“Operation Al Fritz: More football in ’06”

Earlier this month, as the Cardinals looked to be sliding further and further in oblivion, I decided that I was going to make a concerted effort to watch more of the footballs in fall 2006. Why? Well, to be honest with you, I really need yet another reason to drink copious amounts of alcohol and gorge myself on chili and bratwursts each and every weekend. I somehow lost ten pounds this summer and I’m not very happy about it. Winter will be coming up fast and I need to get back up to 190 or else I may get a case of the chills once the mercury in the thermometer starts a droppin’. And I’m not in the mood for those.

I started psyching myself up for a glorious fall -- Beer, pigskin, bloodys, brats, sacks, chili, beer -- “Operation Al Fritz: More football in ’06” was a go.

Then I remembered that I was a Green Bay Packer fan. And I somewhat remember them sucking last year. No worries, though. They couldn’t be that bad, right? Umm…

I turned on the Pack v. Bengals contest last night to see just what kind of hand I was going to be dealt for this fall. And… Oh my. Oh sweet Jesus. No. Just… Oh no. They suuuuuuuuuuckkkkk.

Are you serious Green Bay? Ten years removed from a Championship, and things have gone simply horribly wrong. Just a God Shit terrible team. Samkon Gado? Get bent. If being on the wrong end of a 48-17 match up is going to be indicative of the upcoming season… well, then… just leave me the hell alone.

Watching a Packers game this year will probably increase the viewers’ likelihood of committing suicide/homicide by at least 800%. They are that painful to watch. Since I’m not really in much of a suicidey and/or homicidey mood, I’ll be sticking to just keeping track of my fantasy teams on Sundays. And drinking. And eating. Lots and lots of drinking and eating.

Luckily, with the downfall of one historic Midwestern football team comes the rise of another: The Notre Dame Fighting Irish. Bloody (non-virgin) Mary’s will be flowing like a 40oz of St Ides through a beer bong in Panama City Beach come Saturdays this fall in my abode, as the usual cast of characters watch a bunch of Catholic white guys (and Darius Walker!) pile up win after win after win.

Will they win a National Championship? Of course not. If you had been paying attention, you would have noticed that no team I like ever wins the whole spicy enchilada. Instead, they come excruciatingly close before simultaneously both pooping and peeing their pants in the big game (see “Cardinals, 2004” or “Fighting Illini, 2005” for more specific examples.)

Come this Saturday night, the Irish, much like the devil once did before them, head down to Georgia. Only instead of having some sort of fiddle-off against a hick named Johnny like Ol’ Beelzebub, they’ll be playing an American-style football game against Georgia Tech, hopefully getting a head start on the successful, yet anti-climatic season which I foresee, a run at respectable mediocrity for the ages.

Primetime Saturday night, live on ABC. And, I'll be in front of the TV, watching intently. Well, not really "intently" and not actually “watching” per se... I guess I should have said: “periodically checking the score on my cell phone, because I’ll be at a wedding."

At a wedding. On a Saturday night. Over Labor Day weekend.

Do you know who gets married on a holiday weekend? Selfish pricks and assholes. That’s who.

It’s one thing that I’ll be missing my buddy Vince’s bachelor party up in Milwaukee for the traveshamockery that is a holiday weekend wedding, but to have a Catholic wedding on Notre Dame’s season opener and not have the reception at a venue with a television? Straight heresy. I’m honestly not sure how they got a priest to sign off on this thing.

[Truthfully, not watching this Saturday’s game may very well be a good thing as I am fairly certain that ND is being way too built up (#2 ranking!?!) and will probably lose to the Bees anyway. And as you may or may not be able to sense, I am about one more disappointing sporting event away from slamming a liter of whiskey and unleashing a drunken tornado of hell, the likes of which have never been seen before, on the entire state of Missouri.]

So my hopes for a football laden fall will be off to a rather unspectacular opening weekend, as I sip bad house wine and use my cell phone to track the ND score; all the while hearing Kool N the Gang sing “Celebration” for the 17,034th time this summer and watching as The Lady Friend subtly scopes out the ballroom for someone (anyone!) less pathetic than I to go home with.

With this more than lackluster start, and factoring in my rather suspect record of following through with even the easiest of my commitments (still haven't finished that whole "college" thing), it is fair to say that I will probably stop watching football altogether on September 17th at 2:45pm.

Oh well. It will (probably) be a good run while it lasts.

Send the bride an e-mail asking if she's pregnant b/c she looked fat the last time you saw her. That should get you out of the wedding and into some football.
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"I'll be dead in the cold, cold ground before I recognize the state of Missouri."