Friend or Foebia

It's a lot worse than you think.

Super Bowl Sunday — Christmas for Wife Beaters

Ah, Super Bowl Sunday!  The excitement.  The drama.  Millionaires giddily pursuing each other on fake grass. Who doesn’t love the Super Bowl?  That is, besides communists, socialists, the NHL, all the losing teams, Canadians, soccer fans, the Lifetime Movie Network, the blind, nerds, asthmatics, hemophiliacs, clausterphobes, germaphobes, neurologists and, well, most of humanity, really.

Wait a second.  Football isn’t interesting.  It’s barely even a game.  One team with a ball runs to the furthest point on the field while being trailed by the other, and then they trade turns.  That’s pretty much how I play with my cat.  At least boxing is a match between two men who test each other’s physical and mental limits, not to mention their unthinkably high thresholds for pain.  Football uses so many pads it’s like sorority row at the University of Alabama.  And the scariest thing on the field is most likely to be one of Bret Farve’s texts.

And for the fans, how dull must your ordinary life be that football suffices as an adventurous escape?  Where must you work, in a thorazine factory?  How could you possibly enjoy having your Sundays completely consumed for months with the repetitive, monotonous, corporate-fueled rumba of steroid-swelled ogres chasing a ball that, given its shape, isn’t even rolling away?  If you really want to make it a game, replace the ball with something like a toaster or, better yet, an iPad.  At least then the product placements wouldn’t be so distracting like the superimposed images they project over the field.  The last game I saw I wasn’t sure if I was watching football or reading a script from “Gossip Girl”.

Of course, admittedly, this is the minority viewpoint.

There are many who clearly enjoy weekends spent in a beer and Cheeto-filed haze, floating past visions of lost youth, and triumphs that never were — past a professional football career, past the band that was so much better than anything you’d hear on the radio today, past the seemingly foolproof small business idea of selling crack to school children.  So many could-have-beens.  So many failures.  So many lost dreams.  You know, the ones that would have certainly come true if she hadn’t entered your life with all of her questions like, “Are you listening to me?” and “Why won’t you listen to me?” and “Why are you wearing my bra?”

I’m referring, of course, to wife beaters, because what is Super Bowl Sunday if not a wife beater’s Christmas?  It’s a day marked by more cases of domestic violence than any other.  I suppose, it’s that one special day where the sports fan can justifiably be filled with rage if his team loses, and even more furious if, indeed, they win.  And it’s all part of the celebration.  For the guys it’s like cheering on Santa as he whips the reindeer leading his joyful sleigh.  And for the ladies, well, it’s like being whipped by a crazy man whose first audible words since the World Series are, “Now I suppose you’re going to hold this against me, too.”

Yes, it’s a time of rejoicing, remembrance, tears, and shame, the kind that can only come from spending 5 hours with a cheese-shaped piece of foam molded to your sweaty little head.  And the greatest gift of all is, of course, the one that doesn’t leave behind marks or photographic evidence.

Merry Wife Beater’s Day to us one and all!

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