About twice a year, I'm obliged to admit that I was raised in a red state, and that -- in spite of a brief period at the end of high school when I believed in socialism as a model for government -- my inner Ohioan will always, at least in part, guide me.
This is one of those times.
If there's one event -- one triumphant symbol -- that encapsulates all that is good about the country I live in, it is the Super Bowl. Sure, Americans do some lame-ass stuff, but now is not the time for talk of trees or casualties (or whatever). Not today! Ideas like that are mud-in-you-eye, stinking-floppy-wristed-democrat-unpatriotic bullshit -- especially during this, our nation's finest hour.
Because I spend most Sundays chasing after Little-E, I rarely even have time to follow football. Occasionally I catch a game -- and when I do, the psychotically competitive adolescent that resides in fiery pits of suppressed anger, way down deep in the unholy bowels of my soul, sides with a team at random and yearns with unhealthy desperation for victory (or death). All who oppose me in these moments of ill-advised obsession are flagrantly ignorant whores to a dying breed of sport -- destined to fail, embarrassed by their mis-guided loyalty to a sorry sack of losers.
I've played the game. I know how it is.
Lady-A and I are hosting a Super Bowl party this weekend. A tribute to the magnificent spectacle -- a celebration of tradition, paying homage to the pigskin and basking in the hilarity of top-notch advertisement. It shall be grand. It will give us purpose.
Or something.
It's so nicely packaged. There's cut and dry rules that everybody has to follow. Break 'em, and you're punished. Teamwork, dedication and superior ability are thus set free to triumph, and in the end there is a winner, and a loser. No ifs, ands, buts, or wiggly little grey areas for verbose and vitriolic so and sos to finagle a placid "everybody wins" resolution to the conflict. ('Cause that shit is so lame.)
The funny thing is, everyone we hang out with is an artist of some kind -- a group of people not normally known for their commitment to televised athletic competition. So, this Sunday, I'll be playing it cool. Munchin' on chips and actin' all casual, until I drink one too many beers and call the opposing team's quarterback a number of disrespectful things that imply, in various ways, that he's not up to the job. Ohio, I am one with you. I roar like my forefathers, screaming for blood from the mythical banks of the mighty Cuyahoga!
And so, I'll be rooting for the Colts. I dare you to defy me.
This is one of those times.
If there's one event -- one triumphant symbol -- that encapsulates all that is good about the country I live in, it is the Super Bowl. Sure, Americans do some lame-ass stuff, but now is not the time for talk of trees or casualties (or whatever). Not today! Ideas like that are mud-in-you-eye, stinking-floppy-wristed-democrat-unpatriotic bullshit -- especially during this, our nation's finest hour.
Because I spend most Sundays chasing after Little-E, I rarely even have time to follow football. Occasionally I catch a game -- and when I do, the psychotically competitive adolescent that resides in fiery pits of suppressed anger, way down deep in the unholy bowels of my soul, sides with a team at random and yearns with unhealthy desperation for victory (or death). All who oppose me in these moments of ill-advised obsession are flagrantly ignorant whores to a dying breed of sport -- destined to fail, embarrassed by their mis-guided loyalty to a sorry sack of losers.
I've played the game. I know how it is.
Lady-A and I are hosting a Super Bowl party this weekend. A tribute to the magnificent spectacle -- a celebration of tradition, paying homage to the pigskin and basking in the hilarity of top-notch advertisement. It shall be grand. It will give us purpose.
Or something.
It's so nicely packaged. There's cut and dry rules that everybody has to follow. Break 'em, and you're punished. Teamwork, dedication and superior ability are thus set free to triumph, and in the end there is a winner, and a loser. No ifs, ands, buts, or wiggly little grey areas for verbose and vitriolic so and sos to finagle a placid "everybody wins" resolution to the conflict. ('Cause that shit is so lame.)
The funny thing is, everyone we hang out with is an artist of some kind -- a group of people not normally known for their commitment to televised athletic competition. So, this Sunday, I'll be playing it cool. Munchin' on chips and actin' all casual, until I drink one too many beers and call the opposing team's quarterback a number of disrespectful things that imply, in various ways, that he's not up to the job. Ohio, I am one with you. I roar like my forefathers, screaming for blood from the mythical banks of the mighty Cuyahoga!
And so, I'll be rooting for the Colts. I dare you to defy me.
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posted by Jonathon Morgan at 9:00 AM
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