In this Sunday’s Super Bowl XLIX, the New England Patriots will go head to head with the Seattle Seahawks. These teams are apparently a formidable pair in the timeless American game of football! I know this because I just started watching NFL games a few weeks ago — you know, once the Patriots got into the playoffs.
That’s right. I’m one of those people that only cares about sports when the team I’m supposed to be a fan of due to regional and familial affiliation (or die at the hands of #patsnation) is doing well. And it’s awesome.
“Ugh, girls like you are so fake,” you say. You’re damn right I am! I can count the number of Pats players I know on one hand. The only time I’ve been inside Gillette Stadium was for a Rolling Stones concert. And I shout “GROOOONK!!!” to the heavens less often than I should. Now, I’m going to attend fun-filled Super Bowl parties where I pretend to have stakes in the game’s outcome! Are you angry yet?
Being a Patriots fan with no strings attached — nay, a naive NFL spectator — is a delight. Why torture myself with weekly wins and losses when I can save my spirits for when sports are actually fun? Are you truly fond of ogling Bill Belichick’s sideline grimace week after week? Besides, everyone knows that cheap beer tastes better when you chase it by shouting at a dear friend because they happen to be from Seattle. How wonderfully arbitrary!
Logically speaking, I have no reason to hate the Seahawks. But since the NFL is an absurd dystopia where logic has no place, I now loathe the team with every bit of my being. Pass the wings!
And let us not forget Deflategate! Oh, what a joy! Had I cheered on the Patriots all season, I probably wouldn’t have had the energy to laugh like a child every time Tom Brady said “balls.” This pseudo-scandal has no bearing on the rest of my life, but now that it’s time to fill my Patriots appreciation quota, I can’t get enough! Balls, balls, balls.
Football is less Breaking Bad and more American Idol — I don’t have to binge watch every episode before the season finale, just tell me who doesn’t suck so I don’t have to ask any questions. So bring on the nachos, uncomfortably sexual commercials for junk food, and a half-time show that doesn’t matter since Beyonce isn’t there (probably).
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