super-stupid, maybe

what's so flippin' super about superbowl sunday?
not much, duders.
buffalo wings and t.v. ad campaigns,
fat guys in plastic armor,
fatter guys shirtless with body paint,
and commercial beer and nachos by the truckful.
i'm more than just kind-of-whatever about the stupidbowl.
i hate it.
hard.
not that i watch it, ever,
or give a handful of turds about who wins it,
or whose fantasy football pool pays the best dividends.....
if football is your thing, as far as i'm concerned,
you'd better be talking about soccer, my ninjas.
otherwise, it's all just a b!tchlike batch of
sports, and sports, and sports, and sports.
it just all sounds like blabbity-blah baby-talk to my ears.
and i can't translate that kind of weak-sauce whinging
into coherent hot-fire-spit syllables of warrior poetry.
but seriously, nevermind about me,
you have fun with your lucky jersey,
and your hot sauce,
and your fat A* friends.
i think it should be called the super-bowels.
given what goes into the average sportsfan tonight,
they'll flippin' need 'em.
word.
* 
dear america,
it's time to get excited,
about commercials!
yeah!
you win
....for suckiest use of a sunday.
xoxoxo
-albie
*
don't worry about us, though, neighbors.
there are still ladies who need to get tattooed today,
in the snow, and ice, and stupidbowlery-
these ladies of leisure feel no qualms about venturing forth
in the inclemency to inflict their fancies on our loud, fresh, hardness.
i'm serious.
tax return money-spending doesn't take weekends off, y'all.
and it's a good thing, too.
all those tortillas and velveeta aren't free, after all.
do they leave fattie-boombattie tips,
gratuitous gratuities of epic appreciation?
never ever.
that's what happens with an h&r block debit card, son.....
you can't be leavin' extra loot with that shystie jauns.
tax-returns, instant gratification,
life-altering executive ink injections
and cheapskate pig skin pork-rind grinders!
y'heard?
i did,
but only because i was listening for the sound of
total awesomeness dying in a last-gasp guttering sputter.
ouch.
that just happened.
again.
it all really is.
always.
***********
iron is anathema to the fey.
that's that cold-iron exorcism action.
from what i understand,
the supernatural hates iron.
ferrous ferocity fights off bogeymen, an' that.
gridiron, however, acts as a summoning circle for
slovenly sloths and subservient spouses.
demonic dollops of fat dookie duders, on the ones.
super.
stupid.
bowl.
now,
when i rep a bowl,
there's never sports of nugs within a thousand miles....
i mean it,
it'd better have cereal or soup in it,
or at least 10 pins of regulation, duck-, or even candle-sized business.
c'mon.
that is no joke.
and while ten-pins goes to eleven,
the super one goes to the toilet.
poop-boat tardifiyin',
and doo-doo buttery bleu-cheese blops.
hard styles are how i get busy, mutha-uckas.
whether it's first and ten,
or it's fourth and goal,
there's still no hope of scoring.
woodsly goodness still wins,
supertime suppertime hits the showers;
never quiet, never soft.....