Around the Goldberg household, the Super Bowl is treated like the national holiday it should finally be declared. Wendy cooks up the traditional Super Bowl turkey and wild boar while I go out to the backyard and play touch football with our five boys Ralph, Ronnie, Bobby, Ricky and Mike. Before kick off, we head off to church to get a little Jesus for the team we're rooting for, and then come home in time for an early dinner and four quarters of anabolic man crushing. Sure, Eli Manning looks a little retarded, but retards are so in this year that it's sick. After the game, Wendy and I crawl into bed and read Parade magazine to each other while the boys softly cry from their mats they share on the floor with the two dogs.
Or, you know, I sit alone in the living room and watch quietly by myself. Because, typically, I don't like watching football with other people. They tend to scream. They tend to talk. They tend to annoy me. This year, however, I actually ended up in the living room of Rob Roberge, hitting the bottled frappacinos and carrots-into-the-ranch-dressing-dip with great acuity.
And then, upon returning home, well, then I read Parade. What I learned is that the true Super Bowl wasn't played in lovely Glendale, Arizona (and, lets be honest, Glendale, Arizona is a shit hole. Scottsdale? Not so bad. Phoenix? There's a reason so many episodes of The First 48 take place there). The real Super Bowl was played on the pages of Parade, ladies and gentlemen, and it was super bowl of d-list celebrity obsessed fucktards, fucktards stuck in a time machine, and fucktards who simply cannot understand that, surprise, people are not like they are in the TV shows they star in!
Sweet Christ, people. You're fucking killing me. And on Super Bowl Sunday, no less. First, there is JB of Evansville, Indiana, who wants to know:
Is it true that Carrie Underwood has never had a pedicure because she's too ticklish?
What...the...fucking...fuck? Where on earth did JB hear this? And lets just assume JB did hear this somewhere, why would he (or she...though this screams he) write into Parade to find out this very important question? What other questions must vex JB? Is is true that Carrie Underwood has never had sex with a dwarf because she is freaked out by the dad on Little People, Big World? Is is true that Carrie Underwood once saw Simon Cowell's erect nipples through his tight black shirt and developed an aversion to raisins? Is it true that Carrie Underwood once had too many dates and found out she can't eat dates because they are tough on her constitution? All I know for certain is that I am not the only person concerned by this frightening bit of questioning by JB. No less than Carrie's Fans and the Tickling Forum [not terribly work safe, but then if you're reading my blog, I suspect being work safe isn't all that important to you...but for the folks at Advance Magazines, don't lose your job over this, just trust me] are befuddled and somewhat aroused by this as well. Arlen Specter should look into this.
But it's not just Carrie Underwood fetishists who've got me concerned. No, it's a fucktard named Clark Catelain from the aforementioned Scottsdale, AZ who really has me wondering about why people cannot distinguish between TV and reality. And, well, who the fuck is a long time fan of Shirley Jones. Shirley Jones fetishists, I suppose. You see, Fucktard Clark asks:
As a fan of Shirley Jones since her goody-two shoes days on the Partridge Family, I've always wondered: How has she managed to stay married to a brash comic like Marty Ingels?
Well, you see, Clark, Shirley Jones wasn't really the character she played on TV, or else you'd be hearing stories about how she used to blow Ruben Kincaid in the back of that fucking bus and that child protective services had questions for her about how at one point she had one child playing the drums and then, inexplicably, there was another child playing the drums and no one bothered to make note of the fact that, well, she'd obviously murdered her child and replaced him with a child she kidnapped or bought off of the black market! And the thing about comics, Clark, is that they aren't really like the people they portray on TV, either. So, when Marty portrayed fucking PAC MAN on television, he wasn't, you know, like, a real video game character. Likewise, whatever role he played in an episode of Walker, Texas Ranger, I'm going to go out on a limb and suggest that, at no time, did he do anything that would require he be roundhouse kicked by Chuck Norris. You see, Clark, these people are actors playing roles. It's not real life. It's make believe. Like how sometimes I make believe the world isn't people by absolute fucktards. The bubble invariably bursts each Sunday when I read Parade.