Super Effing Bowl XLII

God damn Patriots.

Aaaaanyway, as you might guess the Super Fucking Bowl (SFB) is a big deal in our household. We do stretches and whatnot just to warm up for it. We warm up our voices with some synchronized yodeling. We practice our fist-pumps (Woohoo!) and fist-bumps (All riiiiiight!). We plan a meal of greasy food which can be easily consumed in front of the boob tube. We get out the camera(s) to snap a photo of AB with this year's SFB logo.

This year did not disappoint. We shopped for the super yummy crusts and bought all the ingredients to make our own pizzas. R did all the work, natch, as I abhor kitchen-themed duties much as I do bedroom-themed ones. (Just kidding.) Let me just tell you what this entailed: he painted olive oil over the crusts before preparing them.

Any cooking which involves the word "painting" is going to be fucking delicious. Unless you're talking about painting the walls red from a sliced finger. That's never delicious.

And he delivered. Sausage and black olives for mine, AB's with black olives only, and R's with pepperoni and chicken. I coated mine even still with crushed red pepper because I know of nothing that red pepper doesn't make more yummilicious.

The baby e*trade commercials were the best. "Really underestimated the creep factor." Bwahahahaha! I think there was a game played, or something, not sure about that. Before it started I asked R: "Which team are you rooting for?" He gave me some background season information which I tuned out with a pleasantly distracted look on my face and pulled "Giants" out of his sentences. I turned to AB: "Hey AB! We're rooting for the Patriots! The guys in the dark jerseys and the silver hats. Say, 'Goooooooooooooo Patriots!'" (Repeated in small AB-voice: "Goooooooo Patriots!")

It was awesome. And you know the best part, friends and lovers?

The football season is over.

Fist-pump! Fist-bump!