My Super Bowl Party Was a Blast Until I Realized it Wasn’t Mine



Wow excuse my excitement, I just can’t contain it! Nothing is better than a field filled with fierce testosterone! Super Bowl Sunday is by far my second favorite holiday of the year (after Bill Belichick’s birthday of course). Besides, how can you throw the perfect Super Bowl party without being as ecstatic as I am? You can’t!

Eagles vs Patriots is the perfect matchup for the day. Two football powerhouses going at it! Love it! It can’t get better than this game with these two teams. As the perfect host I always set up exquisite columns of delicious dips for a multitude of chips. Guacamole, Garlic Dip, Hummus, you name it! Nobody will leave my party hungry – not today, not ever!

As the best party host in the world I always ensure everyone feels at home. I approach each individual at the party and let them know they’re valued through a witty icebreaker or hilarious pun. People love that kind of stuff, I’ve noticed. So naturally I am the talk of the party. My party, that I’m hosting for the Super Bowl. Football rocks!

I constantly spout football vernacular during the big game, so everyone knows how smart I am with sports! If you’re not continually displaying your athletic masculinity in front of others you’re not hosting the perfect Super Bowl party. “Oh c’mon, sack him baby!” I yell, inciting a simultaneous uproar throughout the house. “Damn it to Hell Tom Bradley, shoot the throw will ya?!” Everyone is impressed, as I notice them audibly raving about my sports acumen to one another. All eyes are on me, admiringly of course. I take advantage of the attention.

Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, I abruptly jump on the coffee table in the living room. I start dancing, wildly, of course. My Humps by The Black Eyed Peas is playing, which is my second favorite song (after Hotel California of course). The music takes over, I can’t control my body. I’m rocking out. Fergie’s transcendent lyrics have taken over my hips. I’m sweaty from all the dancing. Nobody can stop staring at the show. A blonde woman walks up to me.

“What the hell are you doing?!” She proclaims, exhibiting a facial expression filled with bewilderment and fear. “My Super Bowl party is for friends and family only, so get out! Who the fuck even are you?”

I couldn’t answer the blonde woman. Or was she a brunette? Maybe she had red hair with bleached tips? Perhaps a black wig? I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. Anymore? Maybe never. I don’t know. Who am I?

And where am I? It smells like a ham. Is this a supermarket? Wait, no, it’s the Super Bowl. I’m super confused. Where did everyone go? Fergie? Hello? My humps?

Wait. If Patriots are Americans that love America, and Eagles are America’s bird, does that mean Eagles are the biggest patriots of all? Did the biggest patriots of all beat the actual Patriots? Is America tearing itself apart from within? Why are we fighting ourselves? I don’t know.

I don’t even know where I am now. It’s dark – super dark, actually. I can’t see much at all. Except bowls of dip for chips. Now Bill Belichick is dipping the chips. Something tells me he wants to thumb wrestle. Or maybe mud wrestle? I never know when it comes to Bill. He has some hummus on the side of his lips. I don’t tell him. Not planning on embarrassing someone as irritable as he is. Now him and Fergie are passionately making out. Hotel California is playing softly in the background. An eagle is flying. Is this my favorite place?

I can’t leave.

I don’t really want to.

I don’t even know what I want.

I just know that I really love the Super Bowl.

Share!Share on Facebook8Tweet about this on TwitterShare on Reddit0Share on Tumblr0Share on StumbleUpon0Pin on Pinterest0Email this to someone