Well ladies and gentlemen, that time of year is here again and I could probably muster up the gumption to care less.
Even still, my apathy over the big game this weekend has achieved a station sufficient enough to meet expectations. It would seem that caring any less would be a calorie burn that I could direct at other activities.
Writing blogs about my Saturday morning activities while avoiding eye contact with a certain LabJack Terrorist who’s pacing the hallways here at the compound as she tries to recall what day it is comes to mind.
None the less, I watched one game this season. That was the AFC championship a few weeks ago. Beyond that, my level of engagement with all things NFL has been relegated to a position where it serves as a snark-target here on TharpSter.Org.
As a result of my purposeful disengagement from the sport over the last two years, I’m now at a point where I can name exactly one player who will be on the field tomorrow. Perhaps Len Dawson will pull one out this time.
I wonder if that hurts the dog’s nose when she bumps my chair in a vain attempt to admonish me it’s time to go put in some steps.
One interesting tidbit that came out of the office celebration leading up to this weekend’s game was the instance where a department potluck led to a fire alarm.
Two hours later, after all who had evacuated the building had returned to their cubicles in favor of furthering the mission of the mutual fund industry, an email from office services was sent out to reiterate the rules around having food in the departments. The most notable reminder was a bold font admonishment that sterno and other open flames are not allowed, as they’re known to produce safety concerns.
Even still, the fire and the subsequent evacuation were more palatable than seeing various gooches of kinetic retards dawning gear in support of those fetid turd burglars who represent that hellhole about five hours north on I-35.
Sure I’ve disengaged from the NFL, but that won’t keep me from harboring and expelling vast quantities of disdain and other ill will for that team.
Interestingly enough, I don’t know if it’s as much my hatred for the team itself or for the bandwagon-like agape love people express for a given team or celebrity in general. It just comes off as idolatry to me, and generally exits the realm of things I really need to care about.
At this point I’m ambivalent on whether I’ll watch the game or not. I’ll probably just tune in long enough to see the rumored commercial featuring Mean Joe Greene and that boy he gave his jersey to back in the 80’s.
I really don’t want to watch it, and I know I could find other things to do. Cleaning the bathroom, scheduling my next rectal exam, and reading the ramblings of unhinged leftists on social media come to mind, but those are right behind cleaning out my garage.
Go team, I guess.
