Super Sunday

It's Superbowl time again, and while we didn't really have a dog in the hunt, it's a good excuse to have a party and booze it up on a Sunday. So we brought a grill down to the basement to cook up some chicken wings, threw out a spread of finger foods, and boned-up on the Scrabble dictionary to get ready for our pals Marlis and Glenn to arrive.

Once they got here, we dove right into our newest favorite game, Quiddler, which is a kind of card-game version of Scrabble. And as anyone who has played me (Greg) in Scrabble knows, I'm terrible at pulling words out of my butt--not as terrible as the spectre of words having actually spent some time up inside a butt, but pretty terrible nonetheless.

So I always lose, and Super Sunday was no exception. We played the first game until the middle of the second quarter, then stopped and watched the end of the half and Bruce Springsteen during halftime, then went back and played another round during the second half. I kind of felt sorry for the poor, neglected TV set, all HD'ed up with no one to pay attention to it.

But I was glad the Steelers pulled the win out in the end--I'm still nursing hurt feelings against the Cardinals for leaving St. Louis after I started seriously following them back in the 80s. I even went to a Cardinals-Bears game in St. Louis once--saw Walter Payton rack up over a hundred yards rushing and nearly 50 receiving.

So, that's why I'm wearing this hat--to say to the Cardinals (who can't see or hear me in my basement, of course, and wouldn't care what I thought if they could, but it's all about me, baby!) "I thumb my nose in your general direction!"