Conflicted Feelings About Confusing Shit

Christmas is almost here. And I don’t mean that fucking bullshit holiday where I spent a million dollars on gifts and hear my kids say, “Is that all?” on a Christmas morning that is witness to a thudding headache and dry mouth – because the holiday season calls for bourble.

Nope, it’s the NFL season. And as a wise old man, I approach this holiday with a combination of dread and excitement – because I’m morally conflicted. (How about that term, fellow DFOers? Looks like the Kid has more up his sleeve than a tattoo proclaiming his love for the Misfits.) Doubt me again, you fuckers, and I will staple your sac to your thigh.

I enjoy football, I sure as God do. You all know I’m a Ravens fan – insert Flacco elite joke here, I’m too tired – and lately the team has seen its share of ups and downs. I think Harbaugh is on notice here if they lay another turd of a season.

Although to say last year was plagued by injuries is like saying the Kardashians are kind of annoying. (They aren’t. I would like to cover each of them with used tampons and panty shields, and throw them into an arena packed with slavering, rabid pit bulls. I have Michael Vick’s people thinking hard about this one – possibly buying movie rights. Stay fucking tuned.)

Here’s the predicament, and it’s no doubt been hashed to atoms on this site, how can I enjoy something that is shot through with controversy, cheating, and what appears to be lifelong damage to its participants?

Honestly, it’s getting harder every year. In my eyes it’s a question of “If you love the art, is it wrong to hate the artist?” I haven’t come up with an answer that doesn’t cause my stomach to churn and burn – like Peter King’s after he scarfs down a lardacchino on the quiet car and someone happens to rustle papers too loud.

Football is a beautiful sport; it combines grace with violence. If it me getting hit out there, my ribs would blow out through my back and make a tasty treat for a roving, half crazed Rosie O’Donnell. That bloated bag of pig shit would gnaw on my bones without even coating them with a decent rib sauce.

Concussions, money crazed owners, athletes who beat their wives and children, or get drunk and fuck shit up – how can I readily cheer them on?

The Ray Rice situation hit home because I’m a Ravens fan, and I met him at a store event. He told my sons that he would sign their stuff in the parking lot because he couldn’t sign anything in the store. Ray was kind, gracious, down to earth – and later I had to explain to my sons that if they ever hit a woman, I’d pound them flat with a Komperdell Avalanche Carbon Shovel. It’s light but tough and can dent a skull with no problem.

Let’s also talk about the fact that going to a game – I have season tickets – is an expensive hassle. Returning home in full bourble doesn’t sit well with the wife and kids. Getting to the game, watching drunks fight, avoiding piles of puke in the men’s room – and I’m paying for this? I am a dumb fuck.

Still, I watch as many games as I can with my sons. The oldest is a stats nerd who won $300 in a fantasy football league that I’m in – I came in last. The other plays football, and I point out certain moves and players to him. Is that bad parenting? I’m seriously drawn over that question. Sure, I want him to enjoy a sport, and get better at it, but are these the role models I want him to follow?

What’s the answer? Fucked if I know. I can say that each year, justifying my love for this game becomes harder. Then I log onto DFO and realize that a huge part of why I like the game is because I have something in common with my fellow humans. It’s a bonding experience, both online and in the real world, that soothes my blackened soul, and makes life bearable.

So there you have it, a post that doesn’t solve the initial question. My first journalism teacher would be disappointed, but not surprised.

I’ll see you all on DFO, and we can trade dick jokes and saucy pictures, and wish death on Patriots fans, but after a Sunday of football, I’ll still feel somewhat guilty. This is the year that my plan to pour hydrochloric acid down Cris Collinsworth’s pants comes to fruition. I can feel it.

Later, bitches.