Football's answer to Vaudeville is finally over. Super Bowl One Zillion. I didn't watch; I have an aversion. I'm one of those odd ducks who doesn't like football. It's violent and brutal and slow. Four hours of watching huge men smash into each other. A half-time show that I'm told can involve naughty incidents of wardrobe malfunction.
If you are a fan, just think what watching a game involves. You get to the stadium all hyped up, your blood pressure maxed out from wanting to see your team win. Then the players run onto the field and get introduced. Your BP is somewhere in the stratosphere. Then everything gets quiet for the kick off.
Your BP sinks to near normal. Then the kick off and the players start running and smashing for a few seconds and your BP spikes again. This goes on for the next four hours. You are having a great time, but your blood vessels are screaming STOP!
You probably have had a few beers and need to go to the bathroom. If you are a woman you stand in line for twenty minutes waiting for a stall. Then you stand in line again to wash your hands. If you are a man, I've heard, you walk right into the bathroom, hop over a few suspicious looking yellow puddles, use the urinal, and walk out, not bothering to wash your hands.
Then you stop at a food stand and buy a hot dog and nachos, which you eat gleefully with hands that have not been washed.
Before half time your team were playing like a bunch of blindfolded gorillas. Wile E. Coyote, sitting behind you, spills his beer down your neck. You are too hyped to even turn and give him a dirty look.
Hours pass. Your gorillas finally stop sleep walking and get into the game. Yea, team!
Final score: Bad Guys 14; Gorillas 15
You cry from joy.
I don't get it.
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