Superbowl Sunday

We were all over at Schmoes Diner last Sunday evening for the super bowl. That's quite the occasion for us all up here, with no TV reception and telephone dial up internet that takes 3 hours just to download the news. Schmoe phones up his bud in Pelican Junction, that's about 70 miles down the road, he gets the Sunday long distance rate, and his bud puts the receiver down beside his TV and the sound makes it's way through the wires strung along the 2814 telephone poles, and this number has been verified many times, to Schmoe's phone where he lays it beside his little amp. And then just to make the whole event more realistic Schmoe has this rectangular table all divided up with masking tape into end zones and all the yard lines labelled with a black marker, and he gets out his box of white and green toy army guys and a black checker for the football, and we all stand around the table trying to keep the lines in the right place according to the sportscasters. There aren't enough plastic soldiers for both offence and defence, so that makes it a little easier. The most fun part is taking turns whenever there's a field goal, trying to flick the checker between the salt and pepper shakers set up for goal posts. For halftime, Schmoe brought out this cute little doll, he does get teased for his fetish, and set her on the centre line as we listened to Ms. Perry sing her tunes.

Speaking of fetishes and dolls, our handsome Fritz who's this cross between an Irish Wolf Hound and a real wolf, well he has this thing about our wife's great stuffed pink teddy bear, and he's neutered, Fritz that is. He stole that teddy bear out of the house and spends hours humping it out behind the barn. Never mind, a Watkins man stopped by and our wife was out in the middle of the yard discussing soaps and detergents. Our Fritzy would not allow that Watkins man to come within ten feet to our wife, and then just to make sure that fellow got the message he lifted his leg and pissed all over our wife's foot. He sure told that guy whose property not to mess with. She felt so impregnable.

Since we're several thousand miles from where either of these fabulous football teams stem, us being about halfway between Boston and Seattle and just a tad north, we don't have much loyalty to either one. This kind of gets obvious when someone comes in from outside and asks who's winning and the answer is “The little green guys.” Even the exalted commercials lose a thing or two without the video. We're all just there for the camaraderie, us all not being that concerned over our Sunday penitencies since the young Baptist missionary left his little church half built after the widow Rachael showed up every day in her most salacious attire to help with the rafters. We guessed he didn't wish to become a farmer having to pastor on the side. That would be an undertaking.

So it was back to work on Monday and Schmoe could put his Barbie dolls all back in the closet. Keep that pot covered now, eh.