The Super Bowl is not a game. It’s a national holiday from moderation, offering sanctuary from dieting, sobriety, and sense. It’s a celebration of all the things foreigners despise, and secretly envy, about Americans: extravagance, overindulgence, consumerism, and idiocy. So, when you hoist your Natural Ice and Stuffed Jalapeno popper as a reality star sings the national anthem before kick off, you are saluting all those Americans who died so that you can enjoy yourself without feeling guilty about getting drunk mid-afternoon on a work night.
This past Super Bowl I was confronted with the difficulty of being surrounded by a group of friends unmotivated to drink beer and watch football. Considering that I didn’t have enough time to report these communists to homeland security agents, I had to motivate them. Some I was able to convince with promises of miniature Kegs of Coors Light, borracho nachos, and football shaped cakes. Others I had give up on as David-Beckham-loving-soccer-fan-bastards. And still others required something more, a themed Super Bowl party.
This article appears in Feb 4-10, 2009.