Just look at the size of this rat’s ass right here:
Now imagine one five million times bigger, and that’s how much of a rat’s ass I don’t give about the Super Bowl. I don’t know about you, but I feel better about our relationship, having that out there.
You know, I practically swore to myself I wouldn’t spend all day ranting about how powerfully uninterested I am in the Super Bowl, but here we are, and I’m as baffled as I am every year, and I have to write about something, so..
So I think you’re all out of your damn minds. I think a giant chunk of you really don’t care, either, but you just don’t want to admit it. You know how like when you tell a fake joke that isn’t at all funny and doesn’t make sense, and everyone in the room except one person knows it’s a fake joke. So then everyone laughs hysterically to see if the last person will pretend to get the nonsensical joke?
Usually, that last person will laugh. I think a bunch of you guys have just been conditioned to respond to this gargantuan game of football played by millionaires who you don’t know, will never meet, and who wouldn’t like you if you did. And then a chunk of you simply have a wad of cash riding on it, and that I do understand, though I don’t understand putting it there.
The only other thing I can think of is that when my brother and I were time traveling this morning back in the Time of the Dinosaurs, he stepped off the path onto a butterfly. By accident.
Then when we arrived back in the present, history had been altered and suddenly everybody liked to work themselves up into a frenzy for several months a year over professional football. Like in the Ray Bradbury story, except in the story the language was all screwed up when they got back. And also, I didn’t shoot my brother like the guy in the story shot the guy who stepped on the butterfly. I mean, it was an accident, and which one of us said “Hey, let’s fire up the time machine” again?
That’s how nuts you all seem to me. And normally, I take refuge among women on days like this. You know, quilting bees, bridge club, supper-making, books about vampires, baking pies, etc. But this year I read a startling statistic.
73% of women would rather watch the Super Bowl than have sex. So either women are really into the Super Bowl this year, or they’re not too into having sex with their loud, hammered husbands and boyfriends. I would think that on a day when men start drinking at noon and then continue cranking down pizza and wings and chips all day, that number would be a little closer to 100%.
You know what a lot of people think? This is crazy – they think that I am posturing as someone who doesn’t give a rat’s ass about the Super Bowl, but that I really do. Because caring about this stupid game is the normal position, realizing for certain that it is completely unconnected to me, that’s nuts. I probably pretend not to care in order to gain all the notoriety and respect that comes along with disliking something everybody else likes.
It’s a bizarre phenomenon – not only the sudden, rabid conviction that one team of total strangers MUST beat some other team of total strangers, but also the violent reaction you get when you start talking like I am now.
It’s Super Bowl Sunday so screw me if I don’t want to orbit around it all day. No, and I mean, even Roland Martin from CNN has been yelling at me all day on Facebook about what not to do if I go to a Super Bowl Party at his house, and in a nutshell, it’s nothing except obsess over the moving images of strangers playing with a ball.
Commercials. Yes, they’re funny. No, I’m not going to sit and watch a three hour game to get through them, when I can just stream them online later, when I hear which ones are good.
Something creepy to me about watching the Most Expensive Commercials and cheering for them, like watching a parade of evil overlords, clapping and laughing. You know those commercials aren’t making you laugh to make you happy – they’re doing it to burrow into your mind like little infoviruses, change your thoughts. They’re gross and creepy and they hold you in utter contempt, oh yes they sure do.
I think it’s the screaming that bothers me the most. Even as a kid when adults did that, it got on my nerves. You guys know you sound like the kids in Lord of the Flies, right?
Then working in bars – uggh. You’ve been at it for eight hours and everyone just feels perfectly free to scream bloody murder right in your ears, all of them all around you like Morlocks boiling our of the ground, squealing, ripping your soul to shreds.
And then a baffling pride in the madness. The more mindlessly obsessed you are, the cooler you are. People painting their faces, desperately trying to associate themselves with either of the dueling trillion dollar bills.
No thanks. I’ll stick to the real world, the one filled with dinosaur movies and Stargates and the TARDIS and Doctor Who.
See how much cooler I am than you? All right, now beat it. Go watch your stupid game. I’m going to sit here in my smug little blogger’s cave and be smug.
Big stupid head. Someone get over here and play Dungeons and Dragons with me.