It doesn’t matter what you think of football and the hold it has on this country’s fleeting BBQ-flavored barbarianism, as now America is represented by the lowest of the losers, the self-pitying Lone Gunman, the prototypical potato-head killer of those innocents that are almost always in the most accessible of situations and involved in the most innocuous of casual activities. Why? The poor kid’s been bullied. And ignored. By the pretty girls. (!) And been made fun of by the popular boys. Can you imagine? (NODDING MY HEAD with the BELIEF that this is what EVERYONE goes through at some point) Is there not some land where we could fence off these walking lobotomies so they can have their way with each other, perhaps role-playing those who’ve done them wrong — in Social Studies, 4th Period, Mrs. Hendra’s room, where Jeremy will inevitably call our Kid Massacre a fitting derogatory epitaph that in the past might have given the young insecure homicidal spud some incentive to — oh, hell, I don’t know — found a software company, or hit the lab, poke some cadavers, and become lady-candy by way of a PHD. That’ll show Jeremy, the future warehouse lifer, a thing or two.
Not these days. Too much time. And effort. Need “revenge” now. In real time. Spite has gone the way of the ribbon typewriter and the bean-bag ashtray on the armrest of your grandpa’s recliner. Instead, we have sissified safe-distant rage and absolute self-annulment. Like these idiots and their throw-away lives never happened. (We can dream, can’t we?) All in the span of the average duration of an expanded trailer for whatever video game the simmering, button-pushing sociopaths are neck-high in at the moment.
But I digress.
I didn’t watch more than 5 minutes of football today. Why? Two reasons. 1) I’m a Vikings fan. Our promising young quarterback, Teddy Bridgewater, was injured a few weeks ago during the money-grab portion of the NFL calendar, the preseason. This is where teams play scrimmages against each other after training camp, some playing for keeps and others wisely shelving their top players for the real games in September. It doesn’t matter to the NFL. They sell tickets and merchandise during the preseason exactly as they do when the games actually count. But that’s another man’s blog post. Such discourse bores me to the most heated of beercan-tapping fidgetry. 2) Man…I just can’t. I mean, watching anything in a passive role is anathema to how I breathe at the moment. With every exhalation, an idea. With each inward lung-suck, a distinct pause for reflection for another way to bring more artifice to life.
I am in a zone.
And it’s not red.
And the Vikings are like the old girlfriend who calls you once a year, gets your head spinning no matter whose bed your hat is on, and will leave you speechless in an instant ` later, after you’ve followed her every move, and gleefully watched her set you up a’la Peppermint Patty, smiling sinister the entire time.
Until you’re not.
Because there is no way Gary Andersen just shanked that kick to get us in the goddamn Super Bowl. There is no freaking way that kick was no good by such a filthy, Vegas-smelling distance.
But it was. And it is. And it shall always be.
The sooner the Vikings’ season is over, the more time I’ll have to create and be w/ my girl and our 4-legged family. Because I like Sundays, especially those devoid of interceptions and ACL injuries.
And to the Purple People Eaters. I love you, guys. And even moreso when you’re led by a playoff caliber quarterback. Until then, I’ll be right here. Where my sentiment is safe and there’s no new-year heartbreak following a salacious and all-encompassing holiday affair.