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No satisfaction at Super Bowl XL

“Isn’t Super Bowl Extra Large this weekend?” I asked husband-head with excitement. “I can’t wait!”Husband-head put his face in his hands.”Honey, the XL doesn’t mean ‘extra large’, it means 40 in Roman numerals – it’s the 40th anniversary of the Super Bowl this year.”Oh.”Well, anyway, I’m excited!” I said, clapping my hands with glee.”Why?” husband-head wanted to know. “You don’t give a hoot about football. In fact, you don’t even LIKE the sport…””That’s the point,” I reasoned. “This game means that football season is almost OVER!”With that, I did a little jig around the room.Actually, the Super Bowl is the only football game I find remotely interesting, but only because of the halftime entertainment and the funny commercials.”What’s the theme this year?” I asked enthusiastically, excited about a game for the first time this season.”The Road to Forty,” husband-head said softly, not really wanting to discuss football with me. Ewww. I’ve been down that road before and it isn’t pretty …”Who’s the halftime entertainment this year?” I badgered.”The Rolling Stones,” husband-head replied simply.I immediately launched into my Mick Jagger impersonation.”I can’t GET NO … satis-FACT-shun!” I sang at the top of my lungs as I played my air guitar and hopped on one leg across the room.Then I stopped abruptly.”So, you’re saying that the Super Bowl is going through a midlife crisis and decided it was appropriate to have some old guys as the featured performers?” I asked with disbelief. “Aren’t those guys, like, 105 years old? Don’t people call them the ‘Rolling Bones’?”Husband-head looked as if he was about to cry.”I believe they’re in their 60s,” he corrected me. “But they’re still good.”Sounded like the “Geriatric Bowl” to me …”You didn’t have the Stones play when I turned 40,” I huffed.Another thought then occurred to me.”Do you think there’ll be a ‘wardrobe malfunction’ this year with Jagger’s leather pants?” I wondered out loud. Ewww.”What teams are playing?” I badgered. “I think I heard something about a team called the Sea Chickens…”Husband-head was practically sobbing at this point.”The Seattle Seahawks and the Pittsburgh Steelers,” he said, his voice muffled into the sleeve of his shirt.”And who do you want to win?” I continued.Husband-head looked up at me as if it were the first lucid question I’d asked so far.”I don’t really care. I’m rooting for my points in the football pool,” he said simply.Sadly, his beloved Green Bay Packers had long since dropped out of the running.”Actually, I think I’ll root for the Seahawks,” husband-head decided. “They’ve never won anything.”He proceeded to tell me that one of the guys in his football league has posted an email message with a picture of the Seahawk’s trophy case. The only things in it were a half-eaten Big Mac and an old pizza.”So, where’s the Super Bowl being played this year?” I asked, honestly having no idea. “In Detroit,” husband-head sighed, in a tone indicating that I was probably the only living person on the planet who did not know that little tidbit of information.”DETROIT?” I echoed. “Isn’t that the armpit of the mid-West? I thought all they did there was make cars, rape and pillage … Why would they have it there?”Husband-head threw up his hands, now completely exasperated.”You know what? I’m going to put YOUR head in my armpit if you don’t shut up,” he insisted.I decided it wasn’t worth arguing over a 40-year-old Super Bowl with 60-year-old rock ‘n rollers being played in an old, decrepit city.At least there was still the chicken wings, pizza and cold beer to look forward to …Heidi Rice is a staff reporter for the Post Independent. Her column runs every Friday. Visit her Web site at http://www.heidirice.com.


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