Monday, October 14, 2013

Monday Morning Hangover.

By all rights, I should hate the NFL.
Considering my left of center politics, anti-corporate attitude and general disdain for the arrogance that wealth breeds, I shouldn't spend my Sundays plastered in their marketing logos, screaming for my group of millionaires to beat your group of millionaires to make other millionaires more millions.
But I do.
Knowing what I know of how the owners of teams corrupt local politics and force cities to spend resources that could be better used for public services rather than grotesque architectural nightmares that can only be entered by spending loads of cash, I would still sell out family to get play off tickets.
And considering my knowledge of quantum physics, I should not be freaking out that I am wearing the wrong shirt and I didn't do my OCD ritual properly, hence causing the interception Brees threw.
I know, deep down, that my improper attire and screaming at a television will not set off a butterfly effect and change the outcome of the game.
I can't help it.
I am an addict.
I have a fleur de lis comforter.
I have probably spent more money and time on football than some spend on food and shelter.
And I will continue to do so.
Like I said...addicted.
My dresser has a New Orleans Saints alter that, if disturbed in any way, causes me to stress in a way normally reserved for fiscal issues or health problems. Instead of trying to justify or alter this behavior, I embrace it. I accept this madness.
I am, for better or worse, a New Orleans Saints fan/junkie/addict/slave and proud of it.
In lieu of religion, I worship at the alter of the Super Dome.
And Goodell is the devil.
504ever. Who Dat for life.

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