You people have no idea how delighted I am that this year’s Super Bowl won’t be played on a Monday night.
What’s that, Bubbas and Bubbettes? You say you feel differently? That’s fine, and I’ll accept your difference of opinion if you can answer me this one, simple question:
Who the fuck is that sidelined blonde on ABC’s Monday Night Football, and why is she soiling the alter of man’s last unfeminized sport with her estrogen-laced girly-gargling?
I probably should have put that line in quotes and told everyone that some guy shouted it out in a bar (thereby calming any fan fears that The Thirteenth Apostle would stoop to using misogynistic hate-speech), but… FUCK THAT. I said it, and I’ll stand by it until some Tae Bo twat slaps me silly and proves to me that a woman should be allowed on the playing field of a sport that would otherwise mutilate her tender-tittied body!
And you wanna know something else, ladies?
I couldn’t give a rat’s rectum about fucking football!
That’s right. I hardly ever watch it except when confronted with it in someone else’s house or am surrounded by twenty-eight TV’s showing it in a bar. I don’t follow it at all. I can’t even tell you who won last year’s Super Bowl. But…
I’ve played it. I understand it. I can call it. I could even provide color commentary if they paid me to learn it. I’ve earned the right to comment on it because I can physically and mentally relate to it without having to resort to lines that were handed to me on a teleprompter. Sure, any layman who hasn’t “been there” can report on anything unique – space missions, volcanic eruptions, bad sex – without having experienced it first-hand. But…
They don’t interject personal metaphors and coffee-klatch musings to explain what the audience is seeing on television – Sideline Sally does.
Hey, honey – What the fuck would you know about what getting kicked in the nuts feels like? How can you relate to that last hit So-And-So just took in the kidneys? Is there anything you’ve caught while having your legs swept out from underneath you; your head impacting the ground so hard that you lost teeth before falling unconscious—wait… Don’t answer that last one.
Does getting kicked in the nuts feel like breaking a nail? Does taking a shot in the kidney’s sound like the time a shopping cart hit the door of your minivan? Does compressing six vertebrae and losing a full inch in height remind you of that really scary part of the last slasher flick you saw—you know, the one where you had to duck and hide your eyes?
And what do you know about morning after pain?
If you’re jumping in here and offering an answer that contains the words “child” and “birth” in the same sentence or word, save it. We’re heard it before. Childbirth is your curse, not man’s. We play football. Girls get wet, and girls who get wet watching football players get knocked up. Sor-reeey! The pain must be excruciating and something to which we’ll never be able to truly relate—
—WHICH IS WHY WE KEEP OUR FUCKING MOUTHS SHUT AND DON’T PRETEND TO ACT LIKE WE KNOW WHAT THE HELL WE’RE TALKING ABOUT IN FRONT OF TENS OF MILLIONS OF PEOPLE ON A GIVEN MONDAY NIGHT!
There. I feel much better now, but there’s one more aspect of your pussy-whipped pandering that needs to be addressed. I won’t belabor the point, but I’m not letting you get away with thinking you’ve escaped without me bringing up the real reason you took this gig…
Everyone knows you’re only there to get inside of the locker rooms so you can ooze and squeal over the dozens of yards of man-meat that greets your perfectly made-up eyes every time you do a post-game interview.
Keee-rist, honey. Your spoon-fed teleprompter observations and game forecasts make Dennis Miller look like the Nostradamus of the NFL.
Hell, even Oprah knows pigskin isn’t an appetizer that’s popular
in the Deep South.
The Thirteenth Apostle