I was clueless as to what she meant about men being “clueless” and was even more clueless as to what article I’ve published that a reader classified as being “serious.” But, I was ecstatic. Ever since the last Kachemak Bay Writers’ Conference where I was informed that humor writing was looked upon as “ghetto journalism,” I’ve diligently endeavored to improve my tomes to a level of intellectual content as to not be assigned a table by myself during this year’s conference.
I immediately responded to ascertain what academic treatise she was referencing. I also requested that she cool her jets on the metrosexual implications lest my buds misunderstand and start avoiding me like I just came back from a stint of herding sheep on Brokeback Mountain.
Her provided excerpts proved that my insights are not only spot-on but also timeless and should assure me a guest spot on Dr. Phil.
The following are four signals hinting that your husband may be hosting a Super Bowl party:
No. 1: Your mate phones before getting off work and inquires if you need anything from the store before he comes home. You are so stunned that you make something up just because he cared enough to call. When he finally shows up, he’s hauling eight tubs of multi-flavored “Henry’s Heart Cloggin’ Amalgamated Fat Dip”, two cases of Super Sized, Crispy Fried, Jalapeno Flavored, string cheese and a half dozen bags of potato chips the size of intercontinental airships but forgot the tofu curds you requested.
No. 2: Your spouse, who normally insists you do your wardrobe shopping at the 99 Cent Clothing Emporium, suddenly produces a heretofore unknown credit card and suggests you and every neighborhood housewife within a five-mile radius take this Sunday off to cruise the aisles at every mall within a 100-mile radius, have dinner out and take in a movie. (This specific behavior may be particularly insidious because it confirms your home has been designated to host this year’s massive male tribal gathering.)
Note: Only the most highly insured should consider sponsoring such an assemblage, but logic does not rule here. If you have the biggest TV screen in the hood, consider yourself dead meat.
Additional note: If your humble home is so selected and you have decided not to initiate divorce proceedings, it is suggested that you start taking contractual bids from professional cleanup crews specializing in imploded office buildings and collapsed urban freeways.
If you have a small pet, contact your local kennel to arrange for temporary housing lest it experiences the thrill of becoming a howling surrogate game ball should an impromptu contest break out in the living room during the boring and insipid lip synching halftime show. Livestock should be sequestered in locked barns to discourage spontaneous consumption during the second half should the half-ton of artery impairing snacks run low.
No. 3: On Saturday afternoon, while your husband is in the back yard laying out markers that suspiciously resemble parking slots, a brewery distributor calls to reconfirm that his driver will be able turn his 18-wheeler around in your driveway so that he can back up to the deck.
No. 4: You open Saturday’s mail and find the latest and official estimated costs for a Sunday emergency air drop delivery of two dozen 18-inch combination pizzas and a couple of hundred red hot buffalo wings from Dominos. They guarantee to throw in free garlic bread sticks if you return their logo stamped parachutes.
The previous caution signs are but a few that I’m aware of and I’m sure if you contact one of the several Super Bowl support groups around the peninsula, they will be able to provide you with additional material. Some of the warning signals I was able to share were furnished by my wife, Jane, who claims a sort of an in-depth, personal experience in dealing with male weirdness that I attribute to having to deal with my dog Howard.
Anyway, for those distaff members of the community who have disdain for football fanatics and the game itself, I hope the preceding vital behavioral imbalance indicators will be of some help. I truly empathize with you and would really like to spend more time discussing ways to deal with this abnormal frenzy but a bunch of Clydesdales just pulled into the yard with the brew and I still have to stamp a big X in the snow for the plane’s drop zone before kickoff time.
“Ghetto journalism,” my butt.
Nick C. Varney can be reached at NCVarney@gmail.com.
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