Lileks: Time capsule should be gluten-free

I suppose I could kvetch about the NFL asking for another tax exemption — this time on tickets for events related to the 2018 Super Bowl — but one gets tired of complaining all the time, and looks around for upbeat sports stories. So naturally you turn to the St. Paul Saints. The scrappy, modest, beloved Saints! They're putting a time capsule in the new stadium.

The contents are ingenious: There's a Twinkie, and no I will not make the obvious joke about it being spongy and moist when the capsule's opened in 2065. A bobblehead, which future people will think celebrated Excess Caffeine Consumption Day. A home plate blessed by the presence of a famous player. Maybe they basted it with a couple cups of chaw juice for that real baseball flavor.

There's a time capsule embedded behind the wall of the Star Tribune building, interred in 1947. No doubt they thought it would be opened by men in silver jumpsuits who arrived in air cars and cut it open with a blaster pistol. Stand back, Citizen Z-24! It could contain material that is deadly to us now, like spores of an unknown nature, or a speech by Harold Stassen!

When the old block gets knocked down next year, its contents will be revealed to the curious public. What gems, what secrets, what messages from the past were entombed for the eager eyes of future Americans?

Let me spoil it for you, because I have a list. It has seeds, representing the crops of Minnesota. (Probably one fellow on the committee snarled, "They'll need them after the Russkies attack.") There's some money, perhaps so the People of the Future could see how we exchanged pieces of paper for valuable things, like seeds.

There's also a wire recording of a speech, which demonstrates the perils of time capsules: We don't have anything that can play that medium anymore. It's like dropping an 8-track tape into a box so people in the year 2525 can enjoy "The Cast of 'Hee-Haw' Sings Today's Top Hits."

These are not particularly interesting. They never seemed to think that we'd want to see the ordinary items of daily life, the things that disappear because no one saves them. A candy bar wrapper. A movie ticket stub, a restaurant menu. No, they saved corn. I hope it was tightly sealed, or when they open it up it might contain one large mummified rat who died fat and happy, if a little cramped.

Hold on, phone's ringing —

OK, that was the NFL, and I have to say that any revenue from the time capsule ceremony shall go to the League; the Yard shall be blocked off for the event with no competing events within a 60-block radius; broadcast coverage of the time capsule event shall be the property of the League, with all reproduction and rebroadcast rights, including any future technologies, including but not limited to telepathic and/or holographic simulations, reserved to the League in perpetuity; ownership of the contents of the capsule shall revert to the city after 9,000 years if the city (hereafter, the Party of the Suckers Part) pays a fee of no less than $500,000 in 2015 dollars. This contract is not binding on the League but is binding in perpetuity on everyone else.

There was some more stuff but my eyes started to glaze; it's like signing mortgage documents. After a while it's yeah, yeah, whatever, immortal soul, yadayada. Anyway: We should have a public contest to determine what goes in the Vikings Time Capsule. We could set up —

Oh, for heaven's sake. The phone again.

OK just to be clear: All suggestions would be the property of the League; there would be no expectation of payment; winners in the contest will be permitted to attend the time capsule ceremony, but must stand behind a yellow rope and stare at their shoes. A list of approved shoe brands with League promotional affiliations will be provided.

• No newspaper, but a printed copy of a tweet with a link to a story in the Strib.

• A vial of vinegar and yak musk labeled "Website Comments."

• A Powerball ticket stained with a fluid; they would subject the paper to analysis and conclude it was tears.

• A solar-powered microchip containing a speech by Sid Hartman greeting the citizens of 2214 (Sid will be on hand to explain how it works).

• A monkey paw, just to confuse them.

"He's picked up the Time Capsule, and he's making his way to the speaker's platform, 10 yards away … AND OH, WHAT A HIT, HE DROPPED IT! GREEN BAY HAS THE TIME CAPSULE AND THEY'RE HEADING TOWARDS THE DOOR! THEY'RE GOING TO TAKE – IT – ALL – THE – WAY!"

Yes, I know, that's a bit pessimistic, but maybe the capsule could be like the Little Brown Jug, something the Vikes and the Cheeseheads fight over every year. Thus a new tradition would be born, and what is football if not a celebration of tradition?

Well, tax breaks. But a tradition of tax breaks.