The last time I actually paid even partial attention to an American football game was when I was six and used to kinda-sorta watch my linebacker brother play in high school. But even then, I just hung out with all the other player’s younger siblings — a.k.a The “This is Boring, I’m Bored” Club. Our greatest accomplishments involved doing lines of Pixy Stix while guzzling caffeinated beverages, then running up and down the bleachers screaming like howler monkeys.
Of course my parents weren’t content to let their feral child irritate the other attendees so, eventually, my mother would grab me by the sweater, yank me into a seated position and, through gritted teeth, say “CALM DOWN.” At which point I’d just sit there and vibrate until I’m pretty sure I exploded into a pile of sugar.
But for me, pro football lacks the nominal thrill that overdosing on candy while mis-hearing the pep squad cheers once held (I’m pretty sure they were saying: “Give me a ‘B,’ Give me an ‘O.’ That’s B-O! Let’s GO!”… I do NOT get football).
Nowadays, it seems some of the worst aspects of American culture are so often associated with the gridiron, that when a few of the better aspects — like exercising your freedom of expression in order to draw attention to authoritarian violence and systemic abuse of power—the message is obfuscated by blind allegiance to militaristic faux patriotism. But what do I know? I’m just a silly little baseball fan trapped in a big ole football world.
And it’s not that I have anything specifically against football. Well, except for the concussions, the stadiums built at taxpayer’s expense, and the extreme commercialization of the entire game.
And the fact that the Niners play in fucking Santa Clara!
THE SAN FRANCISCO 49ers!!!
Now, hold onto your giant foam fingers, but — I don’t think I’ve ever sat through an entire Super Bowl. Not even to watch all those award-winning advertisements…
I mean, holy shit people! Those ads are such blatant (if creative) corporate propaganda! Even if it’s lavender scented and dermatologist tested, they’re still brainwashing you, dammit!
And under what other circumstances does an entire populous watch — with eager, unblinking eyes — a commercial for an alcoholic beverage that tastes like liquid styrofoam mixed with Diet Crystal Pepsi, served in a used catheter bag, and which offers less chance of getting you buzzed than licking the sticky residue off an empty bottle of cough syrup?!!
Don’t waste my goddamn time Milwaukee (Colorado and Missouri)! That horse manure-filled, mountain spring water can kiss my occasionally intoxicated ass! If I need to ferment my blood, I’ll stick with something efficient, like huffing diesel fuel from an idling school bus.
And honestly, if any of these commercials EVER EVEN ONCE made you consider drinking that diluted gas-station urinal mop-water, rumored to contain hops, you should be ashamed of yourself.*
*Seriously, no offense to domestic, macro-brew drinkers (or Milwaukee). Some of my best friends drink that stuff. Well, maybe not “best” friends.
Where was I? Oh right. What I’m saying is, while most folks will watch the game and eat their weight in nachos on Super Bowl Sunday, I’ll occupy myself by not conforming (i.e., waiting for spring training… and eating nachos).
Things to do on Super Bowl Sunday if You Just Couldn’t Care Any. Fucking. Less:
Wait for kick-off then walk down the middle of your street naked. This is quite literally one of the few moments in your life in which absolutely no one will notice. If you feel the need to justify why you strolled down your street au naturel in the middle of the afternoon, just stick to the “Why did you decide to climb Mount Everest?” response of, “Because it’s there.”
Spend the day imagining how much better your life would be with single-payer health care or tuition-free college or the ability to time travel!
Go to the gym. That’s right, while everyone else is sitting on the couch watching others perform amazing physical feats, you don’t have to wait in line to use the treadmill!
Form a union.
Listen to some Woody Guthrie.
Protest the economic subjugation of the proletariat.
Not that anyone will notice as you march back and forth in front of Amazon headquarters while trying not to stare at your smartphone made by the exploited hands of underpaid workers.
But at least you didn’t drink shitty beer.
Come on. You’ve got Netflix.* Do I have to do all your thinking for you?
*If you don’t have Netflix, serious question: Is the year 1999 as awesome as I remember? Because I could really go for some halcyon Y2K drama right about now.
Read “How to Avoid Fascist Dictators for Dummies.”
Or write it, since it hasn’t actually been writ — if you’ll excuse me, I… have some writing to do.
Organize your sock, utensil, underwear, candy, yo-yo, or why-am-I-keeping-all-this-shit, drawer.
Go to a Super Bowl party, then sit with your back to the TV and read The Communist Manifesto (or anything by Frederick Engels). You will NOT be pacified with the Soma of the Capitalist Pigs!
Ooooh, is that the new BMW 3 series?
This is a great day to call people you need to call, but with whom you do NOT wish to have an actual conversation and just leave them a voicemail:
“Oh darn. Was hoping I’d catch you! Well, I just wanted to let you know, I can’t make it to your karaoke, laser tag, spelunking, dinner theater birthday party next weekend. Super bummed. Let’s get lunch some… uuuuuuh, my house is on fire. Gotta go.”
As you leave this message, they’re up to their elbows in fried cheese sticks (infused with the essence of bacon-flavored Doritos) so they won’t even noticed you called until you’ve had plenty of time to “lose” your cell phone in between the sofa cushions for at least a week, week and a half.
Taxes, anyone?
Make a ton of food like you’re hosting a Super Bowl party, but just eat it all yourself. Then dance around your living room while listening to Rick Astley’s Greatest Hits, until you vomit. You win if you make it anywhere near “Together Forever.”
What do you win? My undying respect. It’s priceless.
Make some cauliflower “Buffalo wings.” That’s right. You heard me. CAULIFLOWER. Local cauliflower from the food co-op. You just made Super Bowl Sunday vegan-friendly!
Now, if you combine that with a “Bernie 4 Pres” bumper sticker and click your heels together, light beams will shoot out of your eyeballs and you’ll create the socialist singularity. Or, put another way, idiots will give you a bunch of shit on Facebook.
Volunteer your time to a worthwhile non-profit (homeless shelter, environmental cleanup, animal sanctuary, head-trauma clinic.)
Compose a blog post about what you could do on Super Bowl Sunday instead of watching the Super Bowl.
Nah, that’s stupid.
Take a nap. Screw it, take TWO naps.
What am I saying?! Just stay in bed!
Whatever you do, please ignore that naked lady walking down the street. And… I apologize.
