28 August 2009
“Lo, and the Lord said unto the faithful, ‘The football is good, and thou shalt have it.’ But, unto his children he spake a caveat, ‘Ye, the football shall be watchethed, but only by he who eateth a bunch of wings and puncheth thine walls when his starting quarterback injureths himself and is lost for the majority of the season.”
I, for one, would like to take a moment to thank our Lord for the return of our most favorite of pastimes and drinking excuses. In His honor, I will worship at the alter of my local bar, and genuflect by watching the heinous play of my wayward Bengals. Also, I’ll drink a shit-load of bloody Marys. For those of us who have looked forward to the first week of football, the excitement is almost too much to handle. Last season, I was so excited that I was passed-out next to a dead hooker before half time. In an effort to help you get the most out of the first time in seven months you’ve cared about something, I’ve decided to put together an itinerary. Note: all times are PST; because games start at 10 a.m., we get to drink a lot earlier than all you Quakers, out there.
3:oo a.m. – Wake up. Practice tantric masturbation for three hours to center yourself. Orgasm pure energy.
6:00 a.m. – Make a pitcher of margaritas [FN 1]. Put on your “Get Pumped” mix CD to get pumped in a manner commensurate with the occasion. Mine consists of fourteen straight tracks of “I Don’t Know Much (But I Know I Love You)” by Aaron Neville. Drink the pitcher of margaritas. Shit, while your at it, make a margarita pizza [FN 2].
7:30 a.m. – You’re going to want to warm up your rage muscles, because even though it’s the first week, you’re inevitably going to see something in their play which convinces you that your favorite team is going to have a shitty season. Such as, “they’re from Detroit.” I like to do ten minutes of yelling exercises, followed by three sets of wall punches.
8:30 a.m. – Make your lucky breakfast of two soft-boiled eggs with toasted, buttered, French bread soldiers [FN 3.] Sure, this lucky breakfast hasn’t worked in terms of bringing you happiness during the football season, but – hey! – you’ve never gotten Ebola after eating it, so it must be doing something right.
9:00 a.m. – Generally, this is the time of day when you’re going to start getting the shakes and hyperventilating, in anticipation of kick-off. The best way to calm these sensations? You guessed it: drinking mescal and huffing model airplane glue. Another way to calm yourself is to set a terrible towel on fire. And a Steelers fan.
9:30 a.m. – bang hot chicks.
9:45 a.m. – [If you happen to be on the East Coast – or follow a team other than those that generally start their games at 1:00 EST – good for you! You get to start drinking now, and will be able to get drunk, throw up, nap, and start drinking again, all before your particular kick-off. Hooray, you! ] Begin your pilgrimage to the sports bar (unless you have Dish Network, in which case, fuck you and your Sunday Ticket.) I suggest leaving a trail of cigarettes, so you can find your way home after the game.
10:00 a.m. – Ohboyohboyohboyohboyohboyohboy. Order second bloody mary.
10:01 a.m. – Well, it’s official: the Bengals are mathematically eliminated from the playoffs. If you listen closely, you can hear Mike Brown being inept while counting his money and blindly piloting my favorite football team towards yet another unyielding maelstrom of suck.
10:02 a.m. – Order your third bloody Mary since getting to the bar. Also order nachos. And wings. And artichoke dip. And a breakfast burrito.
10:30 a.m. – I tend to be a pretty reticent football viewer while I’m at the bar, but I’m not averse to standard, perfunctory conversation every once in a while. It’s important to know, however, that if you’re engaged in conversation with someone while the game’s going on, there’s a good chance you may be interrupted by the other person when someth- OH, MY GOD, HOW THE FUCK COULD YOU DROP THAT FUCKING PASS! CATCH SOMETHING, YOU FUCKING MONGOLOID!!!
1:00 p.m. – Well, the morning game is over, and you have several options open to you: (1) you can stay at the bar and continue to try and woo that cute bartender (I think his name is Dave); (2) you can emerge from your cavern of iniquity, scratchy-throated and heartbroken, to voyage home and nap the nap of the valiant; or (3) if you’re a Steelers fan, you can, you know, eat babies, or whatever it is you sick fucks do. I generally opt for the nap…
1:30 p.m. – …But not before making a traditional post-game snack of chile con queso. Melt shredded cheddar and Velveeta in a double boiler, then add in some cream, onion, peppers, and whatever else your shriveled, defeated heart can dream up. Slow down your afternoon drinking by nursing 18 Modelo Negros. Weep softly. Nap.
5:00 p.m. – Tune in to Football Night in America to watch an hour and fifteen minutes of Brett Favre coverage. Get out your punchin’ fist one more time.
9:00 p.m. – It’s been a long day, so you’re going to want to pack it in a little early. Stake yourself out a nice, comfortable spot next to the toilet. And, hey, no worries about work tomorrow, because when you call in sick, you won’t be lying. Plus, it will give you all day to drink before Monday Night Football. God, I love this sport [FN 4].
FN 1. As such: 1.5 parts good tequila, 1 part lime juice, 1/2 part Cointreau (or Triple Sec.) Rim the glass (not in the sexy way) with salt, and pour over ice.
FN 2. As such: Awww, you know how to do this, already, you chef, you.
FN 3. As such: boil water, drop in the eggs, remove from the heat, then let steep for 7 minutes (for XL eggs, 5 or 6 for smaller ones.) Remove eggs and run under cold water. Cut off the tops and dip toasted matchstick-sized segments of french bread into that luscious volcano of cholesterol.
FN 4. Apologies for the lack of culinary excellence in this post, as well as for it being so Bengals-centric. Speaking of the Bengals, please be sure to take a moment to join the revolution. If not for me, do it for Karen, here…