Holy shit! I don't mean to alarm you, but today is the last day of VANuary at Jim Cogdill Dodge! It's VANUARY, fuckers!
I'm sorry. The TV is really getting to me. And as if Mike Hatmaker (apparently the most articulate member of the sales team) hasn't badgered me enough into dropping twelve-nine-eighty-eight on a used Dodge Caravan, the friggin' Super Bowl of Commercials is in 3 days! It's also known in some circles as simply the Super Bowl, or, to the networks that aren't airing it, the "Big Game." Apparently there's a game of some sort squeezed in there.
No, I'm not one of those assholes that claims to only watch the Super Bowl for the commercials. If you are then perhaps you didn't notice that the last time the Big Game featured a memorably clever or entertaining ad was before the cost of a 30-second spot climbed well north of a million bucks. Anymore, it costs so much just to get on the air that I'm surprised even the deep pockets at Anheuser-Busch haven't resorted to a half minute of grainy, handheld footage of your dad sitting in his Fruit of the Looms with his favorite can of pisswater in hand, watching himself on TV watching himself on TV watching himself on TV, production values and content be damned. Who knows, maybe on Sunday that's exactly what it'll come to, and I still won't buy their beer.
I also can't really claim to watch for the football. The last two rounds of the playoffs featured games played in Green Bay, one in a snowstorm and the other in sub-zero temps. The Super Bowl, however, will be played in Arizona under a roof, where it will be 68 degrees with no wind. That's not football weather; that's basketball weather, and basketball is boring.
But before I go and bore everyone by writing about sports, I'll cut myself off and just give you my prediction: Giants 31, Pats 28. Yup, Giants win.
Now settle down, New England! Just settle the frick down before I have to get Bucky fuckin' Dent out here to make you. I don't predict this upset because I actually think New York has a chance, but more as a prayer for the soul of the municipality of Boston and the whole of New England. You're whole identity is wrapped up in being the lovable losers and you've gotten away from that of late. I only want you, you hearty bean-eaters of the frigid North, to be comfortable in your own (obviously thick) skin, and winning doesn't become you. The rest of the country just doesn't know who you are anymore to the point where we're actually rooting for a team from (gasp!) New York.
I mean sure, if I ever turn gay (it is a choice, right?), Tom Brady will be right at the top of my list duking it out with Eddie Vedder, but I've got to go with the underdog here. Sorry Tom, go Giants.
Did I just publish that?