Tuesday, February 01, 2005


Lois: Name one creative thing you've done.
Peter: I wrote Bonfire of the Vanities.
Lois: No you didn't.
Peter: (Pause) You've won this round, Lois.
I get mail. I get e-mail. The readers of this blog have showered me with all sorts of solicitations. Evidently awed by the power of my pen, readers as far as way as Africa have written me to aid them in their causes. I cannot tell you how many poor widows, who amazingly have all come across vast sums of wealth, have wanted my hand in helping them secure their fortune.

Off computer: Those aren't readers. It's just spam

Well, shoot. And I thought I had one hundred thousand dollars coming to me. Boy, do I have egg on my face. Oh. Wait. That's just saliva. Nevermind.

I don't know about you all, but I am certainly excited about the Super Bowl coming up. Who can't help but feel excited as the calendar turns to February and we still have yet to crown a champion? The world is all on edge in anticipation. Will T.O. play? Will he sit this one out? If he plays, how will he braid his hair? Did Luke do it, or did Laura frame him? Who is DDP's benefactor? All these questions, and more, answered during the next edition of the Super Bowl.

As for me, the game doesn't mean all that much. No, it's all about the halftime show. Sure, I have spent the better part of five months watching football every Sunday afternoon. Instead of doing work, I have devoted my time and attention to meaningless games like the Chiefs and Raiders. And sure, I may have lost a buck or three thousand on the sport, but what I really want to know is, what will Paul McCartney play at halftime? Because, even though millions of people have devoted hours upon hours of their time and attention to the NFL over the past 20 weeks, we really don't mind having the most important game of the year interrupted for forty-five minutes so that over-the-hill pop stars can sing songs they released thirty years earlier. That's right, approximately 40.5 percent of the US population tunes in every year not to watch the two best teams in the country's most popular sport battle it out for the ultimate crown; no, clearly we all tune in so we can watch some sixty year old hop around on the stage with some annoying high school marching band in the background performing "Band on the Run." That's right. Who the fuck cares about the game? Surely a nearly hour long break has no impact on the flow of events, and I'm sure all the players must be thrilled to have the biggest game of their careers interrupted for minutess on end so that drunken yuppies have a few more minutes to spend in the bathroom snorting coke.

Oh, let's not forget about the yuppies who have spent all of five minutes watching sports over the past year who get to attend this sporting event. Much as the most dramatic series in the history of New York sports - the 2000 World (Subway) Series - was bereft of its heart and soul by all the ass-clowns who scored seats in the lower levels, the most watched spectacle in American sports is drained of what little life it is allowed to have by a bunch of phony jerkoffs who couldn't tell you the difference between a 46 Bear defense and a nickle package. Okay, I could barely tell the difference before I bought Madden 2005, but that's not the point. The point is we have an event that caters to a lot of people that couldn't quite frankly give a fuck. Because if they actually played the game for the people that cared they would play it (suck in chest, get voice as deep as possible) on the frozen tundra of Lambeau (or Lambert, if you're John Kerry) Field instead of the football hotbed of . . . Jacksonville, Florida. You know, it's bad enough that the last Stanley Cup ever awarded went to a team from freaking Tampa, but now we have these idiots playing host to the championship of football. Because heaven forfend the temperature fall below 72 degrees at the championship game of the premier winter sport. Oh no, we can't have that, because like some manicured muthafusher from a the law firm of Blow, Me, and Cockmaster might have to withstand the swirling winds while he chats on the cell phone with his life partner.

But it's all good. You know why? Because as much as I despise the man, Bill Bellicheck is OLD SCHOOL, and he will play smashmouth football until the Eagles are choking in their own blood. So us poor peasants will be granted at least the beauty of a glorious beatdown on the punks from Philly. Prediction: Pats 46, Eagles 12. Choke on that while you're eating you're caviar, mother . . .

You know, I think I need to end this post right there. But not before I part with the wisdom of Madonna.

Life is a mystery
Everyone must stand alone
I hear you call my name
And it feels like . . . home


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