Nov 25 2008
BROVEMBER
So here we are. The Vikes have played eleven forgettable games. The Gophers have played twelve. The Timberwolves have played as many times as the Star Tribune tells me they have, because I don’t think I or any other person I would ever even think about speaking to could tell me anything else notable about the team. Essentially, if it weren’t for the Wild, I’d have had twice as much to drink tonight as I already have.
Seeing as how I don’t have any television — making it impossible to catch the outstandingly mediocre hijinks of the manslaughter-inducing cast of Two and a Half Men — the Vikenasties have instead become my very own Two and a Half. Just as millions of idiots tune in to watch that garbage, I - with no better explanation - have wasted hours upon hours on Chilly’s trash.
Somehow I compose myself every Sunday, shower, drink enough coffee to triple Colombia’s legal GDP, and walk a mile-and-a-half to a sports bar so I can sit alone in a crowd of Giants, Redskins, Bills, Broncos (???) and a sprinkle of Panthers and Bears fans as the Vikings inevitably take it to the last possession wherein the odds dictate they will either (A) turn the ball over attempting to come back [50% odds], (B) rely on a pass interference call or a missed field goal by the other team to squeak out a victory [30% odds], or (C) actually come back of their own skill [I hesitantly say 20%]. When the best part of your Sunday is the fifteen minutes it takes you to eat your chicken fingers, text your friends since there’s no one stupid enough to be sitting with you on a precious day off of work, and decide how long until you place your nachos order…well, then you should probably reevaluate things.
Somehow though, someone beyond Winfield + AP managed to deliver on the one Sunday this year in which I’ve failed to watch the game. Instead, this past Sunday I bet $50 on the Vikes money line and sat at my friend’s house watching only the Red Zone channel (I parlayed it with the Ravens), wherein I saw a fair bit of Vikings but certainly not the extent of the kick ass offense that keeps me throttled to the point of crapping myself for an average of 194 minutes per week.
Perhaps this shake up is the beginning of a new dawn — a turtle-head peering out from its shell of mediocrity amid an NFL landscape ripe for the false hope of football immortality. In other words, a December to remember before a January that’s over before it starts! COUNT ME IN. What else is there to live for until inauguration day besides the usual criminal pardons and shady midnight regulations and the worst Oscar season since Titanic ruined the entire year of 1997. The only redeemable thing about that three-hour ordeal was the Uno’s personal pan pizza I ordered halfway through it, but not the pizza itself - just the time it took to get it.
So gather ye faithful, Vikes fans. The electric speed train that can’t make good on its loans is getting a stimulus in the form of Kyle Orton’s beard hairs eaten off his skin by a rabid Jared Allen.
And Super Bowl Homeboy will be there in full force for its 2nd Annual Vikes Tailgate to get the party started.
ROCK N’ ROLL IS ALIVE…..AND IT LIVES IN MINNEAPOLIS…