|This cranky re-run is from February 2012|
For the fifth straight year, I will be watching the Super Bowl at home. No Super Bowl party for the Cranky Old Man. I will miss watching with my 13 year old son Spencer as he has been whisked off to another state by his BPD mom (thanks a lot NJ Custody Courts and its dumb ass judge who has absolute ZERO understanding of the relationship between a teenage boy and his dad.) I will NOT miss the Super Bowl Party.
The Super Bowl Party is not about the Super Bowl. It is not about football. It is about showing off food, and 58 inch TV sets. The Super Bowl party is to football fans, what the New Years Eve party is to alcoholics; strictly for amateurs.
Every Super Bowl party should have a large poster by the TV stating:
This one fries my patoot. A controversial play ends in a loss of downs and change of possession, when the commercial comes on and the men strike up a discussion about what just transpired on the field, they get shouted down by the women, “SHHHH, it’s the new “Bank One” commercial!” I can’t talk football because it interrupts the fucking commercials? WTF!
W O-fucking W!!
The second half is played with critiques of the half-time show and endless discussions of 47 different commercials competing with the play by play calling of the game on TV. The game is always secondary at the Super Bowl party.