Who’s Your SuperBowl Champs?

Doin’ the happy dance, oh yeah, oh yeah.

Who’s your daddy?

Who’s goin’ to Disney World?

Who’s got a peaceful house? ME!

Who’s unfortunately watching a replay of the whole dang game at 10:00 a.m.? ME!

If ya didn’t know, there is an NFL channel. No sane person would know that, only insane ones. Insane—–>Contrarian.


Speaking about insanity, the political world seems just chock full of wackadoodles. And a surprise or two along the way.

Sarah “now channeling Reagan” Palin decided to open her big mouth and spew more idiotic rhetoric. She finally gave her “analysis” of the situation in Egypt. Which means, that she read a headline in the WSJ, her ADD preventing her from actually reading an article.

In any event, she orders the President to come clean on what he “knows about who the next president of Egypt will be.” Where she comes by this notion, is anybody’s guess. Probably in a dream that has been interpreted for her by Beck.

She also sternly warns that we “should not stand” for a government run by the Muslim Brotherhood. This from the same hairbrain whose every third sentence is about protecting and regaining our freedoms and liberties.

I guess Sarah doesn’t see that any other people on the planet have the right to their freedoms and liberties to determine their own form of government and those who will lead them.

While it may not be in our best interest to have Egypt run by the MB’s, it is not our call to make. If, in fact we actually believe in democracy.

In a shocking editorial, Billy Kristol, in the Weekly Standard, lambasted Glenn Beck and by implication (although his story appeared before Ms. Palin’s bullcrap) Sarah’s belligerent woofings.

Kristol had this to say about Beck’s crazy conspiracy theories regarding the Radical Left/Radical Islam joining hands to destroy the world:

[H]ysteria is not a sign of health. When Glenn Beck rants about the caliphate taking over the Middle East from Morocco to the Philippines, and lists (invents?) the connections between caliphate-promoters and the American left, he brings to mind no one so much as Robert Welch and the John Birch Society.

[. . .]

Nor is it a sign of health when other American conservatives are so fearful of a popular awakening that they side with the dictator against the democrats.

I fairly reel with surprise in having to say, “spot on!”


Outside The Beltway has a full transcript of her remarks and as Doug Mataconis points out, you can’t make sense of it. It’s the typical “word salad” that just seems to go on and on and never make any point, other than somehow she suspicions that Obama isn’t doing it right. She throws in plenty of her clichés here and there, and just runs in a stream of unconsciousness.


One has to laugh as Ms. Sarah. She likens herself to Ronnie Reagan. She claims they both refused to “sit down and shut up,” and both her and he were maligned and vilified by the media. Yeah, really. But one has to wonder at the near deification of Reagan by the uber Right. It seems they can find no one else in the Retootlican pantheon, at least in the recent past to hold up for idol worship. 

But the reality is that Reagan did many of the things that Obama is now doing. The extremists on the Right are prevented from seeing this because the red haze of hatred is so thick.  Politicususa strips away some of the mask. So I say, if Sarah wants to compare herself to Reagan, then by all means do, and after reading the post by Rmuse it will establish that this woman shouldn’t be elected dog catcher.


I don’t know if you heard about Billo the Clown’s silliness that God is proven because the “tides go in, the tides go out, never a miss communication.” When e-mails poured in explaining gravitational pull from the moon, Billo replied that they were “pinheads” and then went on to ask, “the moon, how did it get there? huh? how did it get there? tell me.” And then he went on to ask, “why do we have one? Why doesn’t Mars?”

Of course O’Reilly is dead wrong again. The moon came from a planetoid that hit the earth billions of years ago, broke up, and then gathered in part from the refuse, held in orbit by that darn gravity again. And Mars has two moons last time I checked.  I guess I’m a pinhead.

No matter, the NYTimes has a nice editorial on how many new planets have been located by the Kepler satellite. If projected across the heavens, Kepler should find upwards of 400,000 planets. This is good news for astronomers and those (exobiologists) who specialize in “life on other planets.” The more there are, the more chance that some support life.

Don’t  bother to tell Billo, it would only make his tiny brain explode.


Well, that seems enough for today.

What’s on the stove: Stir-fry, egg rolls.


To Go Where No Woman Has Ever Gone Before!

Cue the music.

Okay, so perhaps it’s more like “to go where this woman has never gone before.” But you get my meaning.

Or maybe you don’t.

In case you were camping yesterday, or hiking up Mt. Hood, or having a spiritual break from all things electronic, you know that the Packers won their game against the hapless Chicago Bears.

And so, for the first time in my marriage, we are going to the Super Bowl! And I’m not at all sure that I know what to expect. Mostly I’m afeared!

It started with whoops and hollers yesterday, a version of the happy dance, repeated outbursts throughout the evening of “we’re going to the Super Bowl!” and grinning for no apparent reason.

We are now under “Super Bowl” rules. I have no clue what they are. I only know it entails being awakened in the middle of the night should the Contrarian remember some salient? factoid about the Packers or game that he wishes to impart to yours truly.

Apparently it also means virtual non-stop analysis of yesterday’s game, the opponent, and any bit of trivia that traverses one’s brain case. No, I don’t care that Matthews favorite shampoo is L’oreal for Men. Nor do I care  about Roethlisberger’s abysmal pass/catch ratio.  But it seems I am doomed to hear them.

So far, I’ve been advised that Super Bowl Sunday should include stuffed mushrooms and shrimp cocktail. That’s assuming I get to a grocery store next week. I’ve been advised that I may not be negative in any way.

Ya see why I’m scared? This is borderline crazy world. I think the military has been advised to simply fence in Green Bay and declare it a mental hospital. Perhaps the entire state of Wisconsin, of which our friend OKJimm is a resident, has been declared in quarantine. I wouldn’t be surprised. They drink a lot up there I think.

Anyway, I’m secretly packing a bag and having it at the ready should I have to escape. You’ll see me pulling my sled across the frozen wasteland of the farm, heading toward Troy, where I hope to hitch a ride on a tractor heading for parts unknown. Just wave if you see me.


Meanwhile, I sure would like to see the sports headlines in Chicago today. Everyone is abuzz as to whether Quarterback Jay Cutler took a dive in the second half. He complained of a bad leg, suffered in a play he could not recall, and was not present during the last half. His backup, Caleb Hainie,  noted mostly for interceptions, lived up to his notedness.

The name alone is enough. Alex Karras, Detroit Lion of old and pretty good actor was wont to say a similar thing years ago about one of the long list of incompetent Lion quarterbacks: “What would you expect of a ‘quarterback’ named Milton Plum?”


I got a bone to pick with the NFL on rules. There is this idiotic one about pass receiving. It basically states something to the effect that the receiver must demonstrate control of the ball before it is considered a reception. Okay, you say, so what?

Well, said rule has been interpreted in such stupid fashion that a goodly number of legitimate passes this past season were ruled incomplete. This happens when the receiver catches the ball,and is either tackled immediately or is stretched out to catch the ball, making his fall to the ground a certainty.

Now it appears the idiotic refs have no understanding of gravity or basic physics. Ya see, when a ball is held securely, but fallen upon, the shape of the object “being semi-round” and the fact that it is air-filled, and is less weighty than the object falling upon it, causes it to skid a bit against the body. Even though the hands never lose contact with it. Refs have been calling this “movement” a demonstration of lack of control, thus the passes are ruled incomplete. Balderdash!

The Contrarian calls the rule one with “unintended consequences”. I call it a monumental idiocy.


I’m also fairly tired of the issue of “fumbling” which no longer means, “oops, I dropped it.” More often than not, a wonderful reception or long brilliant run is ruined by one or more lugs, weighing a ton more than the ball holder, who with massive maws covered with hard gloves, punch mercilessly at the ball, and “strip” it from the legitimate holder.

This is called sport. I call it, another failure to recognition  the laws of the universe. Big objects, often multiple in nature, thrust upon a weaker body, tend to dislodge the chit they are carrying. It is through no fault of their own. It ruins the fun of the game.

This “talent” which I call thuggery mugging is now taught in camp and training. It should be outlawed. Tackle the person, you bullies!


The Contrarian finds my objections trite. He’s says it’s the “lawyer in me”. But it’s not. I just like fun, not brute strength. If I want to see that I can go watch that awful boxing/beating/kicking/wrestling pretence on whatever channel it spews on.


There, I’m ready for the next two weeks!


No, Really, Part II

Green-Bay-Packers-HelmetTensions mount as game day approaches. You can see it in the Contrarian’s fidgeting, in his long stares into space, in extra time needed to meditate on strategy. Or at least so he tells me. In any event, work must be postponed, since serious thinking is required.

Usually, Sunday mornings are a joy for me. I awaken thinking of spending the morning in church, learning and worshiping, and with all else that entails. But not when it is also “game day.”

No, I awaken, with a certain suspicious wariness. One can never be too sure that the Contrarian doesn’t have some new “plan” that will enhance the teams chances. Perhaps he has chosen to paint a green/yellow logo on my cheek while I slept. One needs to check to be sure.

I know, what I am in for. I tiptoe around, hoping to avoid it, but sure as it snows in January, he scurries out from the computer and announces:


Yes, and this refrain will become increasingly strident as the season goes badly. The game will inevitably get even bigger. More important, statistically speaking. If a loss occurs, we reconfigure how many are less and determine the likelihood that going 14-2 then 13-3 and so on, will result in winning the division. That is the first step of course. If the division is lost, then wild card machinations result, and often that means “someone else is in control of the one’s fate.” That is not a good thing.

I scurry off to church, only to arrive back some hours later to a house in full bore set up for “THE GAME.” It is popcorn day, so there is the added burden of “set up,” something accomplished by 11 am. I can cook around the popcorn pans and dishes and so forth. The microwave already contains the butter and is set for high–the only speed a man understands.

All the live-long day, I am reminded that it is coming soon. “In four hours and thirty-three minutes, the game will start,” I’m advised. Am I ready? Oh Lord, yes I am, but not for what you think.

As it begins, the Contrarian sits all wiggly. He moves his shoulders, urging the team forward. He jumps up and does dances and power arm movements, copying the victory prances of the players on every play or when they think they have made an especially good poopie.

“LOOKIE, LOOKIE, LOOKIE!” he exclaims. And he means it. He very much liked that particular play. A short pass, a few yards. It indicates that good things are in store.

As is usual, penalties are met with a division. Ours are “mistakes,” theirs are evidence of cheating. “CHEATERS, CHEATERS, CHEATERS!”   he charges. This is only a few octaves short of that pitch that makes you wince in pain.

Now I can appreciate the game all right. I like Donald Driver on offense and Al Harris on defense. I love Al’s braids. I appreciate their mastery of the game. Okay, I like how their butts look in those tight pants. 

As I’m smiling at this thought, I am blown out of my seat by a string of expletives that would not make a sailor blush because no sailor could say that many before the ship went down. All because some error has occurred. Oh, but if the opponent should miss a pass, there is a high pitched cackle of HAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. If a drive that looked surely to produce points, fails, it is met with, “YES, YES, THERE IS A FOOTBALL GOD.”

As time begins to run down, I hear the usual, “THERE IS STILL PLENTY OF TIME.” This can be said with any time on the clock longer than 30 seconds. Packers are miracle workers in case you were unaware.

Minding my own business, I jump again, as he booms, “HEY LOVIE, DO YOU COACH CHEATING?”

I raise the specter of the turncoat, Bret Favre. I admit the Contrarian is no respecter of people. Once gone, Bret was no longer in his mind. He bears the man no ill will, yet he says, “I don’t know how he can put on that uniform without puking in  his mouth.” This in reference to Favre’s signing with the arch enemy, the Vikings.

As the game nears its end with the Packer position still precarious, he uses his fall back excuse.
“YOU KNOW ME, WHEN ITS OVER, IT’S OVER, I DON’T MOAN ABOUT IT.” This as we are heading off to bed with about five minutes left to play.

The miracle of course does happen this time. The new QB, finally connects on a pass and the Packers finally go ahead. Another interception by Harris seals the deal with less than a minute.



I’m off to sleep, knowing that in a week, I have to go through all this again. It’s going to be a long season. Pray for me.

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No, It Really is About the Packers

detroit-lions2Sooner or later, every past or present Michigander, (Don’t ask me why our name sounds fowlish when we have a wolverine as a state mascot. Oh visions of X-Men get out of my head!) must face the shame of our State closet skeleton.

Yes indeed, we must admit the ugly truth. Michigan is a state in severe mental crisis, and always has been. We are a divided state (remember Lincoln’s remarks) and thus unique in the American scheme of things. Our two halves are connected only by a bridge, called the Mackinaw (otherwise known in the LP [lower peninsula] as the “bridge to nowhere”. Got there first Sarah!).

The LP is also known, as the “part that counts,” or PTC. The upper peninsula is known as “yooper” land, pronounced UUUUper. It is actually connected landwise to Wisconsin, a state that may be the most boring one in the nation. Mostly it moos and it makes cheese. Thus the appellation of “cheese-head” is common. It’s most populous city is named after a beer–which makes sense, since they are largely drunks up there. It’s other claim to fame is a one dimensional town called Green Bay (why would green water be attractive?), which houses the GB Packers, a football team named after the bloody and unattractive practice of meat packing.

Yoopers are usually Packer fans, which is another reason they are mostly ignored by the PTCs. We are Lions fans, albeit, that is stretching the word “fan” to new dimensions in both time and space. The last time the Lions won a championship was in 1957, so unlike the dude above, I’ve been waiting now 52 years for a repeat.

The nemeses of the Lions are others from their division, the Chicago Bears, hated mostly because its truly impossible to argue that Detroit is a better city unless one is blind, the Minnesota Vikings, I mean what grown man wears purple for goodness sake?, and the aforesaid Green Bay Packers. I mean other than Chicago, what has Illinois going for it? And Minnesota or as they sing song say it  in said state, MINa SOta like some Norwegian fjord name. I mean please. A political nightmare where Willy Wonka might be the next governor. So all these hatreds are firmly based in reality, really.

So, as I said, we understand why the Yoopers are GB fans, they are schizophrenic and not very sure of where they should lay claim to statehood. But one would think that such fuzzy and bizarre thinking would not penetrate below the state line right? Wrong.

Ten plus years ago, I was informed that my beloved and soon to be husband was a cheese-head. Yup, it still makes me shiver. Now, I had two choices, either maintain my identity as the hapless Lion fan, or go over to the enemy. I admit, that in the name of marital harmony, I caved without a single nail being pulled out by a set of pliers. I’d make a lousy spy. I would tell everything at once.

So, I figured okay, just watch the games, and be nice. But oh, I had no idea the affliction such Packer mania actually took. In these pro-less states, they become more fanatical than you would imagine. And over the years, I start to get anxious around the first of August. It’s coming you see. I wake up in the middle of the night with sweats, not menopausal one’s either.

Finally I hear the printer whirring and then he erupts, paper in hand, smile on his face, and announces the words that freeze my blood and start the ugly time, the seasonal chronic disease. He says,

I’ve looked at the schedule, and I don’t see as there is any team that can beat them.”

Thus it begins. The suspension of all rights. The democracy that our marriage is allegedly based upon is usurped by the tyranny of a dictatorship, all revolving around da Packers. I flee in terror, but alas, I cannot evade the truth. Life as I know it is forever changed until the beginning of February.

I whimper in dismay and remain silent at the words. I then look up brightly and suggest: “But dear, we agreed, no football, until the first game starts!”

“The first game is Sunday, and it’s at NIGHT.”

I cringe. “But what of Mad Men?”


No amount of cajoling, threatening to withhold sexual favors, food, or anything will impact this decision. I am prisoner and I am expected to be an exuberant one at that.

I have been roundly criticized for being a “pessimist.” I see a game going into the crapper quickly and say so. Given 52 years of waiting, you can see why. Still, I’m told such negativity is not allowed. So I must prepare to be “upbeat,” optimistic and all that other silly stuff, no matter how much the team might stink up the field.

Bret Favre is gone of course. But to the true believer, people don’t matter, only team matters. The Contrarian takes delight that there are signs in Packer stadium saying “Number 4, we’ll never forget you Brent.” Yeah, funny. Worse the man has lost his entire mind (how big that might be is relative to being a football player in the first place of course), and become a MINNESOTA (make that MINNNNa SOta) Viking.

Tomorrow: The actual Game –be prepared. Women will see my point, men will see it all as quite normal.

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