Well, crap. Eagles, Pats. No thank you, sir. I do not want a bowl of your porridge. It will take a lot more to entice me to enter your van. I’m looking for more of a solid food option, maybe some veal or beef stroganoff. I don’t think I’ve ever had beef stroganoff. How is it? It sounds kind of expensive but at the same time, trashy. Kind of like Lindsay Lohan. Man, she used to be a total smoke show. My puberty ran congruent with Lindsay Lohan’s rise from cute little duplicate from “Parent Trap”( if that’s not amazing talent, playing two characters who look the same but are different, ohh boy, I don’t know what is) to this. You’re welcome.
So, basically, I grew, and grew up with Lindz. I became a man when Lindsay became a woman. Not at the exact same time, unfortunately, but I feel like we have a connection. She, without a doubt, feels the same.
Now if you offered that instead of porridge, sir, I would enter the van. I have no clue what Lindsay Lohan is up to these days but I refuse to attempt to find out because this is how I want to remember her. Beautiful, elegant and able to play two characters in one movie.
God, I really don’t feel like talking about Sundays’ games or the Super Bowl. I have not been less interested in a Super Bowl since the 2011 season. That year I swore I would not watch. For two weeks I sat in my small room in my small apartment in New York reveling in the stench of defeat and utter despair. Paralyzed with a cocktail of severe depression, wanting loneliness and thoughts of what could have been. Lee Evans’ drop and Billy Cundiffs’ shank running on loop in my brain, over and over…nothing that could make it stop. I thought about jumping from my window. I was only on the second floor but at least the pain of an injured ankle would temporarily distract me from the loop. Lee Evans drop, Billy Cundiff shank. Lee Evans Drop, Billy Cundiff shank. Lee Evans drop, Billy Cundiff shank. Lee Evans drop, Lindsay Lohan’s boobs, Billy Cundiff shank. It was a very dark time in my life. No chance I was tuning in to that Super Bowl. No chance. I won’t do it. This would be the first Super Bowl I missed since I escaped from my mother’s cave. But, like most promises that I make to myself, I came up quite short. I must have a touch of masochism in my blood because when 5:45 pm came around on Super Bowl Sunday, I quite literally rolled out of my bed and stumbled down the steps to the corner bodega( it’s what you have to call corner stores in New York or the locals will throw pit bull shit at you) and bought myself a 12 pack of Bud Light Platinum and a bag of Tostitos. I didn’t have enough money for salsa or queso. I made the ascent back up my stairs, fell through the door, took my pants off, opened a beer and the bag of chips, lay down on the couch and turned on the damn TV. With all of the lights off and in my Ravens’ boxers and a white undershirt that hadn’t been washed in weeks, I drank my spiked bud lights and watched the game I swore that I wouldn’t. That was my Super Bowl party in February of 2012. One year later, I was in New Orleans with my best friends, collecting beads and watching the Ravens hoist the Lombardi trophy with nothing but ecstatic joy pulsing through my veins. What a difference a year makes, my friends. An all time redemption story and I was the leading man. From the depths of despair all the way to the mountaintop. I essentially climbed Everest that year.
Clearly, this year’s Super Bowl does not bring any of the same emotions as that one. Not even in the same ballpark. I’m not in any way trying to compare the two. I just don’t feel like watching this year’s edition. I have no interest in seeing Bill Belichick or Tom Brady doing anything ever again. Not just during a football game. Anything! I guess I’ll be, ” rooting,” for the Eagles. ‘Rooting’ being used as loosely used as possible. I don’t really have any reason to hate the Eagles, but I do hate the Flyers a lot and they share the same psychotically angry fan base so I can’t root for them to be happy. When I was about seven years old, on Super Bowl Sunday, my Dad took me to a Caps, Flyers game at the old Caps Center (believe it was called U.S. Air arena at that point.). It was a great game as the Caps won in overtime when Steve Konowalchuck lifted a backhander over the glove of Ron Hextall. The place was going nuts and I was in heaven. The Caps crowd did the usual sing-song chant at Ron Hextall throughout the game and I thought it was the coolest thing ever. Hexxxxtallll, Hexxxxtalll. Fast-forward 15 minutes as we were in the parking lot in a traffic jam on the way out. I continued to chant Hexxxtalll, Hexxxtalll as loud as I could. I glanced to my right and I saw this giant mulleted, mustached Flyers fan staring at me, giving me the finger, and mouthing “f*** you, you little shit.” I have never been more terrified in my life and that still stands today. I was seven. This monster’s face still shows up in my dreams. If the Patriots win the Super Bowl, Bill Belichick will be happy. If the Eagles win, this monster will be happy. He’s probably dead or in prison but somewhere he will be happy. I don’t want that.
I’m also a big fan of futility and it makes me sad when teams that have long been mired in droughts, end the misery. It’s going to be kind of a bummer if the Eagles finally win a Super Bowl. I guess I have no choice but to root for that, though. I still have positive feelings towards Torrey Smith so I guess I can get behind him. He still should have gone up and snatched that ball in the endzone in the 2014 playoffs in New England though. Blahhhhhh.
Eagles 27, Pats 20
Because this blog is no fan of chronology, let me bitch about those two b.s. pass interference calls that completely changed the Jags, Pats game yesterday. There is nothing that makes me angrier while watching a game seeing a ref get caught up in the moment. It happens all the time in basketball when the home team is in the midst of a run, the crowd is going crazy and the ref can’t contain his excitement as he calls a bogus charge on the visitors. He puffs his chest out and lays into the call like I would lay into Lindsay Lohan circa 2008. So proud of himself…his one chance to stand out and be applauded by the home crowd. That’s what happened yesterday. After Gronk got destroyed, and a flag came flying out in the type of call that will one day put a fork in the NFL, the New England crowd was fired up and the Patriots for the first time in the game had slight momentum. The next play, Brady, almost knowing what the outcome would be chucks it deep down the sideline. The Jags corner played it beautifully and yet the back-judge seized the moment. It was his chance to shine. The little man with a chance to make his presence known. The guy who never gets attention all of a sudden catches a glimpse from prettiest girl in the room and has to do something to make her keep noticing him. He chucked that flag with a grin and more gusto than a bull impaling his tormenter, the matador. At the expense of the Jaguars and their Super Bowl dreams, this little shit had his moment. Congrats bud. You got your cheer. You got your chowder. But as soon as the next snap happened, you were forgotten again. No one knows who the hell you are. You are small and pointless. Be gone.
The next two days are my last days in my twenties. If you’d like to send money to congratulate me on making it to 30, hit me up @finkerstinker and we can coordinate a way for you to wire me money. Thanks in advance for your contributions.