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The Monday Presser: Super Bowl Struggle For Survival

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My fellow Americans, thank you for coming on this, the most miserable of Mondays. This weekend saw a year’s worth of brain damage and blood, not to mention the hard work of the players themselves, lead to an outing that will be talked about forever. As millions of likeminded people united under the holy veil of football, we are reminded of the importance of community and commitment.

I awoke on Sunday with the memories of past Superbowl glories on my mind: David Tyree’s helmet catch, Devin Hester’s opening return, Janet Jackson showing bare titty. The side effects of a Thursday-Saturday bender may have weakened my body, but they would never tame the spirit of a true fan of all things bloodsport. Kegs were procured, the grill was fired up, and bets were placed on both game action and which brother was most likely to pass out before Lady Gaga could take the stage. Little did we know that we would be witnessing a comeback for the ages.

As President George H.W. Bush cruised onto the field for the coin flip, his socks sparking yet another flood warning in Texas, and the mighty USAF Thunderbirds boomed in approval. There wasn’t a dry crotch in the house. From our house in North Carolina to sidewalks in Los Angeles, all eyes and erections were fixed on NRG Stadium. There was only one problem.

“Kegs are tapped” was the call from the sideline. As the kick went up, sheer anarchy ensued. Not until the second half would we see such an egregious case of “too much too soon” coming back to bite a team in the ass. It appeared that, despite his 4.0 GPA, our party liaison’s interpretation of “Superbowl Party” included way too god damn many people and not nearly enough beer. Our house needed a hero.

Scrambling to the back deck, I found an open pledge. Having been dubbed sober out of both duty and his sub-humanity, I knew the affectionately dubbed Fuckface (for his fucked up face) was going to be my go to target. Quickly, we dove into my trusty steed and set off for the nearby booze supplier. The clock was ticking. Two cartloads of Genessee 30 racks later, we’d managed to procure plenty of brew off a successful drive.

The simple, expensive part of our plan was set. The difficult part was going to be managing resources in a way that would ensure no freeloaders would taste the fruit of my endeavors. Naturally, Pledge Fuckface and my arrival was met by a ferocious line of belligerent drunks calling for more booze. Feeling the pressure from the outside I thought the beer would be lost. That’s when meek, sober Fuckface did something that would impress me to my very core. The little bastard called an audible.

“If you’re not a brother, or fucking one of ‘em, get out of my house or I will murder you!”

It was Thad Castle-esque in both pitch and fervor. Stunned by the site of a skinny eighteen year old in glasses threatening physical harm on a large group of people, our surrounding brotherhood quickly joined together to back him up. Standing there, surrounded by dudes who just wanted to watch football and get loaded, it became clear that the true hero of our predicament was but a pledge. As the good book says, “a little child shall lead them.” Outnumbered and outclassed, the invading guests who did not intend to taste our knobs left.

As we have seen time and again, any group of true patriots can come together and defeat the odds with proper motivation. Sometimes, it takes early failures to allow an undersized, underutilized piece to step in and set things in motion. Like Fuckface before you, honor your commitments and the community shall be there to help. Thank you again for joining me, and may we as nation walk always in unison toward a brighter future for all.

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Karl Karlson

Karl Karlson is TFM’s self-proclaimed cartoon expert and your best buddy. He resides in the mountains of NC where he wrestles black bears and attempts to grow a beard. Karl gave up liquor following an unfortunate incident involving tequila and a vacuum cleaner, but he isn’t above a nice stout on the porch.

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