2005-02-08 - 1:16 p.m.
The Patriots won the Super Bowl, and as some of you may know I won my bet with the very talented and slightly insane Jenna. . Stop on over at her diary and give her some shit, I am sure she would love to tell you that she lost the bet and how the New England Patriots rock her world: anisettekiss
I watched the Super Bowl over a friend’s house. There were about 12 of us adults gathered to celebrate the most sacred of days. The cases of beer were stacked high on the deck. We spent a small fortune on deli platters, shrimp, and assortment of chips and accompanying dips. It was perfect.
Everything was going great.
And then it happened. …
A crumb cruncher.
A linoleum rat.
Out of no where, a little 2 year old sticky fingered kid comes in and stands in front of the TV.
"Maybe it’s a just a stray and the host will quickly shoo it out the door." I foolishly thought.
But the little snot monkey just stood there blocking the TV. No one made any effort to move the child.
WTF? Who brings a 2 year old to an all adult Super Bowl Party? I looked around the room for the offending parent. It was Tara: unwed, football hating, loud talking floozy from hell.
This probably means we’re not going to have any half time strippers over today. I mused to myself. Great, just great.
And as the mother stood off to the side gabbing away, the kid kept standing there. Standing right there! Right in front of the TV! While the Super Bowl was on! The Kid! The TV! The Super Bowl! And no one was doing anything.
I started to panic.
I looked over at the host. He pretended not to notice. Wimp.
I looked over at Matt. He gave me a nervous glance, but I knew he wouldn’t say anything. He’s had a crush on the rug rat’s mom for years. He wouldn’t risk offending her. Wuss.
My other friends somehow acted like this wasn’t a problem. What the hell? The world had gone crazy.
I knew that if this problem was going to be resolved. I was going to have to step up to the plate.
I’ve been told that kids are people too and some professionals claim that you can even rationally communicate with them. However, it’s been my experience that if you tell them “to get the fuck out of the way” people look at you funny and usually their parents get all mad and stuff.
So, being the caring and thoughtful person I am, I refrained from telling this selfish, miniature, TV blocking person to get the fuck away from the screen.
Instead, I calmly and politely brought it to the poop machine’s parental unit's attention that the fruit of their ignorant white trash womb was blocking the TV.
“There’s a baby in front of the TV.” I calmly stated as I pointed to the child to ensure there would be no mistake that there was indeed a child in front of the TV. “See?”
No response.
“Child!” I announced as my fingered stabbed repeatedly toward the offending offspring.
No one seemed to care. The world has gone insane.
“THERE’S A CHILD IN FRONT OF THE TV!” My voice was just a bit louder.
“Who’s kid?” My voice cracked... I was nervous that the l’enfante terrible would never move.
Its mother was shoving shrimp in her pie hole and drinking my beer, completely oblivious to the fact that her spawn from hell was interrupting the most significant event of the year.
I felt beads of sweat starting to break on my forehead. “Relax Andy, just relax.” I told myself. The kid will get bored and move out of the way any minute…any friggin minute now…yup…kid’s got to move sometime. La la la. Move kid. Move.
I focused my thoughts. I visualized the rug rat moving away from the TV. I thought maybe if I think hard enough, I could “will" it to move away and all will be fine with world.
No dice. The midget rabble rouser was immune to my Jedi mind tricks. Damn it. This was no ordinary kid. The Force was strong in this tiny terror.
I tried making the international hand signal of waving my hands to the side, trying to get the kid to move, but it just stood there, staring at me, as if it didn’t even care about the Super Bowl.
“…and the Patriots pass is incomplete.” The TV announcer exclaimed.
I bobbed my head trying to see around the diapered hellion. “MOTHER FUCKER!” I responded.
“ANDY! Watch your mouth!” I was chastised by several women in the room, including my lovely wife.
“B-b-b-but, the kid….it’s in the way….the Patriots…they lost the play…” I tried to explain. “It’s the Super Bowl…..you know…”
My words fell on deaf ears.
And then miniature demon started to dance. Its tiny arms raised in the air, it’s tiny, defiant fists clenching Cheetos. Yummy, fluorescent imitation cheese snacks blocked the TV. I began to think the kid was doing it on purpose, just to annoy me. Kids do that to me all the time.
“The baby… she might get hurt and maybe she should go play….you know...somewhere else” I helpfully offered. No one paid attention to me.
“And once again the Patriots are forced to punt” A voice on the TV stated.
“Fuck me! Christ Almighty!” I blurted.
Once again, I was chastised for my colorful language by several female adults.
“OH, that’s okay” the snot machine’s mother interjected. “Her father says a lot worse” and she went back to her experiment of packing her face with as many nachos as possible.
Why isn’t anyone moving the kid?
Thinking quickly, I took my oversized, novelty, foam #1 finger and bribed the annoying little lego licker with it. The brat gleefully snatched it and ran off. Whew.
After the game, I found my foam finger. It was under the kitchen table, covered in Cheeto dust, snot and kid drool. I had made the ultimate sacrifice. It was ruined beyond repair.
Damnit.
But at least the Patriots won. They Rock
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