Sunday, January 22, 2023


Due to circumstances beyond my control, I have been exposed to televised sports. Mayhem. Today I overheard a talking rump on teevee stating pontifically that the Fortyniners challenge the physicality. Which, if you ask me, is a paradigm shift. And redefines the gestalt. I do not know if this applies to the whole city or just the numeric sports unit. It all sounds mighty karmic to me, I need to hug my dolphin now.

Somewhere a gluten is weeping.
It's positively existential.

Other than that, I paid no attention to the game. I am very glad that I do not have to clean the chair where the retired member of the judicial branch may have shat himself from excessive excitement, as I will not be in tomorrow. Apparently we've sufficiently challenged physicalities and triumphed, which means something. Probably postponement of the end times and the apocalypse, or an escape of gluten.

Look, I don't know. America's absurd fascination with "football" is baffling.
Beer and cheese covered nachos are good for you.
It's brainfood.
The apocalypse will probably occur next Sunday. These end-times opportunities occur on a weekly basis. When I got home my apartment mate was in front of her computer and proudly informed me that she had spent the entire day in her pajamas and had done absolutely nothing, it had been wonderful. Which sounds great. We didn't discuss the game at all.
It is likely that she doesn't even know it was on, or who the hell the Fortyniners are.

If I ever become involved in a romantic relationship, it will have to be a woman with an equal disinterest in football. The three of us will discuss cheez whiz, barbecue sauce, and jalapeños, without any recourse to idiotic spectacles.

No damned pigskins.

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