Some final words of wisdom from a Savage who knows and cares about football: my brother, Bill Savage.—Dan Savage
Okay, one last bit of advice:
How to actually watch the game. The key thing you need for a successful Super Bowl party is a girlfriend who just doesn’t give a shit about sports. Now, before you get your hipster gender equality panties in a twist, let me say that this “girlfriend” doesn’t have to be a girl. Plenty of women like sports (I’ve shared Bears’ season tickets for over 15 years with a female friend), so this girlfriend is more of an Jungian archetype, and could actually be a boy or a neighbor or a homeless person or a Stranger staffer you hire for the event (Sounds like a job for Our Worst Enemy, actually).
But it’s crucial to have someone around who doesn’t care if the game is a thriller, or if Troy Polamalu offers some of his plentiful hair for a charity transplant to Matt Hasselbeck’s shiny bold dome.
The person who doesn’t care has the vital job of shuttling more food and drink to those people transfixed by the TV for four hours (not counting the pregame hoopla, which actually begins sometime Friday). These people—you, me, those who do care—will not willingly get up from our seats for anything short of a bladder-busting need to piss. (Catheterization while technically possible, is not advised, since it can be painfully dislodged by sudden movements). Need more chips? Salsa bowl running low? Beer somehow empty again? Gotta have someone who doesn’t care tend to it.
And no, you cannot just see to these tasks yourself during commercials. Commercials are often the actual highlight of the Super Bowl, since the game can be a boring rout. To craft the ads that people will still be talking about the next day (or decade), entire New York ad agencies sell their collective souls (OK, that’s not such a big transaction, really, since the Devil already bought their damned souls). Newspapers will devote pages of coverage to the ads, like they do to the dresses bimbo starlets wear to awards ceremonies.
So, invite someone who doesn’t care. Stock up on food that will put you in the weight class of the NFL players destined to die young, claim the seat with the best view of the tube, and enjoy your Seahawks.
My call: Seattle 29, Pittsburgh 21.