I call Super Bowl Sunday, “Mansgiving” because it’s the day I’m most thankful that I’m a Man (does a Man change his sheets less than four times a year?). Everything about Super Bowl Sunday is so ultra “Dude” that it gets me hard just thinking about all of the Dude stuff (forget I said that). Think about the day: violence, wings, nachos, beers, shots, violence that could break someone’s leg, commercials with chicks so out of your league that you think they could be in your league if your life was a sitcom called “King of Queens,” pickleback shots, seven layer dip, clothing so comfortable you could fall asleep standing up, a reason to say “damn it woman the game is on,” violence so awesome it could send a man into a post-football depression that makes the public question whether the sport will exist in thirty years, and TV ALL DAY! It’s an important day and if you end up at a party with your girlfriend and her friends then you should just turn in your “Man Card” and by “Man Card” I mean “balls.” Just cut off your balls and leave them at the dead baby drop off point they have at the firehouse. Your balls are gone just like that person’s baby.
How will I spend the day? Luckily, like on St Patrick’s Day and Halloween, just as I was pondering that question, I was throwing a coin in a well, I hit my head really hard, and lightning struck me all at the same time...and when I came to, I was living.... IN THE FUTURE. Here’s what happened (what will happen? whoa.):
9:30 AM: Wake up time. Man, feeling so fresh. There is a slightly pudgy gal laying in my bed naked (she looks like Horatio Sanz in wig with dark eyeliner so not too horrible). She’s moaning, probably from a hangover and regret, but I like to believe it’s because we rocked each other’s world last night. She explains that we didn’t have sex. She tells me I was more interested in attempting to build my own deep fryer. After an appraisal of the kitchen, it appears I kept heating up oil in a skillet, pouring it in the stopped sink until it was full and then I dumped in a bag of Pizza Rolls. I suddenly have the urge to retake my SATs.
10:30 AM: After I get “Bone-able Horatio” (her new nickname) into a cab, and she politely declines to give me her phone number, I resolve to get the day started right away. While shaving, I once again resist the urge to say “Ray Lewis” into the mirror three times for fear of the old urban legend that says he’ll appear behind me with his homeless person eyes and start lecturing me about Jesus. Or stab me.
11:30 AM: Starting to feel a little terrible. I keep testing my theory that hangovers, like a girl with a foodie/fashion/celeb blog, eventually give up, but so far there have been no breakthroughs in my research. A little couch time is needed. I turn on NFL Sunday Countdown, which, if any other culture watched it, they would wonder if it was a contest to see who can dress the worst and yell the loudest. Chris Berman’s animated hand gestures have become self-aware - they begin to attack him and everyone around him. The feed cuts out just as he’s tearing Mike Ditka’s entrails out of his open stomach. Three of the five are going with San Fran - I’m inclined to agree.
12:30 PM: My Gatorade IV isn’t working. I need to start drinking again. Six hours ‘til game time, time to call up my crew: Toilet Face, Drunk Steve, Gay Tim, Straight Ted, and Tranny Jane are all ready to roar. We pick the worst bar in town - the tap beer tastes like shit, the food like garbage-juice, and they’re still working with a standard-definition feed (I call it “Eye Rape”). None of us will admit how much we hate this bar, out of some misplaced nostalgia for a time when dive bars represented blue-collar Americana. None of us will admit we would prefer a Stella to this PBR we’re drinking. None of us have ever worked a job that didn’t have central air. Hell, Tranny Jane pulls down 200K a year. But somehow we’re in this place. The bar down the street has a retractable roof and hot waitresses. We’ve got an old alcoholic named George.
1:00PM: Thank God, Toilet Face breaks down and demands we go to the bar down the street. He starts screaming that he can’t take it anymore, and the bartender, George, starts screaming because the sound reminds him of Vietnam. Through his sobs, we hear Toilet Face say, ‘I just want some strange...I just want some strange.” After we make fun of him (all of us we’re on the same verge), we order a couple of parting shots of Jameson (which taste like Centralia) and a new day has dawned. We’re feeling pretty good. Let’s get this going.
1:45 PM: This bar is incredible. Beer as far as the eye can see, huge TVs, and even bigger boobs everywhere you look. As I look around the bar I start to cry. I don’t know if it’s the hangover that’s making me question my existence on this big blue marble we call Earth or I’m just thankful for whoever designed those football jerseys that are specifically cut for a woman’s body. Any outfit that can make me say “Yo check out that hot Ndamukong Suh” and then ask my buddies “if she’s the dirtiest player in the league” and then make us all high five is a fashion that’s crushing the scene.
3:30 PM: We’ve been switching off between beers and shots and now we are deciding as a group to drink nothing but Mai Tai’s. Just six dudes, drinking Mai Tai’s from Coconuts on Super Bowl Sunday. This is heaven. This is what every guy wants from his Mansgiving, to be standing next to his tranny friend who keeps saying that “he feels like he’s on an island.” I’m happy we aren’t. Tranny Jane in a bikini is a sight that can make boners cease to exist.
6:30 PM: Game time! I’m so drunk at this point that I decide hitting on chicks is a good idea. My offers to explain the game are vigorously turned down until one chick decides to listen. I tell her the ins and outs of the cover two for about fifteen minutes. Drunk Steve informs me that I’m talking to a St Pauli girl poster. I miss Bone-able Horatio. I drink more Mai Tai’s.
8:00 PM: Being that I’m a Patriots fan, watching this game is like being at an Ex Girlfriend’s wedding. I’m the surly guy. I’m the guy who gets a little too mad too quick. I’m the guy who when he hears someone cheer for Joe Flacco starts yelling “Tom Brady is a GORGEOUS MAN! ADMIT IT!”
8:30 PM: Halftime begins and Beyonce just crushes it. Destiny's Child comes out on the stage and the crowd goes wild. Everyone has been waiting a long time for Beyonce to get back together with whoever they are and the crew and I high five multiple times. Jay-Z makes an appearance and me and a lot of other white people start singing that “Jigga (Whats My Name)” song loudly and proudly. I puke (along with Black America).
9:45 PM: The game is getting out of hand. A team is winning but it doesn’t really matter which. I have that drunk moment where for a half of a second I drift out of my body to look at my drunk self and realize that going home is my best option. I say goodbye to Drunk Steve and have way too long of a hug with Tranny Jane. I walk out of the bar with no regrets and no feeling in my hands. It’s been a good day.
10:30 PM: As I’m walking into my apartment. I look into my fridge. There’s some cold pizza. Bone-able Horatio even wrapped it up in tin foil. She could be “the one.” I think about our life together, I reach for the pizza, slip, hit my head, and I’m back in the present. I can’t wait to do it again.
[Girl holding football image via ShutterStock]