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I couldn’t wait for the Super Bowl to arrive and am somewhat saddened that it’s over. I must now wait another year for the festivities.
Every year I find out which of my friends and family members will be hosting game-day parties and make sure that nothing else conflicts with that date.
I don’t go to the parties for the teams, and I don’t go for the game. I know nothing about the rules, the calls nor anything else for that matter, I go for the snacks. Super Bowl parties have the best eats.
I always fit in, despite my lack of football knowledge. When my friends yell, I yell; and when they get upset and scream obscenities, I do the same, so as not to blow my cover. After all, I’m just there to eat.
While they’re talking about a yellow flag for holding, I’m just wondering why the white lines don’t smear with all the running around the players do and, besides, why would they be holding each other on the field during the game anyway? Today, everyone is so sensitive, and touching or holding people can actually constitute simple battery. You’d think the players would remember that.
Party-goers yell at the referees for making bad calls, while I’m just wishing I could find the ref’s suit in a thrift store somewhere; they are pretty cool looking.
As my eyes drift to the white panel on the backside of the player’s white tights, my mind imagines that they are wearing adult diapers because they can’t just walk off the field when they have “to go.”
Then all of a sudden, someone brings out more snacks – and that’s all I care about. The chips and onion dip have me so mesmerized I don’t even care if someone double dips while we’re eating. I’m just glad the snacks at these parties come out right away, otherwise I’d be forced to toss a yellow flag for delay of snacking.
Between the Doritos, hot wings and Slim Jims, I could care less if I ever ate regular food again. I’d eat the cheesy nacho and jalapeno bites everyday if my husband were OK with it, but he’s not – and neither is my doctor, based on the dietary restrictions he placed in my medical chart.
I went to a Super Bowl party once at my Uncle Vinny’s house, but the dope served peanut butter and jelly sandwiches – who does that? It was a total disappointment and, besides that, he rooted for the wrong team. Everybody left halfway through the first quarter because of the crummy eats. Someone should have thrown a yellow flag at him for unnecessary stupidity.
I don’t know of any other sporting event that indulges the appetite like football’s Super Bowl, and for that I am grateful.
I just wish the game didn’t last nine hours. Why can’t they just play without stopping every 12 seconds to yell and blame somebody for something? They’re
like a bunch of spoiled
kids – perhaps those diapers they may be wearing are fitting.