Happy Super Bowl Weekend!
Happy Super Bowl weekend, everyone! I will refer to this as Super Bowl 2015 because I don’t know how to read those ridiculous Roman Numerals that are supposed to indicate just which number Super Bowl this is. Correction: I refuse to read those Roman numerals that seem to have no purpose other than to make me and countless others feel inferior because we cannot decipher the cryptic meaning of a few misplaced letters meant to signify a numerical quantity.
Hey NFL and everyone else who feels compelled to use Roman numerals as a sign of status: using an outdated numbering system from an empire some 1300 years dead doesn’t make you look prestigious, it makes you look like a conceited asshole. There’s a reason the Romans never unlocked the mysteries of quantum mechanics, much less calculus, and it’s because their jacked-up numerical system looks more like a dyslexic’s handwritten signature than it does a mathematical equation. So let’s all stop pretending that we give a shit about those X’s, I’s, V’s and L’s and give the Arabic system its due.
This year’s Super Bowl is particularly important because it marks the three-year anniversary of the last time I will ever attend or throw a Super Bowl-themed party. This, because three years ago my then-wife threw a MeetUp.com Super Bowl party. Prior to this, I’d always assumed that MeetUp.com was just another in a long list of swingers websites, and so I was surprised when no one showed up with baskets of Astroglide and Benoit Balls. However, I was also surprised at a few of the egregious breaches of decency that were somewhat worse than a stranger fucking my wife.
I’m referring namely to the asshole who showed up to a stranger’s home (i.e., my home) wearing flip-flop sandals and who then decided to go barefoot once inside. To this day I don’t know who won that year’s game because I couldn’t focus on it long enough to ignore the fact that a stout 250-pound lumberjack sporting a hipster beard and a plaid shirt chose to advertise his yellowing toenails while resting them on the bottom rung of my kitchen stools following frequent trips to the kitchen, leaving greasy, smoldering footprints across the hardwood flooring like some australopithecine hominid trekking through a muddy riverbed.
I should add here that this self-righteous douchebag was not the only barefooted guest in my house that day. Prior to his arrival, another of our guests had freely traipsed our living area with no shoes and no socks and had raised not the slightest alarm.
Hypocritical, you say? Discriminatory, you say?
Fuck you, I say, because this guest’s barefooted presence belonged to an attractive, petite Asian woman who was the wife of my close friend and whom my wife and I had known for years.
So let me make this distinction clear: If you are the attractive wife of a close friend and possess well-manicured feet and a shower stocked with esoteric cleansers and exfoliators of which I have no familiarity or understanding, by all means, please feel free to come to my home and remove your sandals and proceed to enjoy my hospitality unencumbered by shoes or socks.
If, however, you are a balding diabetic male with only a limited appreciation of indoor plumbing and the novelty of antibacterial bar soaps, then put on a pair of socks before leaving whatever patchouli-doused corrugated steel shed you call a home. Failing that, question whether you actually have a right to freely roam civil society or whether you should instead be caged amongst the shit-eating, publicly masturbating apes at the zoo.
Let me finish by saying that I don’t entirely blame this guy for his behavior. He may actually be a pretty nice guy, and in the right setting, say somewhere in the Australian outback where one is required to shit in a hole and use leaves to wipe one’s ass, he might prove amicable company. I reserve the bulk of my blame for his girlfriend, with whom he arrived to the party. She should have been the one to stop him at the door of their home, point at his feet and say, “Hey cockmonger, you’re not going to a stranger’s house like that. Put on a pair of socks and lace up some Sketchers you pig-faced assbag.”
But she didn’t, and this leads me to believe that she must come from the same genetic backwater as her boyfriend and who is possibly a distantly or not-so-distantly related cousin.
Anyways, happy Super Bowl. I’ll be spending it alone this year.