Okay, I'm out

For some bizarre reasons having something to do with the Singularity, the Super Bowl is on my birthday for the first time and we're both turning XL together. Well, okay, I've been XL for awhile, but at least as far as the calendar, this great American civic institution turns forty (as does the football game thing) on Sunday, February 5th.

I was hoping for a Redskins/Patriots Super Bowl. As long-time reader(s) know (Hi Mrs. Rob the LLamabutcher!) I've been suffering with the Skins since 1994 when, eerily reminiscent of the scene from the movie Diner, I had to take the Redskins trivia test before I was allowed to marry The Dear One. I passed, mainly because I cheated like a frat pledge with a 40 ounce hangover in a philosophy midterm, but I deserve credit for creativity--you go ahead and try to write the complete sequence of quarterbacks going back to Sammy on the inside tongue of your sneaker: it aint easy! The Football gods witnessed my perfidy, and rewarded the team with 10 miserable years of Danny Snyder, Norv "Marshall Pietan" Turner, Deon Sanders......Did Deon really wear the burgundy and gold, or was that just a bad dream, like the whole season of Dallas voided by Bobby stepping out of the shower?

Anyhoo, I was pulling for the Pats to be in basically because I love razzing the crap out of our favorite moonbat mad scientist , not to mention my brothers who were both Dolphins fans but have "converted" over to the Pats over the past five years.

Don't even get me started on the subject---it's so wrong at every level.

My backup would be having the Colts in, simply because The Dear One thinks Peyton Manning is cute, and there would perhaps be an angle route for me in that, if you know what I mean.

But, no dice: they're all out.