Small thoughts on the big game.

Come Sunday families all over will be jammed together on couches and recliners, guzzling cold beers and softly elbowing each other for the last of the dip. Fathers will be lusting over Fergie at halftime, Moms and Sisters will be pretending they're into the game, Grandmothers will probably be wondering which teams are playing. I'll be looking forward to the Captain America trailer, and so forth and so on.

Being a guy that really isn't into football in any respectable capacity I could check all the hoopla on Super Bowl Sunday off as overblown mass hysteria, but I feel like that would be not so manly of me and ultimately Un-American. That's a term I hate hearing and never speak but in this rare occasion it's called for. As Americans this particular Sunday is a true day of worship. Every element that is woven into the fabric of this country is intensified: sports, eating, drinking, consumerism. It's all fine tuned into a surge of noise and colors, coated with a fine gloss and delivered to us out of hi-def flat screen televisions in almost every living room across the country.

This is all something I undeniably get caught up in myself, sort of. Sure I know which teams are playing and have a basic understanding of the game but I'd be lying if I said my Wife and I didn't look more forward to the commercials. It's maybe a bit sacrilegious to say but we are a couple that on most Sundays throughout Fall and Winter are catching a movie, or walking around the mall or a museum. On more than one occasion we've been taking a relaxing stroll around Smithville on any given game day during the season and I see women toting their husbands around, he'll be wearing Eagles gear and surely checking his watch every couple of minutes to see if it's close to 4 because there's a late game on. Of course I'm not knocking this type of behavior, most of my closest friends and family members are avid sports fans, but I could only imagine this level of dependency on the sport to be a bit like perpetually clenching your butt cheeks together in an attempt to hold in a fart. But I digress.

This Sunday is a day for every warm blooded American that knows how to work a remote controller to eat, drink and watch football.

Side note: I do miss the Bud Bowl.