SuperBowl food coma

I don't watch a lot of t.v. because I don't have one of my own. I am too cheap to pay for cable, which is outrageously pricey, but when I do watch it, I like to fast forward through commercials. Why would the SuperBowl be any different? Oh but that one had a poodle farting out Happy Birthday while wearing sunglasses! Nope, still lame and annoying. I like going to these parties, though, because I like nachos and wings. Also, one year, there were nipples and that was exciting.

Also, at this point, I think it's safe to call Jewish Karl Rove my boyfriend. He won me over with Planet of the Apes references and now we're exclusive. Last night, I was out with some friends, one of whom is married, and her husband gave me some sage dating advice: don't talk about your family. Too late, JKR already knows there is bleach in my gene pool. I drunkenly told him the story about watching the Oscars with my brother last year. I mean, I was not drunk, but my brother was and things got out of hand. My brother loves movies and since we were kids, could name every film that has ever won the Oscar for best picture. Until last year, I had never even watched the show. Awards shows are boring unless I am getting an award for something. Last year, my brother was visiting on the night of the show and insisted I take him out to watch it. I agreed and he got hammered. It would have been fine if The King's Speech hadn't won Best Picture (undeservedly, he felt) and we hadn't been at one of the local Irish pubs that had some U.K. fellows in it. He got so worked up about the wrong film winning, those limey bastards that didn't deserve it, that he picked a fight with a dozen Brit/Irish nationals wearing Yale squash team jerseys because he heard their accents and thought they were entitled limey pricks. There was shouting and ugliness and I was scanning the tables for cutlery thinking I'd have to stab us a path out the front door. The guys, all 12 of them, had started to make a show of holding each other back from really getting the party started. I asked the bartender to kick us out because it was the only way I could get my bro to walk out. Unfortunately, one of the guys was waiting outside for us. He got right in my brother's face and they were nose-to-nose. By then, the mace I keep in my purse was uncapped and in my hand with my finger on the spray nozzle. The rest of the team saw what was happening, bum-rushed the door and the shouting started up again. One of the guys sucker-punched my brother in the face and I just started aiming at everyone's eyes and spraying my mace. I nailed a few of them and they were groaning and holding their eyes as they herded one another back inside.

My boyfriend of the moment was with us for this whole escapade and he ultimately helped break it up and only the one punch was actually thrown, although a lot of mace was expelled. Now that guy didn't want to deal with police because he had a car trunk full of guns (we had been shooting that day) so we were able to talk my brother into the car and drive away without that element getting involved. Unfortunately, once in the car, my brother realized that he'd been hit and he really wanted to hit somebody back so he jumped out at the first stoplight and went back to the bar. We had to circle around three times and I had to threaten to call our parents and tell them what he was doing if he didn't get back in. He had stood outside the bar and while waiting for them to come out had befriended some homeless guys walking by and started an army of the night by getting them all to agree to help him beat the snot out of those ivy punks. I told this story to JKR and he's cool with it, although now the story makes me laugh and it doesn't occur to me to be ashamed. Woops.