I hear tell there’s citizens of this Free Republic actually concerned who wins the SuperBowl even though they don’t have a genuine material interest. This is flabbergasting, and totally irrational. What are we – a nation of brainless teevee watchers, manipulated by corporate America, and blind to the finer things in life?
Whoa: got you, didn’t I? You retched, you wretch, and we haven’t even started.
The whole point of SuperBowl Sunday is to party. Ideally, the game is on somewhere in the room, but only if you give a Steelers’ Scrotum or a Packers’ Pud about the outcome should you bother to waste time watching. Instead, I recommend consuming as much alcoholic beverage as you can while filling your face with unhealthy but enormously tasty food-like substances which, if you’re sufficiently glib, you can parlay into the excusable reason you’ve just grabbed the ass of some other sexually alluring party-goer clearly not already part of your friends-with-benefits package. (Let alone spouse.)
The SuperBowl is an annual event. You’ll have an entire year to earn forgiveness, or at least forgetfulness.
This is still America, so what you stuff into your face is of vital importance. As a public service, I link here with 20 wonderful selections of heart-stopping, artery-clogging, breath-stifling dishes ideal for a SuperBowl party. I especially recommend the Bacon Cheese Turtles. But if you can’t find something here to assemble and take to your party host, you better stay home. Loser. Health Nazi. Wuss in pink.
Remember – the steroid-juiced gladiatorial beasts on the gridiron have beaten themselves bloody, ensuring a life of guaranteed physical agony and an early grave in the service of their profession: football. The least you can do as a spectator is drink and gorge yourself to pain and humiliation out of respect for their sacrifice. It’s the right thing to do, and on a sacred holiday like SuperBowl Sunday, it’s the American Fucking Way.