I HATE football. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.
Football is ruining my life. I don’t care if men want to play football. I don’t care if people go see it, stupid as it is. But, why, I ask, why, do they have to put it on television? Why, especially, does it have to be on television every weekend?
The weekend is the only time I have to do anything at all other than go to work. But with college games on Saturday and professional games on Sunday, my life has gone to Hades, or should I say gone to football? Not much difference as far as I can tell.
All the men in my life are fools for football. If their favorite team is playing — and isn’t it always — I might as well forget trying to get them to do anything else. God forbid asking them to do anything other than breathe, especially during playoffs.
You would think that with two men around either my son or my honey one could give a hand with chores? No. I’m outside doing yard work and cleaning the garage. I’m doing the man’s work while they are inside watching football.
“I need help! I sure could use some HELP. Could somebody help me?”
“Touchdown!” They yell.
“I don’t think they even heard me ask”.
Could the producers of television give me one day on the weekend, just one day? There is a virus out there called ESPN syndrome. Men who catch the fever go totally mad.
I am having delusions of violence. Last week I considered throwing something right through the television screen. However, I am so worn out I probably could not throw anything heavier than a fit. I’ve not thrown one yet, but the thunderclouds have been forming for a week. And when it happens, it is going to be a big one. Keep your eye on the Weather Channel.
I’m tired of being a football widow; I’m tired of being a football handyman; I’m tired of being a football gardener; I’m tired of being a football victim; I’m tired of football, period.
It’s football and more football, every weekend and into February. I don’t know if I can make it much longer without killing someone. When I go before the court, I will plead football and hope I have a female judge. She will let me go, scot-free.
Maybe I could unplug the TV and pretend I don’t know what’s wrong with it. Of course, they would just migrate to another room and watch it there. Football does something to men’s minds that turns them into worthless vegetables. They become football addicts. Football has fried their brains.
How can anyone be oblivious to everything around them other than a pigskin ball? It’s incredible. The house could be on fire and they would not call the fire department until halftime. I’m not sure the firemen would come anyhow. They are probably watching football too.
I predict that football will be the downfall of civilization. The world will crumble around us and no one will notice because they are all watching football. In four thousand years when archeologists dig us up, they will wonder why all the men are petrified with their eyes glued to an ancient television screen.
If I write next week’s column from jail, you will know that when I went to court, the judge was male and threw the book at me — probably a book on football.
But you do understand, don’t you? It was justifiable homicide. I was trying to save the world from football before it is too late.