Slumber Bowl Party

While I am loathe to admit any accuracy or truth in a woman's perception, after watching the bumbling clusterfuck of the Superbowl, I was looking for a gun to chew on.

Having pumped the jukebox full of crumpled dollar bills, I was excused from the pre-game blather and commentary, instead watching several hundred young girls have synchronized epileptic seizures while burned out artists sang burned out songs, all muted by Jimi Hendrix. And the blabbering drunkard next to me, one of those omniscient redneck fucktards that knows everything about his motor vehicle and football team, in this case a John Deere tractor and the New England Patriots. Waiting for the pregnant bartender to roll over with the Turkey bottle, and tuning out the buzzing frequency of this guy's voice, I thought to myself Goddamn, this is going to be a long game.

I had no idea.

So afterblack Beyonce screeched the anthem and four Black Hawk helicopters somehow flew over the stadium without crashing, the coin flipped -- and everything went downhill from there. Indeed, with the exception of a couple comedic Bud commercials and Vinatieri shanking a 31 yard field goal attempt, I was hardly aware a football game was being played. 27 long scoreless minutes of holding penalties, delay of game, and punts from the paint, during which I learned the entire history of professional football from the penultimate Patriot fan. Perhaps the officials might have spiced up the game a bit, perhaps offering those strapping young men something other than money for victory. Something tangible, like emancipation, or parole. I've seen skinny black kids run with $20 purses faster than those bastard Panthers with the pigskin, and that was when I made a decision.

Everybody on the Carolina team had bet long on the Patriots, and well over the 33.

There was simply no other excuse for the ragtag high school to which I and nearly 130 million fellow Americans gave 4 hours of our lives. After all, this was a religious holiday. While the Towel Worshippers were trampling each other during the Hajj pilgrimage and the Democrats scurried for primary votes, our public consciousness had been dosed heavy with hopes of watching sports history. And after almost three quarters of game time, if the most exciting play you've seen on the screen is Justin Timberlake exposing Janet Jackson's breast, it's time to change the channel. Or favorite sports team. Or barstool, which was not an option as the bourbon took hold of my reasoning abilities, and conspired with my burning fuse to show this football fanatic at my side how the game was played.

"You're a fool," I muttered as my glass clattered across the mahoghany. "The only reason your Pats are up in because those Cats are on the fix. They're going to throw the game, cash out their bets, and spend the next six months holed with Haitian groupies and bales of mad pot. Your victory will be a hollow one."

"Yeah, but I'm gonna win" claimed my adversary as he brandished a fistful of medium-sized bills. "I bet my income tax return on these guys. They have to win."

"They only thing they have to do is go home in shame," I sneered, suddenly a devout fan of the Panthers. "Because they're going to blow that lead and we'll end up in the first overtime of Super Bowl history. And when it comes down to sudden death, your boys are gonna die."

"You wanna back that up?" he challenged.

"What the fuck are you gonna pay me with?" I laughed, counting my own thinning sheaf of money. "You've already bet everything you have. What do you have left to lose?"

"I just got paid yesterday," he grinned, producing a crisply folded paycheck. "And I'll sign it over to you, if the Patriots don't win."

"In regulation play," I refined, making sure the barkeep heard the stipulation. "We're too far into the game to lay money on the final score. I'll match your check, and I say the clock's gonna run out before this game is over."

Well, aside from shoving my bare cock into women of ill-repute, and drinking from unwashed bar glasses, I can hardly claim to be a gambling man. I didn't even have my 7 points any more. But I wanted nothing more at that point in my life for this man to go home an abject failure, let down by his bartender, his quarterback, and his wife for having his faith placed in the New England Patriots.

The rest is sad history, pieced together from eyewitnesses, Sportscenter, and my bruised ribs. In a premature fervor, I reportedly began celebrating with Jagermeister as the Pats made their last desperate run down the field. With all four of his failed efforts in this stadium, Vinatieri had no chance of surviving the pressure and winning this game. I was gonna go home with my bar tab paid, story in hand, and call every woman I knew until one agreed to come over and empty my vesicles. I wasn't watching when Tom Brady completed two more quick passes to leave only 41 yards between Vinatieri's foot and the uprights. All I knew was the board said 29 all, betting men were jumping around the bar in a frenzy, and with 4 seconds left on the clock, I watched some $400 sail through the air and right through the posts.

Lucky for me, I live in a podunk town where only a miniscule proportion of the populace grosses more than $10 an hour, and even luckier my bank had an ATM across the lot. And under the close scrutiny of three smug thugs I coughed up my pride and pay, while that cocksucker Tom Brady drove off in his new Cadillac Convertible, and I lost again.