Outta Here
The Boy Scout has been talking a whole lot of football for the last couple of weeks. Glassy eyed, I listen to his descriptions of plays, rules, gossip and statistics. I try to be interested. I do. But the fact of the matter is I believe it to be a yucky form of hyper-masculinity, violent and gaudy. Not my thing. This afternoon I was sitting on the couch, with my pad at my fingertips, watching Kansas City and Buffalo have at it, when I hear this strange sound. pfff pfff snort, pfff pfff snort. I look over to see Mr. Football himself, fast asleep and making a scene of it. It's barely half time. I pulled myself out of there to a more comfy spot with no pfffing around and am feeling good about it. Got better things to do than to pretend to watch football with my comatose couch potato.