Stuff I Watch: Beagles vs. Cowboys - Sundee Night Football

It's a bird! ........... It's a plane! .............. No, it's just Desean Jackson, there's no bird or plane that looks like that. C'mon.

As a 33 year-old dude whose eyebrow hairs sprout all over the place, I must admit that I am no longer the Philadelphia Beagles fan that I once was. It's not that I don't love football as much as I used to, I still spend my Sundees firmly planted on the couch watching The Red Zone Channel for eight straight hours, but I just don't reallllllyyyyy care if the Beagles win or lose. I'm much more invested in my fantasy team (Hairy Bush) and seeing the precise moment when the guy on The Red Zone Channel's head explodes on live television.

However, the fact that the Beagles played the hated Cowboys last night and have a quarterback with a rocket launcher for an arm combined with the ability to jump over a horse made Sundee Night Football mandatory viewing in our living room (except when Real Housewives came on at 10, when my wife would be allowed to flip during commercials watch almost the entire show causing me to miss Desean Jackson's 91 yard touchdown and subsequent back flop into the endzone which was especially painful for me to miss because I LOVE hot-dogging, show-off type players and sometimes think a 15 yard excessive celebration penalty is totally totally worth it).

Nice of the Morton Salt girl to help Michael Irvin.

There's something about Beagles-Cowboys games that brings out the vitriol in me and clearly I'm not sure if I'm using that word correctly, but I am proud of the fact that I was one of 66,000 fans at The Vet who cheered when Michael Irvin broke his neck. Still, to this day, with my eyebrows flaring over my eyelids to the point where I need to brush them aside in order to see this computer monitor, I feel no remorse for cheering the site of the motionless Irvin. He was after-all, the guy who seemingly invented the "first down point" and has been arrested numerous times for sexual assault and sucking his own crank. Granted, because I celebrated his injury and routinely scream "break his leg!" when Jason Witten catches the ball, I am fully aware that my first child will probably be born with three limbs.

Back to last night's game where the Cowboys honored the dead Don Meridith, who was probably a nice enough fella, but a Cowboy nonetheless and a dead man who I unfortunately never had the honor to spit in the face of. While they had a moment of silence for Dandy Dead Don, I made sure to murmur under my breath that "he was a pu**y" when clearly I'm a pu**y for being scared to write the word "pu**y" in a blog that only women and/or pu**ies like myself read anyway.

Following the moment of (almost) silence, Al Michaels (who in my opinion FUCKING SUCKS) said the only way to describe Dandy Dead Don was "really good fun." Well Al, I've got another way to describe him: FUCKING DEAD. And by the way, Cris Collinsworth, please stop calling Michael Vick, "Mike Vick." He doesn't like you. God I hate white people.  

Cris Collinsworth before becoming good friends with "Mike" Vick.

I was able to calm myself down for a few minutes before Michael Vick launched an absolute bomber to Desean Jackson which caused my phone to blow up with two text messages from white people. One said:

"LOOK AT HOW FAR HE THROWS A FOOTBALL!"

and the other:

"Now this is what I'm talking 'bout!"

I would also like to state for the record that I am totally behind the text revolution. I was one of those people who years ago worked in an office and would complain when someone in the cubicle sitting next to me would send me an email as opposed to just talking to me, but now I totally get it. As far as I'm concerned, this world would be a much better place if people never had to talk to other people again and that especially goes for just about every sports announcer or pregame commentator or Olive Garden waiter who kneels down on the floor and writes his name on my table because he'll "be taking care of me tonight." 

I also can't stand when a waiter or waitress asks me if I've "been here before and know how it works here?" .... "Hmmm, no, I have no idea how it works here. What is this giant laminated piece of paper with all sorts of words on it? Do I point to one of these words and then food will appear? God this place is confusing. Appetizers? Oh, waiter, please tell me how it works here. I'm so very hungry and couldn't possibly figure out how to work this multiple paged, folding document." 

Also, for the record, I think The Olive Garden is an absolutely fantastic restaurant although I haven't been there in about ten years because no one will ever go with me.

I'll tell ya who my wife would go to The Olive Garden with: Stewart Bradley, who dislocated his elbow later in the game, proper karma for flirting with my wife during the first Cowboys drive when he told her that he went to The University of Nebraska.

C'mon, you wouldn't go to this restaurant?

Karma hit back at me in the nine o'clock hour when I gave my wife the remote during commercials and she subsequently flipped to a Lady Gaga music video marathon and then Brokeback Mountain. I'm not kidding, those were our two options on commercials: Lady Goggs and Brokeback Mountain. Apparently Sarah Palin's Alaska with special guests, Kate Gosselin and her eight children couldn't crack the rotation. When I rolled my eyes at Brokeback Mountain, my wife fired back with, "It's actually a beautiful and tragic love story!"

I know it is, Dar. I know it is.

Anyway, the ten o'clock hour featured way too much of The Real Housewives of Atlanta to the point that I missed a long Shady McCoy scamper, Desean Jax's 91 yarder and yelled at my wife even though we have a perfectly good microwave-television upstairs that works just fine. I even threatened to go upstairs around seven times, but couldn't pull myself away from Nene and the girls.

Probably the tardiest person at the party, ever. Kim Zolciak as a teenager.

I guess that's what you get when you choose to watch Bravo instead of Sundee Night Football and cheer when people are temporarily paralyzed and mutter under your breath during moments of silence and make fun of teenage waiters who are just trying to earn a little cash by bringing you endless bowls of salad and breadsticks.

And you also get ridiculously bushy eyebrows.

But c'mon, you gotta admit, Al Michaels absolutely sucks.