Today I began mentally jotting down the gossip topics I’ll introduce during the Super Bowl Party I’ll attend on Sunday.
You know the routine…the guys gather in the big room with the big high definition TV, a tub filled with iced down suds and a bowl of buffalo wings. Meanwhile the girls stand around in the kitchen nibbling boiled shrimp and catching up on more important things. Someone shouts “COMMERCIAL” and we all run in to watch the clever advertisements.
I understand marketing will reach a new milestone this year with a one-second commercial. I saw it tonight – a guy, flanked by a bank of Budweisers yells “BEER’S HERE!” That’s it. Commercial’s over. We’ll return to the kitchen and resume our conversation about global warming or something meaningful. I wonder what that one second will cost Bud.
You know why women can’t relate to football so much? Eleven of us would never wear the same outfit in public!
This year, I think I’ll try to engage in the game a bit. By the way, does anyone know who’s playing?
I’ve made myself a cheat sheet so I don’t make a fool of myself. A split end is not a hair problem. It’s more like a really wide receiver – but not in girth. He’s the “go to” guy the quarterback likes to toss the ball to.
The tight end makes no sense to me. It’s not a description of his tush, but the fact that he not only receives, but blocks his opponent. Where’s the logic in that? I would call him a “swinging end.”
The offensive lineman is not someone who shouts obscenities on the field. His job is to protect the quarterback from a “sack” and give him time to make a pass (not at a female, but at a fellow teammate). Weird.
A turnover is not a mouthwatering apple pie. It occurs when someone drops the ball or grabs it before the receiver can. Roughing the passer is when someone is very mean to the passer, ditto for the kicker.
Clipping is when someone gets hit from behind. Now, here’s where I have a great game plan. If I were an offensive lineman, I would simply mutter an obscenity, turn around and let the goon catapulting toward me, hit my backside. Whistle blows, penalty follows, slam dunk!
I think I’ve got this game down.