Ah Sunday. The last day of rest before returning to that hellhole otherwise known as work, and the day where football and food are king.Today the Vikings will meet the Saints for a chance at the Superbowl, and much to the wife unit's delight Brett Favre will be there. Yes, Brett Favre, God of all that is football according to the wife unit. Today I will be seranaded by the sounds of her excited girly squealing everytime Favre touches the ball, walks on the field, or breathes. I will be reminded again and again how a man significantly older than me is more "athletic", and "exciting" to watch. God, I hope when the Saint's defense sacks him they break both his damn legs, we'll see how good his ass looks in tight pants then.
The only thing that makes suffering through the wife unit's Favre worship session is the food she will make as an offering to the all mighty Viking footbal God. Right now as I type this, she's outside firing up our grill to make real grilled wings, burgers, and sausages. Food done inside on the Foreman grill would never do, not for her on Brett Favre day.
It won't matter much in a while anyway. As me and my friends watch the game, I will not even be able to hear her squeals of ectasy over Favre, I will be in a food trance. The sound of my mouth biting into hot grilled animal flesh will filter out all sounds except that of the commentator.
In a twisted way I hope the Vikings win today, as much as I can't stand that old dinasaur of a quarterback, Favre. If the Vikings lose, the wife unit will be disappointed. She'll sulk and drink beers and gossip with her friends and then fall asleep. If the vikings win, I will be treated to round after round of hot monkey sex while she imagines that I'm Favre. Then on Superbowl day I will be treated to another feast offering fit for the Viking God.
Now where the hell did I put my purple face paint?
