Thursday, February 17, 2011

A Super Prediction (Cigar Smoke 2-17-11)

I am sitting here, right now, on the end of my couch writing this column on my iPad. (I’ll give you a few minutes to self-medicate.) Usually I write it on my Mac desktop computer in Word. This is the very first time I’ve used the iPad. So now you will be able to say to yourselves, you know, when this sucker writes on his iPad using the Pages app, it’s very similar to the drivel we have to read when he uses a real computer.

I love Super Bowl Sunday, or, as I call it, the only Sunday of the year when you can eat really, really bad food — food even worse than deep-fried Twinkies smothered in chili — without your wife assuming the moral high ground. And if she even thinks about taking that high ground, I gently remind her about the record number of spousal abuse cases that are reported on this particular Sunday. They don’t call me Mr. Subtle for nothing.

By the way, I used to predict the actual score of the game in past columns. I would disclose that I was writing the column before the game was played, so everyone could be assured of my integrity. But, alas, after predicting the exact score of the game for three years in a row, my more alert readers, and even readers such as you, became suspicious.

I tried to defend myself by saying that, although I had submitted the column before the date of the game, I did happen to catch the error in my predictions after the game was actually played, and then I had emailed the corrected scores to my editor before the column went to press, because I did not want to jeopardize his job or submit anything that was not up to my journalistic standards. I am nothing if not a what? No, not a liar, dammit! A journalist.

I was brought before the FCC — the Fairness in Column-writing Commission. And I knew I wouldn’t get a fair hearing because they had ruled against me in another case where I had an unfortunate wardrobe malfunction and had accidentally exposed my man-breasts while writing a column in my living room and, according to them, I had irreparably harmed the psyche of my under-aged Airedale by making him witness “a wanton act of downright disgusting dog cruelty.” And not only did they rescind my column-writing license and fine me more money than I make writing the column, they were also going to refer my case to the SPCA — the Society for the Prevention of Columns written by A-holes.

Sorry to interrupt myself, and yourself, with such painful memories. Getting back to sitting on the couch watching the game. First of all, I like to use Super Bowl Sunday as a convenient way to check up on how my New Year’s resolutions are coming along. It’s been over a month since I made the resolutions, so it’s a fair test.

I resolved to not be so offensive. I resolved to be kinder to my commie socialist green politically correct flag-burning wimpy misguided peacenik salad-eating family and friends. I resolved to be less arrogant when I won all of my arguments. I resolved to write sentences that were not over 300 words. I resolved to eat more and exercise less. Hey, one out of five ain’t that bad.

And then after I get through analyzing all my resolutions, I trash the 51 weeks of accumulated magazines on the coffee table and I start putting out the Super Bowl spread. I put out the cold cuts and the special olive bread. I put out five kinds of pizza. (My favorite is the cheese and lard.) I arrange the beer mugs. I put out the chips and dip and practice saying guacamole in that guttural throat sound with just a tilde of Spanish el flaro that I have perfected over the last half-century of Super Bowl games. And, finally, I put out the bowls of corn nuts and M&Ms that I have become justifiably famous for. Both my friends and the reception people at the Huntington Hospital Emergency Room always ask me about them.

And then Marge usually comes into the room and says, “What time are your friends coming over?” And that’s the time every year I have to admit that I don’t have any friends coming over, and that I have put out this incredible Super Bowl spread for just my imaginary friends. And then Marge asks me with her questioning eyes, “why”? And I answer with my non-questioning mouth, “Because they eat less than real friends.”

Hey, before I get back to watching the commercials, I would like to predict that the score of this year’s Super Bowl game will be Green Bay 31, Pittsburgh 25.

How’d I do?
Jim Laris is a former publisher and owner of The Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.