Thursday, January 31, 2008
Nachos, beer, and stretchy pants that leave very little to the imagination.
There- I said it.
I have absolutely no interest whatsoever in the game. Never will.
It bores me to tears. No game- with the rare exception of a marathon Monopoly, Risk, Find the Weasel or Scrabble session- should take that long. Ever.
Maybe I'm just pissed that I'm going to have to search far and wide for a place to have bloodies this Sunday with my girls that isn't full of hordes of light beer-drinking, nacho-munching, jersey-wearing "sports enthusiasts". Bucket-o-beer specials will abound, and many a dude (and wives/girlfriends of dudes) will rue the day they discovered chili dogs and fluorescent orange cheese around 11:00 p.m. that night when the slow, steady, thunderous rumble signaling intense gastrointestinal distress sets in. Toilets will be clogged, and plumbers all across this great country of ours will be able to afford that vacation in the Bahamas the wife wants so badly.
And yes, I know many of you are totally into this "sport". I know, I know. I will just never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever get it. The tight, shiny pants not only do nothing for my libido, I actually find them a bit odd and scary.
And yes, I will freely admit I know very little about the game. I couldn't tell a wide receiver from a double-wide. I can't even tell when they're actually playing vs. having a "time out".
I also know very little about fruit bats or the country of Estonia, truth be told. And, as long as I'm getting stuff off of my chest, I don't know nearly as much about freebasing crack cocaine that I could, but I can't say I'm going to run out and pick it up as a hobby.
So there you go. Feel better? You now know my hidden, shameful secrets.
But I still don't give a shit about football.