Will Lovie's Lambs Beat Indy? 
Guess what? I don't care who wins. Really. I'm just a spectator at a spectacular spectacle - a Super Bowl party. Food as far as the eye can see. Large, loud guys with numbers on their backs - why am I reminded of a stockyard? Why can I not see the television set?
Just let me see the commercials. Who shines, who whines. There are a few other viewers who feel this way, and we band together like nervous gazelles around a pond. When a commercial comes on, my herd skitters from the buffet to the screen, being careful not to be trampled by the wild beasts hulking the other way. Thirsty, they're stampeding toward the watering hole, stabbing at the buffet we've just left. Fortunately, they're carnivores, so they ignore the vegetable plate at which we've been grazing.
When the game returns, we retreat to the shadowy corners of the room, where the wild things aren't, to resume discussions of whether the Geico Gecko is really the spurned love child of the Budweiser lizard.
If six months ago you told me that I would be sitting in a friend's home watching a game televised from Miami between teams from Chicago and Indianapolis, I wouldn't have believed you. To be honest, I don't know you that well anyway, so I probably wouldn't believe anything you said.
Who cares about the game - this is more a social event, tradition, raison-de-eat, etc. than it is a about le football. Don't fret and spill your beer, though - that's as far as I'm going to analyze this partay extraordinaire - the wildebeest are stampeding toward the bathroom, so I gotta run.
1 comment:
Like that comic, that's what my grandma would say, and she's right!
My big brother recommends plugging that volcano with Cheney's big head since it's bigger than Dave Barry's. Is that true?
Don't hurt me! I read your post!
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