It’s Superbowl week and I consider the Superbowl a holiday. Deck the halls. I love the giant cardboard displays in the grocery stores with wide-eyed people in generic jerseys, cheering with a bowl of Tostitos, advertising to stock up on your Superbowl snacks. Seeing this stuff is the equivalent of seeing egg nog at Christmas or fun size Snickers at Halloween.
Don we now our gay apparel too. Dig out your cleanest sweat pants and sweatshirt from Sears. See the blazing Yule before us, because the Superbowl also involves a feast. No one watches the game eating a bowl of soup with some Saltines. To honor the football Gods, you set out the nachos, the pizza, the wings, and the nice dip bowls. For the Superbowl, you splurge on the party platter.
Sing we joyous all together. Fa la la la—SHIT. GET HIM. GET HIM. I find yelling GET HIM manically sometimes effects the tacklers during the punt returns.
For those that don’t celebrate football, I know the day can leave one feeling empty. I, too, was once a non-believer. This goes back to the days of elementary school when I was just a twee child in glasses. Generally, twee children do not like sports. It breaks our glasses. Dodgeball was the worst offender. Unathletic and bookwormy, I had a resentment for sports (as well as the kid that threw the dodgeball.)
And yet there was a hole. I considered myself pop culture savvy. I was an owner of both an NES and a Super NES. I was an avid reader of Nintendo Power, Disney Adventures, and the XXX t-shirt ads in the back of Revolutionary Comics. I knew it all. But there was a part of pop culture I was missing. I wanted to be a fan of guys like Michael Jordan, Magic Johnson, John Elway, Emmitt Smith, Bo Jackson. I couldn’t tell you what positions they played or why they were considered great; I only knew them from commercials and video games. It was my shame.
I half-heartedly tried to collect baseball cards, but mainly for the stale stick of gum. Plus, it was like gambling, which appealed to me, a chance to find some rare holographic card that was worth a million dollars. I also liked going to baseball games because I knew food would be involved. My life revolved around getting stuff–the more exotic, the better. I could get something like a cotton candy or a popcorn. And of course, there was the Cracker Jacks, which ought to come standard with your ticket. As for my thoughts on the great sport of Baseball? I liked watching the Oriole Bird dance. That bird, what a kidder.
And yet I always liked the excitement of the Superbowl–the bustle of the day–my mother in the kitchen microwaving Velveeta to make a rubbery cheese dip. On regular Sundays, we had to eat things in casserole dishes. Rubber cheese dip was a Godsend. People who came over to watch the game would tip me a dollar for each beer I grabbed for them. I worked my way around the sectional sofa making more money in the second quarter than I did during the last five Christmases combined. One year I even asked my mother to let me skip school the next day, since I knew I would be “hungover” from chugging Cokes and cheese dip. She looked at my potato-chip greasy fingers empathetically and said yes. I knew the Superbowl was something special.
But I didn’t understand football and it might as well have been Chinese Checkers. I was bored with it. I did not give a freaking crap about football all of my life, and then I met the girlfriend. She was a Ravens fan. She was one of those people with a jersey of her favorite player. What was wrong with these people? Were they pretending to play dress-up? She even wanted to watch the games. It horrified me.
The thought of losing Sundays to the blackhole death of football scared me. I resisted it our first year together. It was 2007 and the Ravens worst-ever season, so she wasn’t heartbroken over missing a few of the games. I figured I had won. I had put my foot down. That was the situation. No football in this relationship. But I was wrong.
In 2nd year of our relationship, something changed. And I don’t mean it in the Hallmark card way. No, I mean, we just got to that point where we did a lot of sitting around together. No longer did every weekend need to be filled with spontaneous fun things. We got to the point where we were comfortable just relaxing and watching TV. She started sneaking in some Ravens games.
I don’t know what happened. I got sucked in. Now I’m one of those freaks with a jersey. I’m no longer hiding my deep dark secret. I love football. The Superbowl is a Holiday. And to mark this holiday Surfing Pizza style, I’m busting out this gigantic chocolate football, made by our friends at Palmer.
Palmer has created a hollow double crisp football. It’s like Easter, only it ain’t. I saw this bad boy in the store and I knew I was a goner. I knew I’d be handing over five bucks for what is essentially a brown colored lump of vegetable oil. There is not a trace of chocolate in the ingredients. I love this stuff. I really do.
Love the detail. The grips of the ball are actually the crispy rice, nice touch. Out of the box, the thing had a greasy feel to it. The packaging considers the thing to be 3 1/2 servings, and the entire ball will set you back about 600 calories.
In the end, I’m not sure where this greasy loaf of vegetable oil in the shape of a football fits into my life. Probably the toilet. I ate enough of it that it will probably definitely be the toilet. To me, it’s like a perfect way to say Happy Superbowl to a kid, when they wake up early on Superbowl morning to find a basket of goodies left by the Football Drunk. He’s like the Easter Bunny only he smells of booze. Inside the basket will be a hollow chocolate football and Ravens shirt.
So if you’re watching this weekend–eat, drink, and be merry. We’ve got sour cream and onion chips. Hell yeah. And if you’re one of those feeling left out this season, take comfort. There’s always the cheese dip.