My Dad grew up outside Pittsburgh, so he taught (brainwashed) me to root for the Steelers. If they’re in the big game, I treat the game and my social interaction like I have TB and watch it alone, or with him. Quarantined from the ancillary bullshit. Other than that, I don’t care.
When it’s whomever vs. whatever, I just drink and bash the commercials. Enough with the investment baby, I can’t take Danica “getting frisky” – we all know you’re not getting naked. You or that tranny from Biggest Loser. Shut up. Oh, and Pepsi? I’m drinking Coke now – your commercials are retarded. Lower jaw man pushing the Pepsi through the combine course. That’s delicious.
Here’s what you need to know. The nat’l anthem will be bastardized. The halftime show will have a neon green flag crops while some band from a generation ago “rocks it!” The commercials will let you down. The game? One in three chance to be a blowout on the epic scale of a Soviet weightlifter getting a prolapsed asshole from squatting 750 lbs. Me? I’ll drink, bet on squares, and pray the Steelers get an offensive line so I can enjoy next year. Eat Doritos, robots. Frito Lay says so.