I have an excuse though, honest.
You see, every autumn, I fall into what I like to call, "The Football Coma." Oh, no...you won't see me in the gym or out on the local running paths. No, no no. I eschew fitness during the "Coma." Where you will find me is either parked in front of my 50" plasma, over at a friend's house or at a local sports bar. If it's a college game, you might also find me tailgating at the stadium. All of these scenarios have one thing in common: they include a fair amount of imbibing frothy beverages that we call "Beer."
Enter my dilemma.
It is a scientific fact that beer is a depressant. I know it. You know it. Mel Gibson knows it. And because football games occur pretty much every day of the week in the fall (except Tuesdays and Wednesdays) and on many different channels (we have FiOS), I find myself faced with a plethora of opportunities to watch some gridiron goodness. Lucky me, right? You be the judge.
Have you ever seen the Adam Sandler movie, Click? You know, the one where Christopher Walken gives him the magical remote control at the Bed, Bath & Beyond that allows him to skip through the stodgy periods of his future? Well, in the movie, when he skips over those periods he kinda just coasts through in a zombie-like state, never remembering what took place during said timeframe. It's much akin to what my 9th grade math teacher, Mr Rolph, accused our whole algebra class of being..."a buncha drones!" It's also much akin to my whole autumn-from September through to February. I sit there and zone-out.Part of me thinks that Mr Rolph was right. In his Big Gulp-fueled diatribe, he ranted about how
we couldn't pay attention in class because we ate "a bunch of crappy food, like Scooter pies," for lunch. This coming from a guy who had to leave at the semester to have surgery to repair a stomach ulcer!I digress.
Twenty years later, I get the gist of why he blew up that day. He wanted our undivided attention and just couldn't get it thanks to the likes of Hostess, Coca Cola and Frito Lay (well, that and he was kind of a douche). He had a point, but we didn't listen. Instead, we laid limp in a lazy languor of Hot Pockets, Fudgesicles and Donettes. We were a big part of the problem.
Now extrapolate this condition to include a mind altering, feeling numbing elixir (a "downer") coupled with an adrenalized game consisting of peaks and valleys (an "upper"). Throw a cheese pizza or some sort of buffalo chicken product into the equation and you have a man replete with intense stupification. The mix of stimuli cancel each other out, leaving overworked motor neurons on both sides of the fence to produce a buzzed and fuzzed state. Now I'm no physician (probably because my math grades were glaringly inferior...go figure), but I am quite certain that there is a scientific term for this state. I just call it "The Football Coma."
So you see, I've been under a spell people. My will to resist is futile. Like victory chances given to any of Chuck Norris' foes. Futilitus maximus. Like a roundhouse kick to the face from the great bearded bad-ass of the black belt. I'm a goner from the minute that first college pigskin is booted until the last piece of confetti falls at the Super Bowl!Good thing I'm not a big baseball fan. I'd be screwed!
