![]() Driven to a narcissistic break by their profound dearth of anything useful to add to the social environment, growing increasingly resentful with every minute the spotlight isn’t on them, they retreat to the fundamental lesson they learned on the vintage message boards of yore: expressing that you do not enjoy certain things that other people around you do, all for some quick, cheap attention. Instead, the Sportsball Guy chooses violence. Never mind the fact that the average Super Bowl party typically consists of a dozen guests who couldn’t give a shit about the game and are happy to enjoy the reverie passively at the bar cart or the potluck without bothering anybody. Sportsball Guy inexplicably believes this to be a trait that’s rare, charming and almost enviable to the unwashed masses. For the rest of the evening, Sportsball Guy will be hovering on the edge of the conversation, loudly advertising his entirely unremarkable quirk: Boy howdy, he sure doesn’t know about sports! “Hey everybody! Oh, the Super Bowl is on? How many home runs have they put in the net? I didn’t realize that today was the sportsball day!”Įveryone in the room tenses up, as they mourn the now-tarnished loose atmosphere that previously floated around the room. ![]() Nothing beats the fat part of the bell curve!īut just as you’re about to load up on another plateful of seven-layer dip and sink back into a dialogue about your buddy’s new offset smoker, a rogue actor materializes in the corner of your eye. ![]() Your brain chemistry floods with a long-neglected flavor of joy - this feeling of ordinary civilian bliss - as you remember how much you missed the intoxicating doldrums of your formerly average American life. The pandemic is a distant memory - herd immunity has finally defeated the curve - and you’re christening our long-awaited return to normalcy with some delectably normal activities: watching the game and having a Bud, preferably with the boys. Imagine you’re having a nice time at a Super Bowl party. ![]()
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