The Head Pro’s Guide to the Super Bowl

Even if you didn’t read my super handy football primer earlier in the season, you’re likely aware that the Super Bowl is this Sunday. And whether you care or not, you’ll be somewhere watching it, because as a nation we’ve decided that our one true religion is FOOTBAW. Similar to NYE, it’s an excuse for fairweather drinkers to really tie one on in the middle of the day on a Sunday, which those of us who don’t iron our socks will recognize as “a normal Sunday.” My favorite part of the Super Bowl is the ads – not the commercials during the game, though those are fun – but the ones leading up to the game. Because the NFL is a terrible, greedy succubus, they prohibit anyone from profiting from the game. That means only approved outlets can advertise using the term “super bowl” or any iteration of those words.

The result is a cavalcade of hackneyed ads trying desperately to hint that their sale or deal or whatever is in celebration of the game without actually saying “super bowl.” The smaller the advertiser, the more hilarious the result. A big place like BestBuy, perhaps giving too much credit to the viewer, will very aloofly suggest that they have TV’s on sale for “the big game.” But a smaller outfit, like your local beer/burger/wing joint? They go all out, and the end product ends up sounding like the name of an Asian nail salon. COME ON OUT TO TEDDY’S TIT TICKLER AND ENJOY SPECIALS THROUGHOUT THE SUPER DUPER BIG GAME USA NUMBER 1 OK! These ads make me smile.

Because I have a television the size of a fucking 18-wheeler, every year I host a small gathering to watch the game. And every year, it’s a pain in the ass. For a young, upwardly mobile white person, there’s no greater conundrum than deciding what to feed people during this 4-hour long corporate masturbation fest. I’m not the kind of cock-gobbling foodie asshole who wants to try some “artisanal” bullshit, but on the other hand I’d feel like an ass flopping an aluminum tray filled with store-bought barbecue on the table and calling it a day. So instead I spend all the hours remaining in the heatlife of the Earth rolling little hotdogs in crescent rolls, fussing with wings, and mixing up a bunch of bullshit dips that aren’t much more than mayonnaise mixed with flavor powder. If you’re attending someone else’s Super Bowl party, be a gracious guest. And bring your own fucking beer.

To the game:

Who’s in it?

The Denver Broncos and the Seattle Seahawks. This is not difficult information to find on your own, you know.

Denver Broncos

If you look at a rooting map of the United States, something like 95% of the country is rooting for Denver. That’s because if FOOTBAW is our religion, Peyton Manning, their quarterback, is our Jesus. People, myself included, hate that his whiny shitbag brother Eli has twice as many Super Bowl rings as he does, and winning it this year would remedy that. They have a great shot of doing it too, because sometimes watching Denver play is like watching a kid play Madden against a stuffed animal. They just score stupid, stupid amounts of points, and it doesn’t even look that hard. Part of that is because Peyton Manning is a fucking automaton who knows nothing but football, and watching him play is excruciating because he’ll change the play at the line of scrimmage if he thinks one of the guys on defense’s fucking socks don’t match.

Seattle Seahawks

Seattle, the NFC champion, will only be rooted on by people who (for some reason) choose to live in or near Seattle. Their fans are the St. Louis Cardinals fans of football, in that they’re obnoxious and no one likes them. They refer to themselves (and the noise they make in the stadium) as the “12th man,” for fuck’s sake. What does the city of Seattle have going for it, anyway? The birth of grunge rock? Shitty weather? Coffee? What’s the big fucking deal with Seattle coffee? I’m pretty sure they can’t actually grow coffee beans there, so in that case I’ll take my otherwise indistinguishable coffee without the sanctimony, please and thank you.

Anyway, unlike Denver, defense is what got Seattle to the Superbowl. They’re monsters. Their defense also features Richard Sherman, one of the best cornerbacks in the league and one interesting son of a bitch. He’s one of those guys that never ceases to talk copious amounts of shit, but he can back it up. He took a lot of heat over his interview with Erin Andrews after the NFC championship game, but Sherman’s been acting like Sherman since college. At Stanford, apparently there’s one freshman dorm where on Valentine’s Day, all the dudes give out flowers and sing to all the chicks. A bunch of buzzkills tried to shut down the practice for being too “heteronormative,” and this is what a young Richard Sherman had to say:

“To all You assholes complaining,

If you dint like it live in another dorm next year then because tradition is tradition and If your Homosexual don't celebrate the holidayy if its that big of a deal but im tired of yall complaining about a couple of hours of sleep yall are some assholes. Stop bitching and fuckin adapt I wake up that early everyday and I aint complaining so you guys really need to just shut the fuck up. Everyone else had fun so fuck the people who are complaining

Richard Sherman”

Yeah, he’s a pretty real dude. After the interview with Erin Andrews, the word “thug” was used something like 625 times on tv. Something to understand about sports coverage and football in particular: They have their own kind of jargon they use when they want to be really, really fucking racist. A black guy like Sherman gets labeled a “thug.” A quieter, more media-friendly black guy (like Redskins QB Robert Griffin) is called a “class act.” A white guy who’s excelling in a position normally played by black guys? He’s “scrappy.” Richard Sherman knows exactly what the fuck is going on. On being called a “thug:”

“The only reason it bothers me is because it seems like it's the accepted way of calling somebody the N-word nowadays. Because they know.”

Damn. Anyway, back to the simple questions.

Where is the Super Bowl?

MetLife Stadium in East Rutherford, New Jersey. Yes, an outdoor stadium. In New Jersey. In February. Rumor has it that Roger Goodell, the NFL commissioner is a Giants (who play in MetLife) fan and said “fuck it” and decided to hold the game there despite the weather. New Jersey is also home to the pork roll, an unholy conglomeration of pork byproducts that looks like it was extruded out of a vagrant’s butthole. Mmmm, pork.

What time?

6:30, which is still too fucking late. Many studies have documented the drop in worker productivity the Monday after the Super Bowl, and for good reason. After eating a metric ton of chicken parts and drinking all the “light” beer that ever was or ever will be, I don’t feel like doing shit. If they could move it to like 2:00, or on Saturday altogether, the world would be a better place.

That should cover it. (Pretend to) enjoy the game, betches.


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