Sorry to blaspheme, folks. I know I’ll probably be labeled a terrorist for this, but I’m sticking by my convictions.
I refuse to watch the Super Bowl this year. Yeah, you heard me.
Now that the Goleta Valley Cottage is rapidly filling up with heart-attack victims, let me pose the real question: Why would anyone want to watch what should prove to be less entertaining than the Doggy Steps commercial on repeat for four hours? At least heavy drug abuse could force a laugh from that one.
Seriously, I think that the Patriots and Giants have to be the least charismatic teams in the history of sports. We’re talking 1977 Toronto Blue Jays here, and even that team was at least owned by Labatt Brewing Company. Aside from Randy Moss, who has shown that his hands can commit assault as well as catch touchdown passes, I don’t even know a single name of a player in the game. As far as I’m concerned, I’m only a twelve pack away from confusing the game broadcast with a magnetic football field toy. At least in the electric game I could still be cheering my face off for Chad Johnson.
It’s been a week now since the Super Bowl lineup has been decided, and the only thing anyone is talking about is Tom Brady’s leg injury hampering him from notching his belt with more supermodels – note: If Brady ever bags Keira Knightley, I’m jumping straight off the cliff because I’ll have nothing left to live for. News flash: Brady has absolutely no reason to move. Remember Dan Marino? That broham was still firing lasers while playing with a diamond-encrusted ski boot at the end of his career. With the Giants’ weakened secondary and the Patriots’ play stealing, Brady could play in a half-charged electric wheelchair and still throw 19 touchdowns. Hell, he’s probably better off without the temptation to scramble, because that fool runs like Loren Schoch. Ugly.
I don’t really have a whole lot to say about the Giants, because frankly, I didn’t even know they still existed, and as such, I have no idea who they are. I kind of thought they were annexed into the Canadian Football League or something. Apparently, they are still here though, but does anyone even care? The only New York player I’ve ever heard mentioned on ESPN is Eli Manning, and that is only in the same breath as “wobbly goat.” But I’m sure that he’ll perform better under pressure than his playoff wimp of a brother. I’m sure Archie Manning is, at this very moment, rubbing Eli’s shoulders and telling him that he always felt he was the superior son. Come on, Papa Manning. Your vicarious living is even more pathetic than moms airbrushing their five-year old’s make-up at beauty pageant sponsored by a dog food company.
I think the biggest reason why this year’s match-up sounds so lame is that it came so close to being Green Bay versus San Diego, which would have been more mind blowing than watching Europe perform “The Final Countdown” while on acid. Think I’m the only one that feels that way? Here’s a transcription of a chat I had with a young lady while writing:
Me: I refuse to watch the Super Bowl.
Young lady: Why?
Me: Because the teams suck.
Young lady: And Green Bay versus the Chargers would have been ten times better!
Imagine Brett Favre fist pumping off the Richter scale. LaDainian Thomlinson would probably run for 500 yards and snap more ankles than a third-world minefield in the process. Charles Woodson would be smoking blunts on the sideline with Sheed one moment, running back interceptions the next. Compared to the multiple sports orgasms that game would induce, this Sunday seems just a bit limp. Oh well, I’m celibate anyway.