Football Sunday = Ass Monday

Okay, here's the deal.  At this point, there's not too much I've got going for me.  Unemployed...drowning in debt...black.  So in this state of affairs, there are times when I need to release some anxiety, relax and generally get carte blanche to be a total tard without any repercussions.  Those times happen only four months a year, one day a week.  It's called "Football Sunday", and except for the couple of years where I worked on Sunday, it consists of nothing more than drinking, debauchery, name-calling and general racial intolerance.  It's a fun time.

Now recently, these Football Sundays have been amped up a bit, because of something called Skype.  Not sure if any of you have used this thing but it's fantastic.  Growing up watching The Jetsons and Get Smart and Skinemax, one could only dream of being able to see and talk to someone live over the computer.  It's damn cool.  However, now that my friends and I can see one another, it's like we're five year old girls having a sleepover every week, knowing that we only have a limited amount of time so we have to have as much fun as we can before our moms come to pick us up.  For me, it usually goes something like this:

BEER #1:  This week, I started a lot earlier than usual.  That would prove to be catastrophic.  My friend called me at noon telling me he was waiting outside because our other friend wasn't home yet, and he had no choice than to start drinking his Captain Morgan straight from the bottle.  As a good friend, I told him that I could not let him go this route by himself.  I popped open a beer.

BEER #4:  It was about 2:00 or so.  I was starting to feel good.  I was watching four games live on the computer, and one on the big screen.  At this point there are two things you really don't need to happen:  1. The electricity to go out, or 2. A phone call from your mother.  Well, guess which one happened.  And to a mother, there's only one thing worse than talking to your unemployed 37 year old son.  That's talking to your unemployed 37 year old son who's on his way to getting blotto on Tall Boys in the basement.*

*CONTAIN
[kuhn-teyn]
-verb
1. to hold or include within its volume or area.
2. to hold it together long enough for your mother to think you're just in a really, REALLY good mood.

In this situation it's best to let your mother do the majority of the talking, and only interject when absolutely necessary.  Obviously I would not follow this advice.  I was feeling so nice that I would call her back numerous times to give her updates on games that really had no meaning to either of us.  Amazingly, the fifth time I called she was busy.  Interesting.

BEER #8:  By this time the Skype was up and running.  I'm guessing it was around 4:30.  My friends and I by this point are tipping the scales over into the drunk category.  They like to drink hard liquor so usually the first thing they do when the Skype comes on is hold their bottles of Captain or Jim Beam or whatever into the camera to show how "manly" they are.  Now if you've never used Skype, there's a bit of a delay which means you're often talking over one another, or in our case, screaming over one another.  The first week of Football Sunday, I screamed a profanity which apparently echoed throughout the house loud enough for the oldest kid to hear.  Since then I've resorted to taping a bath towel over the grate to the living room upstairs, as well as buffering the basement door with a blanket to try and muffle the sound.  I'm told it doesn't work.

If you gave me the choice of whether to be born a girl in China, or a goldfish, I'd ask if "housefly" was still available. 

BEER #10:  For those of you who've done some drinking with me, you are aware of the nickname I've been given.  Friends have dubbed me "Goldfish", because when I get really destroyed I don't remember things that I've said or were said to me mere moments earlier, and apparently the goldfish's memory leaves much to be desired.  No idea how my friends came up with this fact of nature, but it's stuck for years now.  And when it comes to me becoming Goldfish, you can pretty much set your clock to it.  Yesterday would be no different.  

Me:  Uh...so how many points am I losing by?

Friend: Goddammit man!  I just told you this!  You're down 25 points...you don't have any chance of winning.

Me:  Oh, okay.

5.2 SECONDS LATER:

Me:  Dude, how many points am I losing by?

Friend: SIGH. 

It's an embarrassing situation. Like a 90 year old who has no control of his bladder.  There's nothing I can do about it except clean the pee spot up.  And then try to clean it up again because I forgot that I just cleaned it up five seconds ago.  Oh, and The Wife brought me dinner downstairs which I ate but honestly couldn't tell you what it was.  I do remember cheese, I think, and maybe a sprout of some sort.

BEER #14: Okay, by this point it's around 8:00 and my friend's wife has come to pick his drunk ass up.  Now I only remember bits and pieces of this, but what I do remember is this:

Yes.  This is my friend's very cute but extremely scary daughter.  She was a devil, and as my friend tried to bargain to let his wife let him stay longer, I played over Skype with his daughter.  She would jump in front of the screen to "scare" me, I would scream and run around the basement like a bitch.  She was having the best time or so I think.  I should be given a freaking medal for distracting her from the mess that her father had become after finishing his fifth of Captain.  All I know is I was out of breath and because I had spent 30 minutes running around and NOT drinking beer, I felt the need to put it in overdrive after they left.  But this would have to wait until MY kids came running downstairs showing off their wares from the Halloween excursion.  I do remember some sort of pillow case filled with candy, a lot of yelling and two blurry specters that looked a little like my daughters.  

BEER #17:  Around 10pm I'm guessing.  Complete black out mode.  I was opening beers at a record pace...the only reason I know I had 17 beers is because I just went downstairs and waded my way through Ground Zero.  At around 10:30 or so, my friend said he was deciding whether to open a new bottle of Captain or drink a beer.  I told him not to do either because I was done.  So I put half a can of beer on the floor, came upstairs and saw my daughter watching tv. I said, "Uh, what are you doing up? It's almost midnight."  She said, "Uh...it's only 10:30."  Hmmm.  Well played, Daughter.  I would then go upstairs and crash, but not before trying to motivate The Wife into working out more regularly, but doing it in absolutely the wrong way.  Apparently I decided to become Football Coach Jackson, doing some sort of hard core you suck if you don't do this motivational technique.  It didn't go over so well.  I remember The Wife saying, "YOU'RE GOING ABOUT THIS THE WRONG WAY."  Then she said I wasn't going to remember it anyway so I needed to just stop.  I did stop.  Then I get an email from my friend this morning saying I "scared the bejesus" out of him.  Apparently I called and left him a freaking drunk message to beat all drunk messages, none of which I remember, but I can imagine that Annihilated SB + Impending Stockboy Job + Rambling Phone Message = Friend's dilemma of whether or not to call the Suicide Hotline.  

And that's Football Sunday.  At least this week there was no nudity involved...not that I'd remember anyway.