen in ages. An electrical fire breaks out under his cheeks. "You're hard!" Then more loudly to everyone: "He's hard!"

The women laugh. The men look horrified.

There's something about Gloria's lampoonish raunchiness that reminds me of an animal defense mechanism called Batesian mimicry. To describe it crudely, it's when the prey tries to out-crazy the predator to get it to back off. It comes to mind because, at times, Gloria behaves as if she has something to prove here, as though she's calculating in her head: If I'm the grossest guy of the bunch, I won't be a target.