Super Bowl

By BG © 2005

So Super Bowl Weekend is coming up, and since my Lions have never made the big game, I don’t have many memories at all that center around the big day.

Except one.

A few years ago, before the ex and I were married, we went out to her uncle’s ritzy apartment building where they always threw a lavishly catered private party in the residents-and-guests only bar. Not only did I end up winning something like $200 on my squares, but the ex got hammered, twisted her ankle badly, threw a whole bunch of Vicodin on top of the Jack Daniels, and then basically goaded me into this bizarre role playing scenario when we got home. Had we videotaped it, the only shop that would have carried the footage would have been the one Nic Cage visited in 8MM. She was so drunk/high off of the booze and meds that I would bet she wouldn’t and couldn’t possibly remember how weird she asked me to get. I actually feel just a little bit dirty just thinking about it. I think I was about half a step away from putting on a codpiece, a bowler hat, and calling a few of my droogs over to help me out.

You know I only bring that up because I’m fairly certain she stops by here periodically. She’s knocked up again (which is more fun to say about your ex-wife than “she’s pregnant with her third child from her husband of a few years”), so if she reads the above, I’m sure she’ll be annoyed or wistful. I’m not sure which. It’s not like sleeping with me has ever left anyone feeling “wistful” in the end, so I’m going to figure on the former.

“Annoyed,” yes.

“Bored,” sure.

“Unfulfilled,” absolutely.

“Wistful?” Probably not.

By the way, ex-wife of mine, please do stay out of the comments widget. “Plausible deniability” is what I’m able to use to put the blinders on and pretend like you’re not actually stopping by. I’m really not that dumb though.

I only play dumb on TV.

BG is a writer from a small hamlet in Western Michigan. Visit his blog: Random Thoughts and Thoroughbred Selections.