First of all, a HUGE shout-out to my friends at Sushi Freak . . .thank you for feeding me today. Your sushi burrito owes nothing to its Mexican cousin for its insane goodness. That’s all you. Got the Dr. Eelgood. I feel good. SO GOOD. That sauce is ridiculous, I want to swim in it. Might burn a little, but I like that.
And today . . .I need that comfort food.
Back to my letter:
Dear Football (American- because I actually like futbol),
I’m so sorry things didn’t work out between us. No, really. I am. You just suck.
When I was younger, I really tried to love you. I wanted to be that cool chick that some guy could parade around proudly while wearing matching jerseys and backwards trucker caps. I would have even settled for wearing fan gear of opposite teams, and having awesome arguements. Being able to rattle off knowledge of statistics and game plays, being able to debate the effectiveness of strategy and coaching, being able to bemoan the stupidity of calls? To me, that’s just hot. It is. So sporty.
Yeah, but no.
Thing is, you don’t just hang out on Sundays. Church. Church hangs out on Sundays. It’s a family thing, you fill up for the week, you’re good.
No, that wasn’t good enough for you.
You had to bleed into my Mondays. And Thursdays. There’s all the fantasy football (fantasy, as in fake) drafts (multiple, since you can’t limit yourself to just one), not to mention the team defeat hangover my husband suffers on the days you don’t actually air. No “hair of the dog” fixes those.
You know who goes to church when it’s not Sunday? Fanatics. The over-zealous that often judge those around them for not being as into God as they are. Yup, the rest of us just going to hell.
I guess that’s me.
I tell people how much I hate football, and their eyes glaze over. They know they can’t talk to me. So, now I’m a pariah, ostracized, going to hell.
Thanks a lot.
And on Sunday, the holiest of holies, my husband cannot be pried off his pew. I have to wing it alone to birthday parties and parks, taking the girls out so they don’t have to beg to watch their precious “My Little Pony” (but, it’s the Friendship is Magic series, daddy!).
Best thing about you had to be Superbowl. Bandwagoners like myself enjoyed you for your commercials and for the excuse to party and buy balloons. But you’ve even stolen that small consolation away with your watered-down halftime shows and pre-aired commercials the weeks before (totally nothing we haven’t already seen), leaving me with nothing except a house full of people and children fighting over who has more balloons to pop.
So, anyways. I hate you. And your bastard friend NASCAR. Also on Sundays (and Saturdays-qualifying, you see). Unfortunately, I love someone who loves you, though, so I’ll be seeing you. Just know that this RBF is just for you.