The Patriot organization must have figured, what with players from other teams getting caught beating their wives and children on a regular basis this year, letting a little air out of their game-day balls so they would be easier to grip and throw in the beastly New England weather they enjoy playing in wouldn't even be noticed, as long as they didn't hit any smaller, weaker human beings with them. Unfortunately for them, they did hit one of the players of the opposing Indianapolis Colts with one of their softened balls. They hit him right in the hands for an interception, and he noticed right away that the ball was squishier than a married man's excuse for a pair of wispy panties on the rear seat of the minivan.
Neither the tall, handsome quarterback or the shorter, uglier coach for the Patriots admitted knowing who softened their balls. This stonewalling on the question of who was to blame for the lack of puffiness in Pat's pigskins was greeted with general derision. The coach and the quarterback could have said something like, "Well, we customarily we store our balls on the International Space Station in the off season. We wish some space scientist had told us a little of the air was bound to leak out of them up there in the ionosphere or we would have kept them at a Cube Storage instead. It'll never happen again."
All right, that's not even remotely believable, but at least it would have showed they were trying.
Meanwhile, the Seattle Seahawks were demonstrating that they only had to play hard for about five minutes to pulverize any other football squad on the planet. This presages another Super Bore, in my completely uneducated opinion. The girl and I may not even watch the game. We already saw a show that previewed many of the commercials. Ordinarily, we do not watch commercials; it is a rigorous rule of the house that they be fast-forwarded through or muted. So last night we watched a show that consisted entirely of Super Bowl commercials and fast-forwarded through all the regular commercials. Habit is such a rich source of irony.
And speaking of habit, I for one have the moral fortitude to drink all day without out having to cling to the fig leaf of a national semi-holiday to justify it. Frankly, I try to taper off the week before the Super Bowl because I can't afford to go off in an alcoholic rage at yet another bespectacled sports geek on ESPN babbling about what a wonderful hometown human being some 300 pound millionaire thug wearing enough bling to fund a cure for Ebola is, and throw a chair through the TV like I sometimes threaten to do, because that HD monster is worth more than my car.
So the only drama for Super Bowl viewers is likely to be whether the hamburger chain Carl's Jr. will play its new commercial featuring model Charlotte McKinney bouncing naked through a farmers market full of fresh fruits and vegetables, then at the end making the wise choice to bite saucily into a gigantic cheeseburger instead of any of that nasty produce. This has caused Charlotte to be christened "the new Kate Upton," because Kate, whom this column customarily refers to as "America's Sweet Thing," got her start in a Karl's commercial.
The paradigm-shifting question here is, why do we need a new Kate Upton? The old Kate is only 22. It's tough to believe that she's that far past her prime. It's true that Charlotte resembles Kate in many ways—the luxurious blonde mane, the angelic face, the breasts that bring to mind nothing so much as the exotic outer planets of the solar system, in their size, beauty, perfect shape and the fact that it would probably cost millions of dollars to land a probe on them.
And it's not as if Kate has disappeared. Currently she's dressed as a Greek goddess to plug an computer game called, simply, Game of War, in which young computer nerds can while away the hours slaying dragons and orcs and otherwise trying to forget that they are not having sex with Kate Upton, or Charlotte McKinney, or probably anybody. And she just did a movie, which many of us will watch when we don't have to fork over six bucks to the cable company to do so.
But by Monday morning, her fifteen minutes will apparently be over. Maybe she'll be happier now that Charlotte's taken her place. Maybe she just wants to spend time with her man, millionaire baseball pitcher Justin Verlander. Maybe she's tired of the sneering concerning her hook-up with Verlander, even though she knows that it's nothing but jealousy. Her more mature fans, and count this column among them, wish her nothing but well. We are above sniping that Verlander is "not good enough" for our Kate. In fact, like many hetero guys, we could study a thousand pictures of Kate and Verlander together and still not really be able to tell you what Verlander looks like.
And, let's face it, when you're 22 and looking for someone who matches up with you, i.e., who is also young, famous, and vastly overpaid, it's either a professional athlete or Justin Bieber. And Kate has been known to say (and this has been paraphrased to avoid offending our family audience) "I wouldn't have sex with Justin Bieber if I was using Miley Cyrus's genitals." So Verlander it is.
Maybe the girl just wants to go out on top. Maybe she's ready to settle down and raise a family. It's tough to do that if you're constantly jetting down to Antarctica to freeze your ass off in a bikini.
Or maybe she just, for once in her life, wants to eat more than one bite of a cheeseburger.
Late-breaking news department: The NFL is close to identifying a lowly locker room attendant as the cause of the missing air in the Pat's balls. This man, once is name is known, is destined to become the Mary Rose Woods of the sport.