Thank You, Packers!

Sunday January 15th, 2012 - Kenosha, WI

   Thank you, Green Bay Packers! Thank you for that giant steaming heap of fresh manure you plopped right on top of the birthday cake that is 2012. Thanks for putting your fans in the trick bag and teasing us with one of the best regular seasons ever. That’s all over now.

   Now you greedy bastards are going to fight over even more money we’re stupid enough to keep throwing at you, and you’re going to build more seats in that stadium of yours and sucker even more of us in for years to come. You’re cruel, heartless, and I want a divorce.

     Not just from the Packers, but the whole NFL. Why do I watch the games and care even a little? Nobody cares about me, and never did. You take my money, and sell me clothing that I pay full retail for and then stupidly wear everywhere defending the honor of a team that breaks my heart completely in two like a karate school breaks boards. It’s miserable.

   The Giants weren’t the better team, YOU stunk it up when it counted. So, thank you for breaking the bond we’ve had since I was an innocent little kid wanting something to do to spend more time with my grandpa. He was hooked on you, and passed it down to me too.

   I rue the day I ever watched my first game. You were terrible then, and I remember how you made my grandpa yell and scream at his TV screen. Even as a child, I found this to be completely insane. What could possibly become of yelling at a television? Could the team hear him? Were they going to turn things around? No, but now I’m doing it decades later.

   I remember how good it made Gramps feel when you won, and I never understood then how a stupid football game could get such a stranglehold on the emotions of an adult that is supposed to have it together. He was upset when you lost, but ecstatic when you won.

   Then, over decades of not even thinking about it, I became hooked just like he was and so many millions of others. I found myself screaming at televisions when you lost, and it became obvious that there’s more to this than just a game. This is an actual addiction, and what you’re selling is a drug. By the time any of us realize it, we’re hooked. It’s insidious.

   I vowed I wasn’t going to watch the game, and for most of it I didn’t. I don’t need to be in a perpetual state of sphincter lock for three hours, as you’ve been known to put us in on a regular basis. I’m rapidly approaching old age, and my health doesn’t need more stress.

   However, as with any addiction, in the fourth quarter I was shaking like a stripper’s butt at a bachelor party and I had to turn on my television to see what was happening. By then, it was too late. You were fumbling and stumbling and I knew the glory ride was all over.

   Thanks for making it nice and embarrassing too. Every obnoxious New York wank pole will now stick it in my ass, and I’ll have to pretend it doesn’t bother me when in fact it’s a rusty knitting needle pounded straight up my urethra. Thank you for freeing up next week, and I won‘t have to waste my time on that pesky Super Bowl either. Thanks for that too!

Posted via email from Dobie Maxwell's "Dented Can" Diary