Superbowl XXXIX

Last night I went to a Super­bowl par­ty at the Har­ry Buf­fa­lo across the street from my old ten­e­ment. It was held as a fundrais­er by the Cleve­land Iron Maid­en’s Rug­by team. A friend of mine is on the team so the least I could do was drop my last twen­ty bucks for some wings and beer.

Unfor­tu­nate­ly there were no wings. I made do by chow­ing down on some piz­za, lit­tle spicy pota­to pop­per­tots and nachos. Damn was that foot­ball game bor­ing. I’m glad that David Givens [and ND alum­nus] caught a TD pass and I’m glad the Pats won because their offen­sive coor­di­na­tor is going to be the new ND head coach. The com­mer­cials were pret­ty lame too. So was the half­time show and the pregame and all that jazz. In fact, the whole tele­vised aspect of the Super­bowl this year was about as engag­ing as gum­ming a dry sock.

Thank­ful­ly I had the com­pa­ny of some oth­er cowork­ers and the antics of the rug­by team to keep me enter­tained. I also dis­cov­ered that I can now stom­ach cheap and digust­ing beers with­out want­i­ng to yarf. The Bud Light was free and it tastes like cold sweat, even to the point of leav­ing a salty scum on the back of the throat; but at least I did­n’t want to puke. But there weren’t any wings.