For those of you who know me, you know that I'm a 100%, Grade-A, world-class idiot. As the chateaubriand is to a cut of meat, or as Pulp Fiction is one of the greatest films ever, I'm the equivalent of both when it comes to my propensity to put myself in uncomfortable situations.
Now, you also know that I'm also a die-hard Boston sports fan. With the exception of the Bruins, I breathe for Boston sports. Never got hockey, my bad. Something about missing teeth and 150mph missiles flying at my plums. Early memories of flipping on the Sox game with my dad, wallowing in misery through years of Pats (at best) mediocrity, and local college hoops formed the warped mass of flesh here. I'll freely admit: I'm on the fence about the Celtics, but that's not because I don't like pro hoops. It's more of the fact that I once drove Antoine Walker, he with the enormous debt and even bigger ass, from Logan to his rookie training camp on the illustrious Brandeis campus in lovely Waltham, MA. I was gamely trying to make chit-chat on that awkward 1/2 hour ride, but apparently 'Toine didn't like me, thus decided to tell me, and I quote: "Shut the fuck up." Needless to say, there's part of me that's not unhappy that he is so in debt that it's surprising he's not sleeping with the fish.
So, on to the point! While this may not make Britney Spears/Tiger Woods/Brett and his orange Crocs-level of idiocy, I mercilessly teased my friends and colleagues on Friday on the utter dominance of the Patriots, and one T. Brady of Quincy, MA. My mantra? "You're dead."
If you're not from Wisconsin, you gotta understand that the Packers are right behind one J. Christ of Jerusalem when it comes to deities. And, the poll numbers are tracking pretty darn close right now. So for me to rake them over the coals re: their shortcomings, I might as well have marched them outside into our balmy Wisconsin weather (I think we had a high of 2 today), made them drop their pants and laughed at the area between knees and navels.
Well, the Cheeseheads almost got their due. Last night's game was a nail-biter, and I do mean that honestly. Pack came out fast and looked efficient; Pats looked lifeless as if they were already in Dallas and hoisting trophy #4. Had it not been for an 4th quarter freak fumble by a rookie QB, I may have fled to Mexico and started a new life as Joaquim the cabana boy in Cancun.Cervesa? Si!
I took the diplomatic route today, waxing nicely about what a good game it was, but those green-and-golders could see the insecurity in my eyes: they knew, and they had prepared the night before to commence a wonderful beat-down. It's like I finally got to bump uglies with the prom queen, but lasted all of 5 minutes. I've learned my lesson: keep my mouth shut and unless I take the high route, don't be a twit.
Oh, there was another bad omen last night. My pair of football boxer shorts, which I've had over 10 years, split a hole in a relative - *ahem* - inconvenient spot. I've been wearing these on Pats Sundays religiously so I'm about to whip out the duct tape and stapler in order to ensure they make it one more month. But fittingly, as I was about to shit myself last night, I had a big hole where one was not needed. If you're thinking last-minute Christmas ideas for your pal Jeremy, there you go!
Thought you needed to know.