Two Many Boobs

I had the Frankin Stove cranked up to hot by the time the dumpfucks reported for duty. Typical of the day after the Big Game, they came shambling in for the morning eye-opener. A few days ago, Lardass had found a 50lb bag of Starbucks Christmas Blend that had exceeded its sell-by date, and we were brewing strong coffee in the ancient dented aluminum percolator.

As usual George was the first one through the door. He was scowling. Under his arm was a copy of last week's Times crossword puzzle. "Where were you last night?" he said by way of a greeting.

I had watched the big game at home instead of going to the big superbowl party at his house.
I just shrugged. "Aw, you know - I took some of that Cialis and I didn't want to waste it. This stuff is good. You can bet a boner within twenty minutes and it lasts for thirty six hours."
"You get a boner that lasts for thirty six hours?"
"Yeah but you have to stay in a bathtub."

I was lying of course. I was just making an excuse so as not to seem antisocial. I always stay home to watch the superbowl alone. The game starts too late and runs too long to go out and party on a Sunday night. Besides I like to watch the game.

Every year, George hosts a goat-rodeo event, including wives, other disinterested people, and their dogs. It would have been a nightmare, trying to watch the game, with someone's wife yakking about her root canal, one dog crotching you while another is slobbering on the cheese dip. Someone is always one-upping the others with stories of vacations and construction projects. Yakking is incessent and loud - unfair assessments, threatened library closings, political rantings and let me tell you about my grandchildren. Shut the fuck up already.

Inevitably, one finds oneself enticed into drinking too much, eventually becoming thick tongued and ultimately passed out in a drunken stupor, bruising ones ribs falling down the stairs, lying unconscious in a pool of one's own vomit.

So I stay home these days to watch the game alone. Two beers and two cups of coffee. I like the company just fine. The wife is trained to stay upstairs, mending socks or whatever. Maybe she went over to the Party. I didn't notice.

It was a strange experience watching the Super spectacle on TV. Hype is the word of the day. The images and promotions are full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. The much vaunted advertisement slots cost millions. But the question that kept popping into my head was - who did they think was watching? They had the muscle car ads, and the chopper boys and Budweiser commercials to appeal to young white guys. Then they had old people fighting over a bag of fritos, and old guys hawking boner aids for old guys. Then they have a halftime show for teenyboppers.
I was thinking of that boob-a-rama with Janet Jackson, Justin Timberlake and the other boobs on the stage. I remember thinking "who is this aimed at? And, why would football fans want to watch "entertainers" like Kid Rock and Snoop Frog. The only commercial I liked the NFL ad featuring the playoff losers singing "Tomorrow" from Annie.
The AOL ads were stupid, and again how many people recognized the Xtreme Chopper Dad with the full face moustache who constantly yells at and beats on his boob sons. (I've seen the show on cable - it's pretty funny)

In the end The Patriots had won another Superbowl after a pretty exciting game.

Bill came into the cobb house humming, "I've got you" the ancient Sonny and Cher tune, now an anthem for Groundhog Day. The sun was shining outside. Six more weeks of winter, according to the scientologists.
"Hey Bill," I greeted him with a dramatic look at the clock, subtly indicating that he was late, "Did you enjoy the game at George's?" He looked awful. He seemed to be in pain, and it looked like there was a patch of dried puke on the sleeve of his jacket. He limped over to pour himself some coffee. "Tell you the truth, I didn't see much of the game. There was a lot going on... Where the fuck were you?"