Super Bowl Sunday

It's around 3:30 in the afternoon on Super Bowl Sunday, and Mark has just come in the house jabbering something about a vulture out in front of the house. I stir from my big, fluffy recliner, and go out to see. Sure enough, directly in front of our house a gigantic bird is ripping apart what is left of a possum. When it sees me, it spreads it's six foot wings and lands on top of the house across the street, waiting patiently for me to leave so he can get another chance at that rotten possum carcass. I just hope this isn't a bad omen for the rest of my Sunday.

The reason Mark was out front is that he was just returning from the supermarket with bags, and bags of snacks for this evening. As far as I know, I am going to be watching a football game tonight. Mark on the other hand, has invited some people over for what might be called a Super Bowl party. I hate parties. I can handle small dinner parties, and small cocktail parties, but I hate large gatherings. Maybe this can be traced back to the fact that I come from such a massive family, I don't know, but I hate parties. What I usually do at big parties is grab a cocktail, find a decent place to sit, and then never move again until Mark says it's time to go. I hate Super Bowl parties even more than a regular party, because I actually like to watch the game. All those other people will only be a distraction. Most people at Super Bowl parties aren't even interested in the game. If I hear another person say, "I just watch it for the commercials." I just might shoot them. The same goes for any ass clown who tells me to call them into the living room when Madonna comes on. Hell, that's when I'll be in the bathroom. I've seen Madonna live, and she was quite entertaining, but for me halftime is for peeing, and reloading my cocktail. Oh, and those commercials? They'll be on plenty over the next few months, and thanks to my DVR I'll get a glimpse of them while I fast-forward.