We've reached the lost weekend.Like a gaping hole between two molars, denying your ability to fully enjoy that red rope, we've come upon an impasse of underrated proportion.
You see, there's no football this weekend, due to the traditional fourteen-day drought between the NFL playoff and the big one, the Super Bowl.
Rather than preparing for another excuse to drink beer and spill chunks of salsa onto the shag carpet, we must endure seven more days of worn-out jockisms and hype.
As I mentioned, this can be rough on a fan of the grid iron. Many of us are addicted to merciless displays of male domination, and I can't scratch that itch even by watching a Leave it to Beaver marathon. I need to watch at least three hours of sanctioned violence, followed by an hour of questioning my testosterone levels, followed by five days of searching for a kit where I can test it by peeing on a stick.
But here's the good news—I think I've found a fantastic substitute.
Imagine eating a Wendy's Triple with extra mustard, and immediately going to bed. As you drift off, the beefy gut bomb slowly trudges through your digestive tract, getting delayed more often than a father trying to get his ten-year-old to school.
Your body is toiling, desperately attempting to dismember the food baby, so you sleep fitfully. Your dreams are vivid, yet strange. You toss and turn, yet return time and again to a vision of women, in Victoria's Secret underwear, strapping on helmets and shoulder pads and knocking the hell out of each other on an indoor football field.
You wake with a start. Since restful slumber isn't an option until the planet you just ate succumbs to gravity, you turn on the television, and realize...it wasn't a dream.
It is lingerie football, and I can't remember a time when I felt as disgusted and appalled as I did for the entire ninety minutes I watched this spectacle.
Oh, sure, these women are adults, they're in very, very, very good shape and they probably receive at least minimum wage for knocking each other around in front of leering dudes...like, um, me.
But if either of my daughters ever hinted at pursuing a career in lingerie football, I would insist that they either wear full football uniforms, or, if they were mandated to don sleepwear, it must be the fuzzy kind with built-in feet.
I have to admit, I didn't really watch the entire game, but I needed to claim I did for comedic purposes. And therefore, I'm not fully aware of any special rules which might exist, but here's my idea of a typical penalty, as announced by the referee on the public address system:
"Illegal hands to the Brazilian, number seventeen, defense. However, since the offender talked dirty to the official for the mandated thirty seconds, that penalty is negated. Repeat second down."
Apparently, we've got our own team of Amazon warriors down the road—The Seattle Mist. I feel that it's my duty to support this fledgling league, since it only enhances Seattle's major league status, and my wife is totally cool about it, with one condition.
Gaping hole?
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