Being surrounded by screaming children in crappy Wal-Mart costumes eating and choking on candy, with candy and slobber dripping from their cry-holes and hair, and leaves and debris from their diapers stuck to their hands and faces is what forces otherwise-reasonable men to turn to watching and talking about football.
My girlfriend wanted me to "help out with the kids." Meaning since she has no control over them whatsoever unless they're doped up on Mommy's Special Syrup (1 part vanilla soy milk, 1 part high-fructose corn syrup, 11 parts raspberry wine cooler) she wanted me to participate in the ongoing battle to get them to shut up and stop spitting, shut up and pull their pants back up, and shut up and stop eating the cat. Instead I retreated to a dark room at the end of the hall where I found a television.
Soon the word spread amongst the other men at the party that I was watching football. Hesitantly, making sure no one had followed them, they joined me and we locked the door. They were in awe that I had the balls to leave the women and children to fend for themselves. There was much rejoicing.
"I'm the man," I told them. And it's true, I am the man.
Then I said, "This is what football is all about."
"Amen," the men chanted. "Amen!"
Then I said, "We forgot to bring beer, someone has to go back out there."