Last Sunday, I broke the sound barrier in my living room.
Have you ever heard a high-pitched screech that was so annoying and loud you wanted to scrape your own ears out with a fork?
That was me during the commercials.
I hate Taco Bell.
Okay, so I guess I get a little excited watching the game. I suppose I was a wee bit too intense. And sure, at one point during the fourth quarter, my head spun around and flames shot out my ass. But it’s football, baby!
I have been a ginormous football fan since Doug Flutie snarfed down cornflakes. And before you all turn on me and start whining “But the Patriots are cheaters! They deflated balls! I think,,,! …maybe…?! Well if they didn’t deflate balls they did SOMETHING BAD because NO TEAM CAN BE THAT GOOD!”
Firstly: I have to love the New England Patriots. It’s a rule here. If I don’t, Marky Marktastic Mark Wahlberg gets all up in my grill.
Secondly, na-na-na-na, neer-neer!
I get it — you are all sick to death of the Pats winning and being all amazing and stuff. I used to feel the same about the Cowboys. But do you all realize how long I’ve suffered? I lived through Tony Eason! And Drew Bledsoe! And the Refrigerator Perry! Don’t you think all this winning is deserved? And don’t you agree that I had something to do with it?
It’s a hard lonely life loving Tom Brady. Giselle, you know what I’m talking about. I won’t even go into how much my own husband loathes Brady. He’s got oodles of money. Buttloads of talent. Dimples. (Probably on his butt too, but hey, I don’t give a shit.)
So this Super Bowl Sunday, think of me screaming into an empty living room, while my man Brady slides that sixth ring onto his finger. Or screaming because they lost and Brady is in a fetal position on the 20 yard line. You’d all love that, wouldn’t you?
Whatever happens, please dear god, no more puppy-monkey-baby commercials.