If you’ve read me long enough, you know I’m highly amused by signs. They leave little space to communicate important messages, so often you have to live without a decent explanation of what the thing means.

You might’ve seen those little signs by the road that someone has just staked in the ground, perhaps at the corner of an intersection. They’re often business signs, with a simple statement of what the business or person does, along with their phone number. They’ll say “WE BUY HOUSES” or “WE BUY OLD CARS.” Pretty typical, right?

Well I was recently driving along and saw a sign reading “WE BUY DIABETIC TEST STRIPS.” I bet there’s someone out there who gets really excited about unloading their cache of diabetic test strips. They probably see that sign and exclaim “Finally!”, then weep with joy and get out of the car to hug sidewalk folk.

It is such a niche sign. I get the other ones that appeal to everyone. Like “We buy shoes.” OK, do any of you drivers got any of those? Of course you do. Obviously the maker of the sign doesn’t lack sales sense (though he may lack a pair of shoes, which would call into question his business savvy and ability to make a decent living).

But “WE BUY DIABETIC TEST STRIPS”? I have zero clue what those are. I’m almost 35 and if you showed me one I’d ask you what the hell it was. The target market for this advertisement is so narrow, I would think any phone call the advertiser receives would incite a wild party with the boss saying things like, “I told you that sign was genius” and “Drinks are on me. These diabetic test strips will take us right to the top.”

It did make me wonder what other highly niche signs could be placed roadside to grab the attention of the masses (and the response of an embarrassingly scant few).

So here are nine more Ridiculously Niche Roadside Sales Signs:

1. We buy surplus hot pink bathroom tile grout.
2. We buy used assault rifles from Swiss warfare.
3. We buy disintered remains of mustachioed vampires.
4. We buy boats. From the game Battleship.
5. We buy Gary Busey VHS tapes.
6. We buy most kinds of rubble.
7. We buy boiled shrimp shells and leftover cocktail sauce.
8. We buy size 51-48 jorts.
9. We buy difficult-to-catch birds.

Do you have a ridiculously niche roadside sales sign? Leave one in the comments!

Today I’m pondering time. Don’t worry, this won’t get real deep. Like, I’m not pondering the theory of relativity and electromagnetism and the implications of a real world warp speed that could get us to Taco Bell and back in .4 seconds.

No, today I’m simply pondering the necessity of timepieces. Really, there has never been a time in our world where it’s been easier to keep time. Yet, we still obsess over the types of watches we buy or the clocks we put in our house.

But why? Keeping time is no longer a chore. We don’t have to hop on our mule and schlep down to the village center to observe the sundial. The time is shown everywhere. It’s in my car, on my coffee maker, even my refrigerator. Well, not my refrigerator, but I’ve seen it on those fancy new ones owned by well-to-do folk.

Seriously, 90% of the world carries a phone on their person. And if you don’t, then just ask someone for the time and there’s a nine in ten chance they’ll be able to help you, o poor soul still using mules and sundials.

I mean, time tellers are so ubiquitous now that it’s almost embarrassing to ask for the time. Oh, you want me to tell you the time? You couldn’t like, I dunno, walk 10 feet in any direction and find it?

We own multiple watches. I say we as in people of the world and not myself, who hasn’t owned a watch in 15 years. We have a watch for going out, a watch for work, and a watch for weedwhacking…spell check didn’t have a problem with weedwhacking, that was a little shocking…oh, but yeah, a watch for everything. I got a watch for everything too. It’s called an iPhone. And it’s accurate to like the astronomical millisecond. And I have no wrist bulge. #winning

Some people are still acquiring grandfather clocks. People are carefully hauling 200-pound timepieces on trucks and dropping them into their living rooms. They’re winding them up so they can be awaken from naps by bellowing chimes. Good golly why? You can get a two pound Echo and ask it to tell you the time, weather, or the prime minister of Bangladesh without twitching a damn muscle.

Now we have sophisticated, smart watches from brands like Apple, who figured that if people are going to strap something to their wrist, it better do more than just tell the time. And guess what. It doesn’t even show you the time when you look at it. You have to wake it with a button push. Apple rejects telling time as a primary function of their own watch.

That’s telling. Not time. Just telling.

It’s 6:50 on a hot summer night on Court 15. My friend and I have been pounding the pavement, exchanging ground strokes with fervor, and sweating our fannies off for the last 80 minutes. The game ends, prompting the changeover.

We go to our seats to refresh ourselves with water, and notice we are not alone. Some anxious-looking folks decked out in Yonex gear are hovering over our seats, bouncing to and fro, stretching their bodies.

We look at the time, and see it is now eight minutes ’til. We have the court booked until 7, but you wouldn’t know it. It seems that our $6 deposit for our court reservation is no longer good here, and we’ve assuredly worn out our welcome.

This is the rude state of affairs running rampant at the Millbrook Exchange Tennis Club. 

The last three times I’ve played there, my friend or I have paid the court reservation fee that entitles us to have the court for an hour and a half (5:30 to 7:00). And each time, we’ve been passive-aggressively shooed off by adults displaying the patience of caffeinated hyenas. It generally starts with the hovering at 10 ’til, and 5 ’til brings the blatant disregard for personal space. One time I was having some water and a woman got so close I nearly offered her a swig.

Now, because we’re courteous, we typically leave about two minutes ’til. Yet as soon as I lift my bag from the bench the other person places down theirs. Like they couldn’t wait another second to set down their stuff. Has it been that grueling to carry your tennis bag? Do you have C-4 in there that’s going to detonate if it’s not on a bench by 7 pm?

The rudest display came the last time we were finishing up, and my friend made a little joke to the hovering women about them not needing to break out the sunscreen spray just yet. It was an innocuous suggestion of social politeness for them to not spray until we left. Then I watched in wonder as my friend packed up while one of the ladies got out her bottle and began to spray. I watched my friend walk right through the cancerous cloud. Truly flummoxed, I could only conclude that if my friend had kindly asked the women not to take out their glocks and start firing, he would’ve gotten his face blown off.

Really though, I can do whatever I want with that court until 7:00, and perhaps I should to prove a point. Maybe I’ll politely ask for the time and then go into the middle of the court and snap selfies for five minutes. Or tell the bystanders I’ll be trying out Pokemon Go on Court 15 until my time is up, and ask if they’d like to join me. Perhaps my best idea is to give them the option of buying my remaining court time, since they’re so antsy to get going. If my calculations are correct, a 90-minute reservation for $6 equates to roughly six and a half cents a minute. So if someone is hovering at seven ’til, I could say something like, “Hey, you want the court now? Just give me 46 and a half cents and I’ll be out of your way.”

 

 

As consumers, we can’t possibly know everything there is to know about what we buy.

If I’m in the market for a cologne, I will know next to nothing about that cologne by the time I purchase. I won’t know about the laboratory processes of making it, combining oils from tropical wild flowers and whatnot with synthetic chemicals and, who knows, the musk of a fruit bat?

I won’t know who packaged it or where. I won’t know if it kills skin cells. I won’t know if someone peed in it before putting the cap on. All I will know is that when I dab it on my neck I’ll stink good.

It’s like this with lots of things. If we had to know everything about things we’d buy, we’d never buy anything at all.

So certain professions take advantage. They’re aware we hardly know anything about what they do, so we’ll just blindly take them at their word.

Auto mechanics are infamous for this. It’s like George Costanza said, “Well of course they’re trying to screw you, that’s what they do, they can make up anything. Nobody knows. ‘By the way, you’re gonna need a new Johnson rod in here.'”

Thankfully, I have a great mechanic. And it’s rather cliche to pick on them anyway. Instead, I’ve identified two other professions that deserve a watchful eye. In fact, they might be the “new mechanics,” with their exploitation of our ignorance soon to make them as cliched as mechanics. 

Dentists

The fact that my mouth isn’t perfect requires no professional revelation. With 30-some teeth and a freely moving mandible crunching day and night, something is bound to go wrong. I just don’t think I require the NASA-designed head gear being prescribed.

Yes, my bite is a little off. Yes, I grind my teeth too much when I hear country song lyrics. But that shouldn’t warrant a tailor-made oral contraption I have to finance. Seriously, I recently was given the choice of having an out-of-pocket-custom-molded night guard, or a $5 mouthpiece from Walmart, accomplishing the very same effect. So I head to bed like a damn linebacker but I got a stack of Jacksons to buy all the incisor-yanking turkey jerky I can stuff my face with.

Veterinarians

I don’t understand my dog’s anatomy. I know she has a heart and I think she has a brain. Other than that, your guess is as good as mine as to whatever is going on with her body. Vets know this and it won’t be long before they wax on your pooch’s need for a new Johnson rod. Oh. And they know you love them. Which means you are willing to pay whatever you have to to alleviate the Johnson rod issue.

A few years ago, the vet recommended a teeth cleaning. There was a pernicious plaque build up destined to destroy my dog’s beautiful smile, so I obliged to the tune of 300 bones (not the kind for doggies). After the procedure, it came back that she actually had mild plaque build up. So I non-mildly expectorated some choice curses, balled up the receipt and vowed to never let a vet look at my beagle’s teeth again.

Of course, some maintenance on your pet is required. It’s the law to give your dog a rabies shot. But vets tend to make recommendations like they’re imperatives. Once a conversation went like this:

Vet: Your dog is due for her Lepto shot.

Me: What’s that for?

Vet: For your dog if they drink water outside.

Me: You mean any outside water?

Vet: Like water from a stream or lake.

Me: So if my dog drinks from a lake, she can get Lepto?

Vet: Yes, if the lake water has the Lepto virus in it.

Me: So if my dog happens to be outside, unsupervised, at a lake, where that water happens to have Lepto, and she happens to drink the water, she can get Lepto?

Vet: Yes.

Me: Call me a deadbeat dog owner but I’m gonna take my chances. Save the Lepto shot for the guy who brings in his dingo.

So just like everything, among the many good dentists and vets there are some bad ones. If you’ve received a costly estimate on something you’re not sure about, you can ask them this very important question:

Is this absolutely necessary, and if so, what’s the least amount of money I can pay and not ruin my life?

It’s a fair question and can help you from getting ripped off in the long run.

Have you been taken by one of these professions? Am I missing a profession that could vie for the “new mechanic” role?

It was a dreary morning and I sensed I was on my way to some fantastic failure.

You see, that morning I had agreed to go fly fishing with some buddies. It’s not that I don’t know how to fish, just that I don’t know how to fly fish. And I began to sense that they were two very different things.

Initially, what tipped me off was the gear and the discussion of the gear. I’m used to worms, jigs and bobbers. So while the guys were rigging me up, I was first asked if I had a leader. I wanted to say “yes, you’re it” but then realized he was talking about something on my reel, if that is in fact what you call this long, goofy-looking fishing stick I’m holding in my hand. Next was, “Let’s give Carson a red squirmy.” That sounded like an uncomfortable initiation activity I wanted no part of, until someone pulled out a squiggly, near infinitesimal lure. I wondered how a fish would even see the stupid thing while traveling down a rushing stream, but oh well. Lastly, I was given an “indicator.” I think I would’ve been excited about that, but no one told me what it would indicate. I suspected it would have something to do with indicating there were in fact no fish hooking up with my squirmy.

As we made our way down to the river, I must say that I did look the part. Namely, I sported my Dad’s high-quality waders, which would keep me dry as a bone, assuming I didn’t fall in. I had a backpack with a sandwich and a fly rod ready for fly fishing, whatever on earth that is.

I really didn’t know what fly fishing was, because nobody told me. My friends were so juiced about getting on that river and catching their own damn fish that I quickly realized I would need to figure it out myself. So the outing’s first lesson was that I wasn’t going to get one.

So there I stood, on the shores of the Cullasaja, wondering how to fly fish. I watched my buddy Ryan and it looked just as strange as it always did on the outdoorsman shows. A series of back and forth arm motions that strung a line out over the water and seemingly never letting it settle for a fish to get interested. The line was being held, but not retrieved. There was a reel, but no reeling. I could see every bit of the clear river, but no fish. How would this work?

There are times in life where you realize you’re going to make a fool of yourself but you just can’t help it. I came here to fly fish and darn if I wasn’t going to give it my best, measly effort.

So I attempted to emulate my friend, jerking my arm back and forth with the type of flailing that must’ve resembled a disturbed turkey. At the end of it all I had no squirmy in the water and a big ball of monofilament staring back at me.

Instead of spending half a day trying to work that out, I decided to keep up with my buddies now wading up the river and not be left behind for a bear to eat. I soon realized that fly fishing is not the kind of sedentary fishing of scratching your ass and drinking beer that I was accustomed to. This was work. Wading upstream over slippery rocks with nothing but a pole to keep your balance is tough. I soon realized the achievement of my day would not be catching a fish, but avoiding a plunge into the river. A new goal, and I was determined.

Once I reached a more placid stretch (without falling—win) I decided I could screw around with my mess of a fishing line. So I cut the line, lost the teeny-tiny weight (not purposefully), abandoned the indicator (because who am I kidding) and set my line up with just a squirmy. I doubted this was a recipe for success but at least I could make out like I was trying to fish.

After an hour or so, my prescience of not getting a lick of action was confirmed. But I was feeling pretty good about accomplishing my goal of not stumbling and submerging myself in the river. Which led me to my second fly fishing lesson: Don’t ever think you won’t stumble and submerge yourself in the river. 

Now, before the big one, I had stumbled a few times and caught myself in a shallow area, which only soaked the end of my sleeve. I was still wonderfully dry. But then, after two hours of relative uprightness, I lost my balance and three-fourths of me went under. I quickly rose, only to feel the stream of cold river water rushing down my torso, through my loins, and into my warm, fluffy socks. I was soaked, which is rather discouraging while wearing waders, because now I’m thinking “what’s the point now in even having these damn things on?”

With my socks squishing in my boots, I trudged over the bank and had a seat, wondering what to do next. It ended up being a good time to take off my pants and have a sandwich. So I did, and that was nice. My crazy fishing buddies had yet to consider a pause for sustenance, so I proudly felt ahead of them in this aspect of the outing.

I took off the rest of my clothes and pointlessly hung some of them to dry on a long stick housing a large spider. I changed into my dry clothes and watched the fellas fish while finishing my lunch. I got back into my semi-dry waders and re-entered the fray.

The weather, to that point, had been overcast but bucking the forecast, not raining. I remember thanking God for the nice day. I think He smiled at me (he was probably lovingly laughing at me most of the time before that anyway) and then promptly the sky opened and a deluge transpired the remainder of the afternoon. There ain’t much worse than not catching fish when fishing, except for not catching fish while fishing in the rain. This break from our fortune even convinced the most avid in our party to quit. We walked up the bank and back to our truck.

Perhaps this has all sounded like an elaborate complaint from an insufferable pessimist about his miserable, frustrating, and embarrassing fly fishing experience. Yet, I can tell you it was a truly worthwhile and wonderful adventure. I enjoyed the beauty of God’s creation, and watching my buddies engaged in an activity that made them come alive. I enjoyed the time to be quiet and reflect on a number of things I generally don’t have time for. And I appreciated enduring the struggle of doing something I hadn’t before, of laughing at myself and learning good, wet lessons, and resting in the awesome grace of God’s favor on miserable-little-fly-fishing me.

….

The next day I went to a small lake with my friend Ray. We stood on the shore to cast a few lines and pass the time. And in 10 minutes, with no squirmies, waders, slipperly rocks or rushing rivers, I pulled in a beautiful rainbow trout. How about that?

Whether you’re a craft beer enthusiast or a person who’s been around craft beer enthusiasts, you’ve likely noticed where most conversations about craft beer go. And it’s hilarious.

It’s hilarious because craft beer enthusiasts possess a certain snobbery that tends to come out while drinking, much like art lovers remarking on a fine painting or rich housewives opining on Byzantine architecture. So when they’re drinking and having a good time, they tend to speak of the rarified beer they’ve had as though they are noteworthy conquests. What ensues is an exchange of one-upmanship that gravitates to the extreme.

 

Basically, here’s what a group of hopheads (people who love hoppy beer) sound like when they’re drinking beer:

“I haven’t tried Sam Adam’s Rebel IPA. How is it?”

“It’s all right. I’ve had it a few times. Wanna good Boston IPA? Try Paully Revere’s Hop Horse. It’s got a strong hop profile and is just slightly bitter.”

“Yeah, Hop Horse is pretty good. Speaking of bitter, have you tried Tipsy Farmer’s APA? It’s an arugula pale ale. Like consuming a bowl of raw, un-dressinged arugula. Fantasic.”

“Sounds like a weird one, Jeff. I’ve been getting into the more citrusy IPAs.”

“Oh sure, love those. Entire Orchard out of south Florida is making some good stuff. They take the juice of an entire orchard of fruit to make one bottle of beer. Highly concentrated stuff. You have to scoop the beer out with a spoon but it’s like chomping into a fresh tangerine. Amazing.”

“Citrus ain’t bad, but I’ve been digging the piney-flavored IPAs. Lumberjack’s Mouth of Woods IPA is a great one. They use 13 hop varieties from the Yakima valley, then dry hop each batch with 42 bales of fresh pine needles. Redolent of air fresheners and smacks the palate of turpentine. Edgy.”

“Yes, it’s damn piney, but not boozy enough for my tastes. I like ones like Burping Bob’s Beer Liquor. It’s 39% ABV and only comes in singles so you don’t die. That’s my kind of hop bomb.”

“Oh, if you think that’s a bomb, you gotta try Putin’s Hop Scuds. It’s just wet, whole-cone hops loaded into a cruise missile. They top it off with a dash of weapons-grade plutonium, which I assume is why I twitched for three days after drinking it. So awesome.”

You get the point. If you’re a craft beer enthusiast, beware of how ridiculous you may sound—and just own it. Tell me all about your extreme adventures, and I’ll tell you mine. We’ll take pride in quaffing brews that everyone else spits out.

The thing about being at home is that you’re always around your food. As soon as your stomach sends a little message to your brain that says “Want to grab a bite?” you instantly oblige, because why debate a snack while it’s so readily available? You think it and you get it.

But at work, it’s a jungle. When your brain gets the message for food, you are often left with few options.

Should you gather provisions like a pre-hibernating varmint and stuff a bunch of snacks in your cube? Very dangerous proposition.

Should you leave goodies in the cold storage of a break room fridge? Not unless you want others to claim it, or worse discard it as refuse.

No, you need a guide. A guide to find food in your building. Free food that costs you nothing but a little hard work.

So here is the Ultimate Guide to Workplace Food Vulturing, with methods that have proved great success for many a hungry office man.

1) The Prowl Around– What do you do when there’s apparently no food around? You get off Uranus and find it. You aren’t some regal jungle ape like King Louie who can just expect the other monkeys to bring you bananas. Heck no, you are a prowling liger on the hunt for the culinary kill. No one has spoken of food; you’re just anticipating it using your primal instincts.

Your best bet is going to public areas where food is often left out. Oftentimes, it’s left out as goodwill. Most of the time, it’s just nature’s way of getting rid of food. Folks are counting on famished beasts like you to locate the quarry and finish it off. Don’t disappoint them.

2) The Boss Meeting Linger- So the whole liger thing didn’t work out. You must adapt with wild of the office, young grasshopper. The real lions, the bosses, have made a kill with their bottomless wallets and ordered lunch in while they discuss important stuff. What’s crazy is they always order too much. Maybe they’re sorry for us and just want to fortify us least of these- but that doesn’t matter. You go seize those greasy chips and warm pickle like they were especially boxed for you.

Not sure when the goodies become available? Check the bosses’ calendars and see when the meeting ends. Find some excuse for being in the area, like adding the nearby printer to your computer, just in case they ask. Now it’s possible that you’ve already had lunch. So? What are you waiting for? Proceed to the place and pounce on that packaged provender. Remember, you’re a hunter and a gatherer. Take your spoils to the break room fridge and write your name on it. That’s lunch tomorrow.

3) The Herd Mentality– Let’s face it. You can’t solely rely upon your own power to vulture work vittles. You need the pride. Invest in spending time with the group’s goody givers. If they’ve brought in food before, consider them prime targets. Ask for recipes and show genuine interest in their delectables. Say things like, “Golly those sticky buns you brought in that time were slammin'” and “Who knew we had a natural Barefoot Contessa on our team?” Just the right number of these utterances will have synapses fire in their brain that they’re due for whippin’ up some lip-smackerin’ office snacks. And not a moment too soon. That belly noise is bubbling up to a real growl.

4) The Gatherer Request- Never forget the worth of a good gatherer. Sometimes, the hunt goes cold and you return home with clean spears and humiliation. Or in your case, an empty stomach and a ravenous appetite for anything resembling food.

But take heart gentle warrior, you have a gatherer who is quite capable of producing her own tasty treats. Just tell her how everyone brings stuff in all the time, and you think it’s your turn to give back. She’ll smile lovingly and make whatever you want to bring in to the office next day.

After a few acts of providing like this, you’ll shed your vulture reputation and be deservedly lionized by the rest of the office.

Well, there’s the guide. I feel great. Give a man a fish, he’ll eat for a day. Teach a man to vulture, he’ll eat well at work for the rest of his life.

The NCAA tourney has come and gone, with the beloved Tarheels having their hearts crushed by a buzzer beater for the ages.

Their coach, Roy Williams, has seen his fair share of tough losses. For some, losses temper and humble. For others, the personality remains, well, same as it ever was.

I really get a kick out of watching coaches act like maniacs. And not to single out good ‘ol Roy, but let’s single him out. If you took a video tape of this guy and showed it to a village in Africa, they would conclude this is the angriest man alive. And if they didn’t know he was a basketball coach, they would probably guess he was a dictator whose country was falling apart.

But it’s not just Roy. Most college basketball coaches are like this, from Coach K to Bill Self. They yell and scream like children the whole game and we excuse it because “that’s what coaches do.”

But it’s not what anyone else does. If we acted like that in any other professional setting, we would be promptly fired.

A manager at a company will tactfully tell their employee what they need to work on. A college basketball coach will berate their pupil for throwing an errant ball. They’ll ream on their team during a timeout as if the guys were guilty of grand larceny, when in fact all they’ve done is allowed a 10-2 run.

And how about the ruleskeepers and their treatment? When an auditor reports a foul, we humbly ask what we can can do to resolve it. A referee calls a foul and the coach screams at him like a sailor being devoured by a shark.

Every year I watch college basketball coaches throw tantrums like seven-year-olds. What if I did that at work when I didn’t get my way?

We told Carson this morning the project wasn’t going to move forward, and you should’ve seen him react. He got all red, started to stomp, and then he called Pete a bleeping dingaling. But what are you gonna do? Carson’s the content guy, and that’s what content guys do. And he’s a solid content guy.

Whatever. In 10 minutes I’d have a security guard at my cube with a file box. My workplace would not excuse a grownup for acting like a boy.

So why do we excuse college basketball coaches, or any coach for that matter, for showing zero professional tact and displaying an unending series of juvenile conniptions? The fact that “they’re good coaches and that’s what they do” now sounds so foolish that I’m a man and don’t expect people to take me seriously when I’m cranky and explode uncontrollably.

Alright, the diatribe is over. Should I just give in and say this is sports and people in that arena can do whatever they want?

 

This past Sunday night, the final episode of Downton Abbey aired, leaving its fans with fond yet bittersweet feelings. 

What was so remarkable about the episode was that nothing horrible happened. Quite the opposite, in fact. In a show famous for twists, turns, drama and jarring tragedy, the series finale could not have tied a more beautiful bow for every character and plot line.

We fans sat there pleasantly shocked that we weren’t pounding our fists and grumbling about what they did to our favorite character. But it made me wonder what could’ve happened if the finale ended in depressing and morbid fashion, true to its form.

So, here are Seven Tragedies That Didn’t Happen in the Downton Abbey Finale:

7. Students begin to incessantly bully Mr. Mosely and cause him to melt into a puddle of goo.

6. Andy falls off the roof, crushing Mr. Drewe and his plate of freshly-baked-by-Miss Padmore cookies.

5. Daisy attempts an insurrection of York, only to be cut down by the steady rifle of none other than ex-pat Mr. Bates.

4. Thomas crumbles on the first day of his new job when he learns he will be the butler, valet, cook, lady’s maid and pig man.

3. Lady Mary snatches away Bertie to become the Marchioness of Hexham, sparking a no-holds bar cat fight to the death with Lady Edith.

2. Lord Grantham excuses himself from dinner and promptly suffers an outrageous, 20s-style brain aneurism that causes his head to explode all over his guests.

1. Not to be outdone, Mr. Carson unintentionally shakes the booze out onto the table candles, setting the dining room ablaze and bringing light to the finale’s title, Downton’s Inferno.

Perhaps I missed one? Feel free to add yours in the comments!

If I had a Super Bowl party, I doubt anyone would come. 

It’s not because I’m not cool (even though I’m not). It’s not because I can’t make pigs ‘n a blanket (I can’t, but my wife can). It’s not because my TV is small (at least in comparison to most of the screens we use these days. Compared to your phone, watching the game on my TV is like a screen-ogling session at Best Buy.)

It’s just that I would put some pretty serious parameters on my party that I’m not so sure you’d be okay with. But perhaps I’m wrong. Please let me know if this is too much to ask, fully knowing that even if it is it won’t change my mind and I’m happy to watch this game by my damn self.

1. You have to watch the game. And not talk much. This wouldn’t be a rule for any Super Bowl, but this is not just any Super Bowl. My team, the Panthers, are playing. That means I’ll be pretty much glued to the TV and watching every detail down to the snot that Luke Kuechly knocks out of Bronco ball carriers. I’ll have to listen to the commentators fawn over Cam Newton and explain why he’ll probably get the Panthers to win the next 20 Super Bowls. And you’ll have to sit there and not crunch too loudly on your chips. Still interested?

2. You’ll have to excuse me during the halftime show. I’m just telling you I may dissappear for the next half hour. There are two kinds of people who watch the Super Bowl: those who care about watching the game, and those who care about watching everything but the game, including the Star-Spangled Banner, commercials, and the insufferable halftime show. I’ve already told you what crowd I’m in. So when the 1st half ends, I’m going to get up and do something. Maybe I’ll pee. Maybe I’ll clean up kids toys. Maybe I’ll order a pizza, go pick it up, eat it, and still be back in time for the can’t-miss-Coldplay-finale. What do you want? I’ve watched sports my whole life and halftime is generally resigned for bathroom breaks and yard work. Now I have to watch a laborious musical performance before finally getting to watch football again? No thank you…Really, you still want to come over?

3. You must endure my frenzied buffalo wings and blue cheese consumption. Seriously, if you want one you better snag it while my eyes are briefly closed and my wing sauce-slathered face is smiling at the heavens. I just don’t get to have wings and blue cheese much. Maybe like four times a year. So on the rare occasion they are presented to me I gormandize them like a fox who’s breached the chicken coop. So I’m just warning you if you reach for a wing, I am happy to share ONE but cannot guarantee you won’t draw your fingers back without them looking like they belong on my bone plate.

So that’s it. Needless to say it’s going to be a pretty quiet party at the Speights this year. Really though, come over if you want. Just bring your own blue cheese, Paco.