Last night’s Super Bowl made me so sick, that after the game I stuck my head into the oven.
No, I’m not an Atlanta Falcons fan.
Nor did I want to commit suicide.
At least not yet.
Instead, I wanted to complete my gluttonous night by snacking on post-game triple chocolate fudge brownies. Which after completing, I wanted to stick my head back into the oven.
This time strictly for suicide purposes.
My flirtations with suicide were not even induced by Nazi Richard Spencer’s & dipshit Trump’s pick for the guy they most want to fellate, Tom Brady. Touchdown Tommy is an amazing quarterback, awful dancer, and a complete dork without a football in his hands. We all know the Brady narrative.
I considered putting my own life in peril because of my the damage caused by my chocolate covered hands. Throughout the Super Bowl, my Jimmy Dean sausage fingers conspired with my mouth and focused on destroying my mind, my body, and my cholesterol levels.
During the game, I couldn’t even scream and shout as the Falcon’s collapse and Brady GOAT performance unfolded. My mouth was too stuffed with meat-lovers pizza, buffalo wings, guacamole, and cheesy bacon filled dip.
The amount of food I poured into my mouth resembled a man who was having his last meal, not a man watching a Super Bowl, which he had no major investment on the outcome of the game.
Watching some of the best athletes in the world push the limits of what the human body can do, as you push the limits of the food you can cram down your throat without spewing, is not a great feeling.
But in fairness, I did manage to have my own Julio Jones and Julian Edelman superhuman catch. Instead of football, I managed to use my folded pizza to catch bacon cheese dip as it fell from my overstuffed mouth. I avoided a stubborn yellow stain on my white t-shirt and inadvertently managed to make meat-lovers pizza even more hazardous to my health.
Inner disgust and self-hatred didn’t only spawn from watching the Super Bowl. Thanks to Zac Efron and Dwayne Johnson, I remembered how I’m not even close to maximizing my body’s physical potential. Unless my potential consists of never developing pecs and settling for the body physique of an 8-year old struggling to shed his baby fat.
The body shaming even ventured into the cartoon world. Mr. Clean showed America why he is secretly on all our mother’s hall pass list. In 31 seconds Mr. Clean made the Brawny lumberjack look like a virgin bitch, and made me feel like Michelin’s fat, untalented little brother.
Super Bowl LI, its expensive commercials, and my own destructive hands left me dazed and heartbroken like the owner of the Falcons on the sideline last night.
Next year, I think I’ll stick to veggie trays.