Tag Archive | Super Bowl

It’s Super Bowl time – I can tell by the smells

A keen nose and my sense of timing allow me to know how the super bowl is progressing

A keen nose and my sense of timing allow me to know how the super bowl is progressing


It’s Super Bowl time again! I’ll be shuffling off to the party my humans will attend. Everyone will be excited for it to start. I’ll be excited for it to end. That’s when the left-overs find their way to the floor.

Getting some excitement steam in my boiler is difficult when I don’t have a dog in the fight. Why? Think about it … There’s no representation for canines. There are four teams representing cats and, heaven forbid, five teams representing BIRDS! Lions, tigers and bears … yes. Dogs … no! Criminals are represented better than we are. Raiders … Buccaneers … come on NFL.

Why not the Arizona Airedales or the Pittsburgh Pit Bulls? They even have teams that represent colors. Browns? Browns! Come on! The Browns play like Pinks. Change their name to the Cleveland Collies, that’s more appropriate. They always come home and they’re not hostile.

What I’ll do is find a good spot to curl up and check the inside of my eyelids for pin holes. My nose will tell me what’s going on.

Pre-game brings the smells of onion dip, potato chips, and veggie trays.

First quarter produces the whiff of hot wings, beer, and more chips.

Second quarter brings the first odor of perspiration as one team falls behind.

Halftime introduces some more heavy weight smells. Hamburgers. Hot Dogs. Cheap wine. This year I expect baked beans and black-eyed peas to represent the regions.

Third quarter – more perspiration as lead changes hands, beer fumes overwhelm the odor of pepperoni pizza that arrived too late for the half.

Fourth quarter time! It is a literal lazy-susan of scents. Early, the aroma of feet (as shoes are removed) mixes with maximum volumes of sweat smell. As the “susan” turns, odors are topped off by beer, bourbon, and scotch. Toward the quarter’s end, beer and beans produce flatulent bursts.

When I smell the musty aroma of money as it changes hands I know the game is over. Yeah! When the game is over … can left-overs be far behind?


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February 7th – Super Bowl Party withdrawal!

     Wow, I sure missed it.  No Super Bowl party at the Geezer’s house this year.  True, I’m only a moderate fan of professional football, the college game lifts my tail higher, but missing all the traditions that have gone with past Super Bowl days, left me with a hollow feeling inside.
     Ah, Super Bowl party – How do I miss thee?  Let me count the ways!
     1. I miss all the folding chairs the Geezer and his missus put up in the living room.  They provide a major league obstacle course when I chase the cats.
     2. The Geezer always fixes his special recipe barbecue for the Bowl party, and each time he does that, I get the bones from the beef and pork roasts he uses to make it.  This year I got deboned.
     3. I missed Matilda, one of Mrs. Gator’s friends, who always complains that it’s too warm if the temperature outside is over 74 degrees, or complains that it’s too cold if the temperature outside is under 74 degrees, or complains that it’s too boring if the temperature outside is right on 74 degrees.  I don’t know what that has to do with the ball game, or the cost of girdles at Macy’s, or the likelihood that Tim Geithner can count to twenty without his shoes off, but she does it anyway.
     4. I missed Uncle Seth, who is an elderly gentleman, whose hands shake a bit, that tend to sprinkle the floor with snacks, that allow me to entertain those bored with the game by impersonating a vacuum cleaner.
     5. I missed the arguments between two neighbors I’ll call Frick and Frack.  They give their expert opinion on the previous play, what should have been done, etc., etc., etc.  It’s funnier than a rerun of an old Abbot and Costello film.  Frick thinks a safety invert is a player with a nipple problem and Frack thinks that kicking out the end has to do with sticking a shoe up someones butt. 
    6. I missed Matilda complaining about the half-time show.  Well, I’d have to give her a pass on this year’s extravaganza.  Where are the Grateful Dead when you need them?
    7. I missed the Geezer’s annual inspirational collection of keys from select guests, followed quickly by each contributor’s salute to “Ralph” as one by one they wander off to the restroom to spend time in meditation and call his name.
    8. I missed all the ladies leaving the room midway through the 3rd quarter to discuss… anything but football.
    9. I missed the Geezer’s friend, Mac, trying to induce me to drink a bowl of Budweiser.  I always act like I don’t know how to lap it up and he always demonstrates.  It provides some levity for the folks whose team is behind.
   10. I miss the Geezer opening everyone’s envelope with the prediction of who’d win the game and what the score would be.  He usually wins.  It’s not because he’s that good; it’s more like the rest of them are that bad.  Last year one man predicted the team that would win.  Brooklyn wasn’t even playing in the game.  Or the league.  Or the sport.
   11. I miss the sighs of relief from Mrs. Gator when the last guest leaves.
   12. Most of all I miss all the wonderful left-overs!  It’s better than a trip to the Shiesskopf butcher shop.  Onion dip, pretzels, halves of barbecue sandwiches, potato chips, the list never ends!
     Oh well, there’s always next year.



February 3 – Super Bowl!! -Chips, Dips, and Rug Abuse

       The smells are slowly dissipating, thank goodness.  The whole Gator family will think several times before hosting another Super Bowl Party.  As far as I’m concerned it’s just another way to spell disaster.  But, I’m getting my story out of sync.
       When Mrs. Gator proposed having a shindig at our home, I hoped the synapses in the Geezer’s ancient brain would fire.  No such luck!  The old boy must have forgotten the Thanksgiving Day debacle.  He made a feeble attempt at forging a logical decision.  His reasoning, “I won’t have to drive, I won’t have to drive in traffic, I won’t disappoint Mrs. G  ’cause she wants to have the party, I won’t have to drive at night, and…ah…ah…I won’t have to drive.”  Of course, I could have pointed out that he simply watch the game with Mrs. Gator, the cats, and me.  Once the Mrs. planted the thought Super Bowl equals Party, his mental wiring was short circuited.
      I guess I should be honest.  The thought of all the goodies that were sure to be tossed my way tempted me into silence.  My begging is irresistible. If the Gators were willing to “deja vue” the whole Turkey Day mess, why interfere?
       The blowout’s last minute nature started the problems.  They had 3 days to get ‘er done.  Who should they ask and how could they get ready in time?  They made a list that included the usual suspects.  Translation- their close friends.  Mrs. G thought she should go ahead and buy groceries for the five couples they intended to have over.  She was busy scribbling the list before the first guest was invited, relegated making the invites to Geezer, and left for the store as he began calling. 
       A fateful comment started the apocalypse.  Geezer asked, “What should I do if someone can’t make it?” Mrs. G answered, “Just invite someone else, like from the neighborhood.” Dumb-da-dumb-dumb.
       Number one and two on the list said they’d love to come, but they’d already accepted invites elsewhere.  Number three was an answering machine so he left a message. Number four was a repeat of one and two.  The panic button was on full mash as Geezer dialed the last of the list.  A gracious acceptance made him feel better.  But not much.  He grabbed the phone book and started dialing neighbors.
       His first call went to a neighbor who was sure to accept. Geezer calls him “Freddy the Free-loader,” after an old Red Skelton (whoever that is)character .  The man’s motto is, “Ask not what I might bring to the party, but tell me what I’ll be able to consume.”  After reviewing the first couple menu items the Geezer got an enthusiastic yes.
       The next call compounded the Geezer’s problem.  The lady explained that they were planning on going to Mrs. Zoomers’ house for the game.  I’ve told you about Zoomers some time ago; she’s the lady who flatters the Geezer’s ego and has breasts the size of watermelons.  The lady suggested Geezer talk Mrs. Zoomers into moving her mini-party to our house.  Geezer did, she said she would, and she’d bring what food she was going to make, however, case not quite closed.  The old boy never asked an important question; how many guests would be added?
       Encouraged by three for three on invites, he resumed looking for couple 5.  After 4 successive turn-downs, he was out of neighbors he knew reasonably well and his finger pressed the panic button once more.  Should he ask some people who just moved in a month before?  It’d be a chance to get to know them.  He got their number from information and called.  A lady answered.  Geezer introduced himself, welcomed them to the neighborhood, and made the invite.  The woman said they’d love to party, but their children were visiting from up North, would it be alright for them to come?  The Geezer didn’t hesitate or think either, “Sure the more the merrier.” Certainly those rank high in the category of Famous Last Words.
      When Mrs. G returned, Geezer recounted his success.  He proudly bragged he’d gotten his 5 couples plus the new neighbors children.  Mrs. Gator smiled and said she was glad she’d bought extra food.  She did sober a bit when Mrs. Zoomer’s name was mentioned, but that quickly passed.
       Fast forward to game day.   The first to arrive were couples 1 and 2 that were on the original list. They’d changed their minds and came unannounced, but brought chips and dip.  Mrs. G was happy to see them, was glad she’d bought twice the food she thought she’d need, and went through a quick mental inventory of chairs needed.
       Before she could dispatch the Geezer for the camping chairs, Mrs Zoomers opened the door and said, “You-whooo, it’s little ol’ me.  Where do you want me to put my stuff?” She held a large cardboard container, constantly relocating it, trying to find a comfortable position above or below her momentous balcony. 
       Mrs. Gator, rushed to her assistance.  Looking into the carton she said, “My you didn’t have to bring so much!”  Corning ware bowls and plates were crowded into the box.
       “I didn’t know how many people you’d have so I just doubled what I made for the 4 couples from my party.  My husband has the rest of the stuff I cooked.”  She shouted, “Hugo, you coming?” 
       A voice came from behind another huge box, “Yes dear.”  Hugo was one third Mrs. Zoomers size.  His bald head was visible over the top of the next load of vittles.
       “I hope you like Mexican, Polish, and Chinese dishes,” Mrs. Zoomers said as she waddled into the house. 
       And so it went, Freddy the Free-loader and wife came next, sans food, but with two six-packs.  Couple number 5 arrived with a big plate of hot wings.  They came and came.  The front of our house looked like a parking lot.  The answering machine couple showed, the other neighbors came, including the new folks, their three girls, the girls husbands, and their 7 children ranging in age from 10 month-old twins to 9 years. 
       If you do the math that’s 37 butts in a 16 butt living room.  That sent the Geezer after additional butt holders.  He got 4 camping chairs and 4 deck chairs inside and set up.  Mr. G moved his 0ffice seats in the living room and got one from the bedroom.  It meant 10 posteriors were destined for the floor.  After all settled in, the living room looked like a can of sardines without the oil.  Since the party-goers median age was in the 60’s the children and their parents were relegated to the rug.
       The problem wasn’t the lack of food, it was the type of snacks the horde began consuming.  There were loads of chips: Lays, Cape Cod, Wise, Tostitos, Doritos, salted, unsalted, Onion, Cheddar, Dill Pickle, and Mrs. Zoomers home made bombs.  Naturally, people sampled some of each.  Naturally, stomachs started to murmur.
       Mrs. Zoomer’s nachos were miniature blast furnaces.  One brave soul asked for the recipe, which involved four different types of pepper.  I’ve always suspected Mrs. Z is a sadist.  Anyone sampling her red-hot corn chips sucked a load of beer or anything cold within arms length.  Naturally, stomachs shuddered.
       The variety of dips was as gut numbing.  Of course, there were the standards: French onion, ranch, salsa, spinach, sour cream, queso.  But, exotics were available for the brave or foolish.  Oysters and shrimp, collard greens, olives and pickles, smoked mullet, and marinated squid were mixed with sour cream, olive oil, Philly Cream Cheese and who knows what else.  Naturally, taste buds were curious and stomachs tortured.
       Added to the gastric whirlpool were stuffed Jalapenos, onion rings, hot wings, hotter wings, and tongue removal incendiary wings.  X-rays would have disclosed white flags in the guests midsections.
       Right before the half, Mrs. Gator served the many dishes she’d prepared and the ones graciously provided by the guests.  Barbecue, ham, shrimp, cold cuts, and meat balls were joined by lemon baked salmon, sardines with feta cheese, oysters Rockefeller, smoked eel, and steak Tar-Tar.  There were veggie trays, quiches of every variety, green bean casserole, and mac and cheese.  Besides the more benign items mentioned, there were dishes that defied description.  Some were Mrs. Zoomer’s concoctions invented by her fiendish Mexo-Polska mind.  Naturally, stomachs rebelled. 
       Rug abuse commenced shortly after halftime.  By this point enough liquor and beer were consummed to effect equilibrium and judgement.  The rug’s saga started with a Corona bath.  Pepsi, Vernors, Jack and water, Bud Lite, coffee, and a Tequila Sunrise soon followed.  This attempt to saturate the carpet with libations continued until the final whistle.
       From the mixture mentioned above it’s evident many of the guests were snockered or well on the way.  The results– predictable.  Freddie the Free-loader was the 1st.  His zeal to consume was matched by his stomach’s feel to exhume.  “Ralph” on the rug!  The combination of used beer, wine, bourbon, barbecue, smoked eel, oysters Rockefeller, and less identifiable items landed on the beige weave in a modern art mosaic.  One of the new neighbor’s daughters was pregnant, and Freddie’s act demanded that she puke in sympathy.  Hers was mostly ham and quiche, but added to the artistic masterpiece. 
       The rugs coupe de gr-as came as an indirect result of the mother-to-be’s problem.  Her two 10 month-olds decided this was the precise moment to do what babies do best– fill diapers.  Unfortunately, their efforts went unnoticed for several minutes.  The odor delivered the message and the embarrassed father tried to make amends by quickly changing the soiled Pampers.  He did fine until maneuvering through the throng sitting on the carpet.  Papa stumbled and one heavily loaded missile did a two and half landing guess where?  It was good that the day was pleasant outside for windows had to be opened and fans turned on to make conditions tenable for the queasy digestive tracks of those remaining for Pittsburgh’s last great drive. 
      After the last guests vacated, Mrs. G and the Geezer surveyed the carnage.  She said, “I don’t know where to start.” 
      The Geezer shook his head, thought for a few seconds and said, “Didn’t you say you were tired of that rug?  That’s one good thing about area rugs, even big ones.  They’re easy to replace.”
      “I would like to change…”
      “Help me move the furniture.”  The Geezer started tussling with the sofa.  Before bedtime the rolled and reeking rug was outside.  Geezer is good about such things.
      Well, my Super bowl report ends with two scores — Pittsburgh 27, Arizona 23   and   Guests 37 butts, 1 Rug to the dump.