Your Super Bowl Party Will Be Shitty

But Thank You for the Invite

The Super Bowl. Such a stupid ass game.

“It’s not just a stupid game, Emme,” my husband mansplains. “It’s literally the greatest American past time.”

Oh yeah? Well, apparently he’s never heard of Thanksgiving. What even is a past time? Did he even use that word correctly? Probably not.

“Karen and Bob invited us to their house for the game on Sunday,” my husband informs me. “Try to be normal…Please.”

I roll my eyes. Sunday nights are for putting the kids to bed early and dreading tomorrow. Not for a gathering of loud people celebrating large men smashing into one another and landing in giant piles. Over and over again.

Here is why I don’t want to go to your party, Karen:

I DO NOT WANT TO GET DRUNK WITH A BUNCH OF ROWDY PEOPLE:

Here’s why:

Inner voice: So don’t get drunk. Maybe I can’t help it, okay? I throw booze back like a frat brother in situations where I am bored and socially incompetent.

Will I be bored at a Super Bowl party? Check.

Will I be socially incompetent at a Super Bowl party? Check.

To prevent irrelevant (oftentimes inappropriate, TMI-y facts) from falling from my lips, I just drink more to utilize my mouth. Keep it busy.

At regular parties, when I’m not even that bored, you’ll find me buzzed in a corner complaining to the host’s dog about my period cramps and my poorly inserted tampon.

Me + Superbowl Party = completely sloshed. Who wants shots? Me!

I DO NOT WANT TO CONSUME 3,000 EXTRA CALORIES

Here’s why:

Inner voice: So don’t eat 3,000 extra calories. Yeah, I’ve heard your advice. I’m talking to you, women’s magazines.

I know, I know, you want me to drink a large glass of water before the party and just stick with the crudité? Go fuck yourself. YOLO. And in this life of mine — that I’m only living once — I am going to eat this dip. And this chili. And these ribs. And this sub. Sure, I’ll have another beer. Make it two, you son-of-a-bitch! Emme, don’t curse at people. Oh, husband, I’ve only just begun. . .

I DO NOT WANT TO BET MONEY ON RANDOM NUMBERS IN TINY BOXES THAT CONFUSE ME

Here’s why:

Inner voice: Just say “no” when you’re asked to buy a box. Do you even understand the game or even the basic rules? Do you even know what teams are playing? Why are you here? You should leave immediately. Wipe the sauce off your chin, you despicable specimen of a party guest. Go sit in the corner.

Party Host: Do you want to buy a Superbowl box? No. But it’s only $20. Um, no thank you? (I smile because I’m polite). You could win $1,000. Ugh okay, fine, Bob. Great, your numbers are 8 and 3.

Awesome. I don’t even know how many points a goal is worth or if there are foul shots. But, great. 8 and 3. Yay! Jerry, show me the money.

Oh, for God’s sake, what now? Party host: Do you want to bet on the halftime show? Bet on a halftime show? WTF? Will there be one? Yes, there will. Pay me.

**Update — The husband did, in fact, use “past time” incorrectly above.

I DO NOT WANT TO WATCH COMMERCIALS THAT I CAN’T EVEN HEAR BECAUSE NOBODY WILL STFU

Here’s why:

Inner voice (that I accidentally used out loud): Can we fast-forward the commercials? Well, this question doesn’t go over too well at Superbowl parties.

This is the ONE damn time of the entire year when people love ads. People laugh at preposterous office antics involving outrageous chip flavors and photocopier mishaps. They cry at strange-looking horses in snow selling beer. Little, gross children with sloppy faces and swollen diapers suddenly become endearing.

“Emme, you should watch the commercials. You’d like them. It could be like a character analysis for you,” my husband stupidly suggests.

Great advice, husband. Yes, encourage me to analyze characters and deconstruct plots in the middle of a party. That sounds like a good time. Has he forgotten that I am completely drunk? Oh, what the hell. Listen up, people. I personally think that puppy knew exactly what he was doing when he. . . where did everyone go?

I DO NOT WANT TO ROOT FOR A TEAM I’VE NEVER HEARD OF

Here’s why:

Party host: Sooooo, who are you rooting for, Emme? She is totally extra, decked out head to toe in red. Down to the manicure, and presumably the toenails too. Clearly, she’s rooting for Team Red, whoever they are.

I’m wearing a shirt that says “COMMERCIALS” that I wrote myself with a black Sharpie.

“I don’t actually believe in football, Karen,” I explain. “I’m here to . . .

Narrator voice: This sentence does not end well. The speaker is highly awkward in social situations. She is drunk. She is wearing a shirt with magic marker scribble that she made herself. She has been in the corner talking to the cat for most of the night. Her language tends to change into street thug vernacular when she’s nervous.

“I don’t actually believe in football, Karen,” I say. “I’m here to…like…place some…like sick bets and win some solid cash. I root for commercials, bro, not teams.”

Nodding my head slowly, I tap my temple with my pointer finger and whisper, “Big brother is watching.” It felt clever at the time.

I DO NOT WANT TO CELEBRATE STUPIDITY

Here’s why:

Inner voice: Just go along with it. Pretend as if you understand. Don’t be so weird.

Football is dumb to me all year, but the SuperBowl is super dumb. It’s a bunch of gigantic men lining up, moving around a little bit, someone throws the ball (hi, Tom Brady, call me ;) and everyone gets in a big, high wad of limbs and asses. Like a pathetic orgy where nobody knows exactly what to do. Orgies, in general, give me panic. Like, who’s in charge?

Three minutes left on the clock is actually an hour. Someone always gets hurt. Coaches are always sweaty and mad with red faces. Mad people with red faces make me feel shy.

Every week my husband tells me that it’s part of American culture and to not be such a loser. Whatever.

I DO NOT WANT TO BECAUSE I JUST DON’T

But I will.

Here’s why:

Because I’m polite. And American.

I’ll be in the kitchen polishing off the wings. With champagne, because I’m classy like that. Call me when the halftime show comes on. I bet some mad coin on a nip slip.

End scene.

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