Super Bowl Sunday is the best day of the year. No one argues this. How could they? It’s like Christmas, only with spicy queso.
The game never lives up to the hype but no one cares. That’s mostly because folks are more concerned they’ve gorged themselves to the point their pants make Ines Sainz’ look like parachutes.
And I’m fine with that. Given the opportunity, I dab Pepto-Bismol all over the four pounds of seven-layer dip on my plate. I love every second of it. The spectacle of the Super Bowl is what makes it so spectacular.
The commercials and halftime show are crucial water cooler fodder at the office. Without them, there wouldn’t be conversations like this:
Jack: That Clydesdale was HUGE on the Bud commercial.
Jill: Was that the guy singing “Tiny Dancer?” I guess I didn’t notice. I was too mad at Fergie. OMG, they actually like, made her sing. It was gross.
You’ve been there. I don’t mind explaining that the yellow first down line isn’t actually on the field (they don’t show it, but a guy in a gorilla suit runs out there with a massive can of spray paint) or what an “onsides” kick is to casual fans. By then, I’ve got a bone yard sitting in my lap and my cheeks look like they’ve been smeared with bronzing wipes.
Did I mention Ines Sainz?
Ah, but there is a game and the media has bludgeoned our brains into believing this year’s will be epic. The Patriots will have their vengeance on the evil G-Men (muahahahha). The cover of Sports Illustrated said simply: REMATCH! Spare us all.
Of the 106 players in the previous Super Bowl played by these teams in 2008, only 22 remain. I’m not doing the math. It won’t be a rematch, instead a shot at revenge for the Patriots.
I hope it comes close to the 2008 matchup – I really do. That was one walking bitch of a game. Eli Manning, maligned and eternally relegated to the depths of his brother’s shadow, somehow engineered a game-winning drive. In a fit of hubris, Manning escaped the savage monsters chasing him and completed a pass to some guy named David Tyree who decided to use his helmet to catch the pass. That was fun.
Later in the drive, Plaxico Burress played hero, catching the fluttering touchdown toss from Manning and ending the Patriots’ whimsical quest for a perfect season. Later that year, Burress shot himself in the leg at a night club and went to prison for two years. That, my friends, is a story.
The Giants would be better served now if they had lost that game. Tom Brady is still calling signals for the Patriots and he is pissed. The man has more “swag” and Uggs than any quarterback in the league (how does that equate to performance, again?). He’ll have his way with the shoddy New York secondary and people will start carving his dimple chin into the Mount Rushmore of quarterbacks. Bet on it.
Maybe you shouldn’t. You’d be better served trying out prop bets. The over/under on the length of the national anthem is set at 94 seconds. All eyes are on you, Kelly Clarkson. If that’s not your cup of chicken broth, make up your own wagers – believe me, I’ve tried it.
I once guaranteed to run around in my birthday suit if the Cardinals beat the Steelers. To everyone’s relief and elation, they did not. But hey, you learn nothing from success, right?
