Meanwhile, the elderly incontinents in the backroom screaming at the teevee and got their scrotes twisted over the San Francisco numerics fighting the Seattle seafowl.
A staggering performance in which I had no interest.
I am, apparently, defective.
Bleach. Vodka. Petroleum distillate. Rotten stone, red compound, white compound.
Beeswax. Twiddly tools. Blades. Buffing wheels.
And aged Virginia.
That's another point of difference between me and the filthy buggers.
Two score steroid meatballs sweatily pounding each other while poncing in shiny spandex is NOT by any reasonable standard entertainment for a rational civilized person. I remain utterly baffled at the huge number of fans that game has. Surely so many people can't all be morons fouling their adult diapers screaming over the spectacle? Is there something addictive and psychoactive in the crappy beer? Mass insanity? Hypnosis? A disease deeply embedded within the American psyche from kindergarten onward?
A football game cannot have, and this is axiomatic, even one iota of the appeal and intellectual fascination of a burrito. It's self evident and needs no explanation.
Carnitas, cheese, rice, no beans. Hot sauce.
Made putting up with disaggreeable old fossils bearable.
Fortunately I did not have to talk with them.
Just yelled at them back there.
Sportive words.
So yeah, I enjoyed the game. Well fought, chaps.
Bravo, kudos, and words of praise. I am clapping.
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