I woke up early on Super Bowl Sunday, totally unexcited about
watching football. The 2008–2009 NFL season had culminated in
a really fucking lame matchup between the Arizona Cardinals and the
Pittsburgh Steelers, leaving me without a horse in the “leathery
retirees versus steel workers” race.
Still, I had an abysmally lame party to throw and I’d promised to
blog the game, so I needed to root for someone. The Steelers are a
pack of fucking cheaters—although they’re Barack Obama’s
favorite team after the Chicago Bears—so in spite of the fact
that the Cardinals are Seattle’s division rival, I was forced to jump
on the Arizona bandwagon like a complete tool.
The game itself is largely uneventful. My wife gets bored during the
first quarter and wanders away to take a nap. My friend and I
scream at the TV, stuff ourselves full of hot wings and Mexican food,
and grumble about how the Steelers stole the Super Bowl from the
Seahawks in 2005 (totally true!).
The first half of the game turns out to be a giant fucking bore, and
we debate turning it off. The tattered corpse of Bruce Springsteen
shambles onstage during the halftime show to perform some garbled,
everyman bullshit before sliding nuts-first into a cameraman,
effectively tea-bagging America. We spend the next 10 minutes debating
which aging, irrelevant rock star will play at next year’s Super Bowl.
My money is on a Huey Lewis and the News reunion.
The rest of the game is depressing, as the Arizona defense blows a
three-point lead in the last two minutes and the stupid fucking
Steelers franchise wins its sixth goddamned Super Bowl. I’m pretty sure
Obama rigged the game. 
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