As such, it is our cherished duty to spend all day and night having fun with friends, poisoning our innards with greasy foodstuffs and beer and bean dip while we gamble away Junior’s 529 plan on stupid prop bets. That is what American Jesus™ wants us to do! (American Jesus™ digs that sweet, sweet cash. That’s why He hates the poors!) Sure, Super Bowl Sunday stands as a slovenly day of decadence and bad decision-making—but that doesn’t mean we have to be uncouth about it and torpedo someone’s big party. We are too old for that, and besides, we’re not heathens. (Anymore.)
As upstanding #SportsDads and girl #SportsDads in your communities, it’s incumbent upon you to not be “That Guy” at your chosen Sunday gathering spot. You can forever ruin your digestive track and/or your financial future … just don’t spoil everyone’s good time. That is unacceptable. Follow these rules:
DON’T BE THE NERVOUS GAMBLER
Gamble all you want, friend. We’re not here to judge. Just don’t harsh everyone’s good time by openly fretting about your bet(s) every nine seconds while softly crying. If the Patriots NOT covering the spread results in you becoming a homeless derelict, then (A) you bet too much money and (B) you need to be watching the game elsewhere. Like, say, not around my kids.
Also, don’t bet any amount on the Patriots, ever. Really. That organization is so vile that any cash recovered is tainted blood-money from the Underworld and it will curse your soul. Learn from my mistake.
SIMMER DOWN ON THE “SUPER BOWL SQUARES” GAME
Along the same lines of the “Nervous Gambling Guy” move, you certainly don’t want to rage-punch a hole in your buddy’s armoire because Matt Bryant missed a late first-quarter field goal that would’ve won you the first $20 pool. There is nothing not uncomfortable about that—especially when you losing means that Jimmy the third grader wins. Let the kids win, man. Watch their eyes light up with the joy of winning! It’s good for party morale AND it’ll hook ‘em on gambling for life!
That’s called parenting S-M-A-R-T!
DON’T BE THE PROFESSIONAL ADVERTISING GUY CRITIQUING COMMERCIALS
We got it, faux-Don Draper who used to work at Angie’s List: You think the Mountain Dew Kickstart commercial was cast all wrong and ACTUALLY the story arc of the Skittles ad was very poorly conceived. Did we need your twelve billion-word dissertation on it? Probably not. Now go jump down a volcano and leave us alone. Everyone hates you.
DON’T BE THE COOL GUY POOH-POOHING THE COMMERCIALS EITHER
You just LOATHE the commercials, do you? They’re for chicks, are they? You’re just here for the football, huh? They’re a waste of money, are they? Neat.
Go drink your Axe Body Spray-and-Coke and settle down, meathead. There’s a party down the street you can go to, at Twin Peaks in Castleton, probably.
Everyone there also loves explaining real loudly why they hate the commercials and there are puppies there you can kick right in the face, too. It’s a man’s-man place!
LAY OFF THE POLITICAL TALK
This game—this gathering—is our brief respite from the madness, our shoddy lifeboat in this endless sea of WTF!? It’s all we have for now. It’s as close to normal as we’ll have until Carb Day.
Therefore, nobody needs to hear you waxing all Maddow-y about how filibustering the next thousand #SCOTUS nominees is actually patriotic. Similarly, you can holster that impassioned HE’S JUST SHAKING THINGS UP! speech you’ve been dying to give. There might be a time to change hearts and minds, but that won’t be Sunday in Craig’s living room, when everyone is trying to forget the outside world/has a feedbag filled with chili fries and whisky strapped to their heads.
DON’T BE RON JAWORSKI BREAKING DOWN THE PRE-SNAP DEFENSIVE COVERAGE
“See the safety moving to toward line? They’re in a Cover-3 robber dragon blitz with over-the-top razor coverage tilted toward Julio Jones! See that? DO YOU SEE THAT??”
[does that every play for the next 4 hours]
No. No, I don’t see that. I have zero idea what the words coming out of your mouth even mean. Please stop talking. We’re begging you.
TAKE IT EASY ON THE BOOZE
Nothing good is coming from you drunkenly judo-kicking the flatscreen on a dare and passing out upstairs all folded up in a crib. If nothing else, it is Sunday night, after all. The real world hits in about 10 hours—with or without you having a functioning nervous system. Keep it respectable, gang. There are too many kids around to let it go completely sideways on a Sunday night. We are too old for that, and besides, we’re not derelicts. (Anymore.)
Enjoy the game, everyone. Be good.
~Falcons 38, Patriots 35~
