Blogabillies

The Angriest Monopoly Game in the World

by T-Bone

My daughter just graduated from high school, ­ an event that brings family up from Alabama and, with their arrival, a knock-down-drag-out Monopoly game that rivals scenes from Braveheart.

Every family has its traditions. The Kennedys played touch football. Some people barbecue when they get together. Some go out to a favorite restaurant. Mine smears the place mats off the table onto the floor like a busboy wiping a filthy restaurant table and un-dices the most violent Monopoly game since people first dreaded landing on a hotel-packed Boardwalk. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200. Grab your britches, watch the banker and get ready to jack somebody up on Atlantic Avenue.

This make-up-the-rules-yell-and-scream-at-those-you-lovefest started long before my kids were born. Our family's ancient and epic Monopolistic struggle started in the 1970s and is akin to the Hatfields and McCoys armed with metal board pieces and fake money. It is not uncommon for a participant to walk away from a game sporting little bruises on his faces in the shape of red plastic houses and green little hotels.  Going to Jail is a respite from the brutality; it's the only place to catch your wind.

People talk to each other like red-headed stepchildren (sorry if you are one). After telling the worst lie you have ever heard another human utter, your dear old grandmother just might snatch up the whole piece of wanna-be real estate and Frisbee it upside your dear old grandpa's head, trailing words she'd never use in Sunday School. Mild-mannered cousins will get all Linda Blair on you. Docile aunts slam the table over and over as if the pounding will make people believe they didn't just land on Park Place for the third straight time. Vicious words are flung and vile diatribes splatter against walls and human targets. Your own children act like Saddam's son's on vacation.

People fight about absolutely every move. They cheat about how many spaces they moved, who owes what, and why humans exist. They make nasty little side deals that will screw poor, senile Uncle Frank. If they roll a double and land on someone else's hotel, they snag and fling the dice again faster than a Japanese steak house chef in hopes that person will miss the opportunity to catch them. They cheat like poker night at Camp David (you name your favorite President, it doesn't matter). The rules-be-damned-and-I'll-buy-the-Reading-Railroad if these crazy people, loosely known as "my family," haven't made up a different set of rules for every single game for thrity freaking years.

I am ashamed ... and yet I am in the middle of it, deeply considering biting off the ear of the person next to me.

This capitalistic free-for-all plays out like Moscow after the fall of the Berlin Wall. There is cursing, sweating, gnashing of teeth and so many lies you'd think Scooter Libby had moved into a garage apartment on Baltic Avenue. In light of what I've seen, The Sopranos were neutered bastions of sanity by comparison.

"I'll trade you Tennessee Avenue for North Carolina if you --"

"Don't even start that cr--"

"It's not your turn, no deals, you--"

"Shut the he--­"

"I'm so tired of this sh--­"

"You two have been cheating since Jimmy Carter was in the White House and I'm--"

"You're wha--­"

"I'm gonna whip somebody's a--"

"You ever had somebody shove an entire stack of those little orange Change car--­"

"Whoa, don't be throwin that sharp little cannon at--­"

No one finishes a sentence. The communication is straight out of that little reptilian part of your brain that screams, "Gimme! Gimmmme! Gimmmmmmeeeee!" You think Michael was cold when he had Fredo killed? In this twisted underworld nightmare, Luca Brasi doesn't sleep with the fishes, he sleeps with you.

Squeezed between episodes of this 30-year battle are family events like Christmas, New Years, Thanksgiving, Easter, birthdays and my daughter's graduation this past weekend. As I watched her accept her high school diploma, the last 18 years of my sweet little girl's innocent life flashed before my eyes--and it hit me like a board filled with hotels that we'd raised her to stand toe-to-toe with Donald Trump and treat him like Rosie O'Donnell.

This Blog Blows My Dress Up contest

by Belle

It's been busier'n hog-renderin' time around Blogabillies this week, but I stopped long enough tonight to indulge myself in some after-dinner blog reading. We all need our guilty pleasures, you know, and for a writer that often involves reading other people's words.

My friend Lisa over at the Scaffolding for Writers blog mentioned a humor-writing contest going on at Shelly Tucker's blog, This Eclectic Life, so I felt duty-bound to check it out. Turns out Shelly is a storyteller and a Texan, which is a grand-slam combination in my book. (See? My book. I just can't get away from words!)

I chuckled my way through a half-dozen of her stories. In fact, I got so sidetracked scrolling through Shelly's blog that I almost forgot about the contest. Almost. Really, how could you forgot a contest that's called This Blog Blows My Dress Up? There's a story right there in the contest title.

I decided I'd submit an entry from the Blogabillies archives, the one where I describe suffering from a bad bout with allergies and having to rely on My Mama's Recipe for a cure. Click the link and read that one if you missed it before. And be sure and check out Shelly's blog. You've still got time to enter the contest if you hurry.

You know, I feel a cough comin' on. Better go find me an empty vanilla extract bottle . . .

Boost, Graphic Seizures and the Black Widow

by T-Bone

There is quite a bit of medical news going on this week and I am going to attempt to blog the subject delicately.

In one week, there have been two news stories about erections gone wild. Sorry to be so blunt, but these stories are on the national news wires – so I just call them as I read them.

The first story involved the deadly Latrodectus mactans, a black widow spider found in southern Chile. Seems this spider’s venom is not only a contraceptive but is also may cause “prolonged, painful and involuntary erections in men.” (thank you Reuters)

In Chile this is known as a “Supersize Me Combo.”

The research showed that Chilean farmers who were bitten by the spider experienced massive feelings of virility. “The spider’s bite can kill children and the elderly, but among strong young farmers it leads to erections that can last for days and involve involuntary ejaculations.”

On a side note that would make Peter Parker proud, Spiderman action figures sales are on the rise with Chilean women. 

This week’s Boost Plus news is swelling the killer erection story even larger.

Seems a man in New York has sued the makers of Boost Plus after drinking the “oral suppliment” and waking up "with an erection that would not subside." Hopefully, it will subside by the time he gets to court.

Like those Spiderman action figures, Boost Plus sales in stores near retirement homes have gone through the roof.

In an unrelated medical story, if you have seen the new London Olympics logo (drop a glass jar of grape jelly), and haven’t had a seizure, count yourself fortunate.  Commericals using the spasmodic new logo have been yanked from British TV after apparently causing seizures in epilepsy patients. While I don’t have epilepsy, I did have a desperate desire to buy a mop after seeing the commercials on YouTube.

So far, the logo has caused no painfully uncontrollable or unsubsidible erections (that officials know about). But just to be safe, southern Chilean Olympic hopefuls may want to avoid Boost Plus while watching TV.

Hogs, Pit Bulls and Other Beasts

by T-Bone

I open my Sports Illustrated, June 4 edition, and before I can get to the big news about Michael Vick and the ongoing pit bull fighting throwdown dragout, I see a little picture of a big hog on page 22. If you read Blogabillies a while back, you read about a giant porker called "Hogzilla" running loose in the suburbs of Atlanta. Apparently, such massive meat
hoofers are a dime a dozen in Dixie these days.

The one displayed in this week's Sports illustrated is a 1,051-pound pork roast, hunted down and shot by an 11-year-old with a .50-caliber revolver in Delta, Alabama.

"What the heck is an 11-year-old doing with a gun that would give John Wayne a cramp?" asked my 18-year-old daughter. I showed her the size of the hog and told her the kid had to pump the pig with eight rounds to knock his bacon into hoggy heaven.

She laughed and said, "There ya go. With hogs that big roaming the neighborhood, they better get the kid an AK47."

My wife looked over our shoulders and mumbled, "How does a hog get bigger than those before pics on a Subway commercial?"

Good question.

The story said the hog would likely yield 500 to 700 pounds of sausage ("We could have breakfast for the whole state of Alabama," the young man told the New York Post). With hogs this large lumbering under the loblollies, somebody better call Jimmy Dean and tell him not to buy any large appliances.

Where the heck were these hogs when I lived in Alabama? Obviously they spent 30 years at the hog buffet, carbo-loading for the showdown with 5th graders toting Dirty Harry-caliber heavy metal.

"Do you feel lucky? Well, do ya, Mr. Ziffle?"

Finally, I get to the Vick dogfight article (Vick denies any involvement). This sad tale makes me pull Rudy, my Jack Russell, out from under the bed (where he is hiding after seeing the Bride of Hogzilla pic) and apologize for being a human being. I'm not saying Michael did anything right or wrong but what exactly were the bizarre blackened barns behind his mansion all about? The whole thing seems like a stinky sock left in the backseat.

According to the story, some NFL and NBA millionaires find absolutely nothing wrong with dogfighting, and some think it's perfectly fine to pay $40 grand for a pit bull and train the animal to try to kill other dogs in a bloody gnawfest.

Considering that there was a time when wealthy owners treated athletes like trained pit bulls, this attitude is not wholly unbelievable. Sports has snuggled up to the gladiator moniker more than a few times. But calling this treatment of animals "entertainment" is tragic.

Would it be entertainment if somebody starved one of those 1,000-pound hogs until he was in the mood to chew the rear end out of a hobby horse and then turn him loose in the locker room? Or the owner's box?

So you think you can dance?

Chimp Change

by T-Bone

I knew a chimp once. His name was Alfred. He lived at a gas station, and he liked to touch people who came into pay or buy a cold drink. Sometimes he wore a gimme cap, and I also saw him with a cigar once; however, he didn't appear to enjoy it very much. Alfred lived in the midst of people, but he never wanted to be a person.

At least, not that I know of. Maybe I was wrong.

Recently in Austria, a chimp named Hiasl has been in the news because animal-rights advocates are trying to get the 26 year-old male primate declared a "person."  The people involved in this effort say he needs that status to become a legal entity so he can receive donations. And he needs the cash because the sanctuary where he lives went bankrupt.

No wonder. It costs $6,800 a month for his food and vet bills alone. That's $81,600 a year. The average American makes around $24,000 a year and has no health insurance.

So, a monkey needs $57,600 more a year to live than the average American. That's a lot of bananas. And his doctor must be flying over to treat his hairy butt from the Mayo Clinic.

Basically, the average American would be better off moving to Austria and having their legal status changed from "person" to "chimp."

I conducted an informal survey and found more than a few volunteers.

"That chimp can have my status as a person if I can have his yearly income," said Carl as he stood outside the Dairy Queen in Richmond, VA.

"Where do I sign up to officially change my status to chimpanzee?" asked Linda in the parking lot of Food Lion.

"I wish I was that monkey's uncle," said Frank, a mechanic at the BP station. "Maybe I could get listed in his will."

"I pledge allegiance to the flag of Austria and to the republic for which it stands," said Jerome, a greasy hand firmly placed over his name patch stitched on his shirt. "So when do I start?" He started doing a chimp sound as two motorists looked at us oddly.

I didn't talk to a single person who wouldn't trade places with the chimp immediately. Not sure that speaks as highly of Hiasl's situation as it speaks about the lives of the average American these days, but it says something.

"So how big will his legal bills be?" asked DeWayne, who works at the car wash. "You know he's got to have more than a few high-paid lawyers working on this."

A woman at least 85 years-old was sitting next to us, waiting for DeWayne to dry her bumper. She leaned over and said, "Are you kidding me? This monkey has lawyers who are fighting to turn him into a person?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said.

"We don't have enough people in the world to kill in wars and abuse in dictatorships and starve and let die of AIDS? Now we have to recruit monkeys?" she asked with a look of total sadness.

"For 80 grand, they need to be recruiting people to be monkeys," laughed DeWayne.

I didn't realize that being a chimp – as a profession – paid so much. As a single "person," Hiasl would be in a pretty rough income tax bracket in a place like New York.

I have a friend who is a doctor, and he didn't make that much last year. Imagine telling students in med school, "Listen, after years in school, and many more as an intern, you'll graduate hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt, and one day, you just might make as much as a chimpanzee."

Hiasl, if you're reading this while lounging around the pool, I have some advice: Don't let them turn you into a person. People get treated much worse and make nearly four times less than chimps – at least in America.

Fried Chicken: A Southern Addiction

by T-Bone, certified chickenologist

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to eat fried chicken.

Heroin couldn't be worse. Besides Pop Tarts (Kellogg's, are you reading this?), I am addicted to fried chicken. Those who know me know both addictions well. I am not proud of this reality of my culinary life. But I face my tasty failing with a roll of Bounty in one hand and a chicken wing in the other.

I have gone to great lengths to get my fix of our flowered, featherless friend – strolling the streets of New York at midnight and having to settle for a bastardized Chinese version of my beloved bird, or driving LA's freeways looking for El Pollo at odd hours. I have chickened my way across the South more than once and have the chest pains to prove it.

In case you didn't know, God did not send manna to the Israelites. He sent fried chicken. That's what kept them wandering for forty years in the wilderness.

On film shoots, I look for that little chicken shape on signs. On road trips, I ask about fried chicken establishments - and breaking an enshrined man-law, I will ask for directions. When it comes to the real white meat, I take no chances.

Last week, while driving to UNC, Mr. Gene and I stopped at the Nottoway restaurant on I-85, south of Richmond, to chow down on their particularly famous version, served up and washed down with one of the finest specimens of sweet iced tea I have ever soaked my tongue in (and Southern sweet  tea is an whole 'nother blog).

Mr, Briggs and I flew into a small Louisiana town once at midnight for a week of shooting, and we had the cabbie run by Popeye's on the way to our late check-in. Even with my fixation, it's not a good idea to eat a bucket of fried chicken that late. We paid the colonary price later. But I'd go back. Life is filled with sacrifice.

I come by this fried chicken Jones honestly. In high school, there was a small restaurant in my hometown of Andalusia, Alabama, called "The Little Kitchen." Wednesdays was all-you-can-eat fried chicken day. Some of us from the football team always went there to test that all-you-can-eat promise. Harris won the prize. He ate 48 pieces of fried chicken at lunch one day in the spring of 1975. He went on to be a star linebacker at Auburn.

Fried chicken first. Star linebacker next. Coincidence? I think not.

My mother makes some of the best I have ever eaten. But then again, every mother in the Deep South can claim that prize. I have tested this theory enough to have a PHD in KFC. I can honestly say I have eaten what would pass for fried chicken in every single place on earth I have ever been.

Speaking of KFC . . . When my oldest son, Abe, was about ten years old, we went into a Kentucky Fried Chicken (it was just turning into KFC at the time).

We walked in the door and Abe noticed a huge poster of Colonel Sanders in the entryway. The old white-whiskered, Southern gentleman was sitting in a yard chair under a big magnolia in front of a plantation with a subtle smile that said, "Fried chicken made me rich." Under the framed picture was a small gold plaque that read: Colonel Harland Sanders.

Abe stopped and looked at the image and blurted out, "Hey look dad! It's Deion Sanders' grandpaw!"

I looked at his face in shock. He looked totally serious, as if he'd just discovered some deep truth of the universe. And then I saw the people in the restaurant. It was packed. Not one Caucasian in the place. They all turned to look at the two white people who looked totally out of place at the moment.

An old African American woman near the door smiled at Abe as she ate her fried chicken and said gently to no one in particular, "Lord, honey, I sure hope that's not true."

Designing 3-D Boobs for Breast Cancer Fund-Raiser

by Belle

I hadn't intended to post this chez Blogabillies, but T-Bone insisted that our readers would appreciate a brief diversion into fiber arts and fund-raising for social causes. More likely, he's just another redneck with a fetish for boobs, even those created with yarn and crochet hook.

A friend invited me to enter some original designs in a fund-raising effort for the Breast Cancer Resource Center. I haven't picked up a crochet hook in months, but my fiber arts muse resurfaced yesterday and I plundered my yarn stash for suitable ideas. (If you crochet or knit, you know what I'm talking about. We always have a supply of yarn stashed away somewhere.)

I'm thinking about creating an art bra out of some luscious cashmere yarn I had intended to use for Christmas scarves. Never had a spare moment before the holidays.

In the meantime, I got started on creating some 3-D breasts that will be crocheted with various handpainted art yarns and shadowbox-framed for display and sale at the event.

Pictured here is my prototype in a mercerized cotton yarn, perched on top of my Mac mini hard drive and propped up by a crochet hook. This took four episodes of Grey's Anatomy to complete. (Watched in one day, thanks to DVR.) It turned out pretty good for a first attempt, so now it's time for a trip to my favorite local yarn store, Hill Country Weavers, to indulge in some splendiferous fibers.

Britney Shaved Again

by T-Bone

First she's marrying guys for a week at a stretch, then having babies, then running around LA with no undies but his time, it's her head that's shaved. I know it's hard to keep up with the sad demise of Anna Nicole Smith, but now we've got Britney to keep track of too.

Is Britney Spears having just a little bit of an identity crisis, or is she just imitating crazy for the PR?

Maybe she's just working a new publicity angle that is as old as the nine commandments (the one about lusting after your neighbor's farm animal got Pluto'd, I hear): It doesn't matter what they say about you as long as they spell your name right. That's Britney with one 't'. Got it?

Is it just me ,or does Britney have a fixation on Sinead O'Connor and Demi Moore? Both shaved, one posed preggers on a mag cover. But neither hang with Paris Hilton and both wear underwear (last time I checked). Britney 12, SineadDemi 7.

If girls just want to have fun, Britney is having more than her share. She is a human billboard for having too much time and money in your pants.

Did I mention that Britney is Southern? Never would have guessed, would you?

Maybe she's got a new CD coming out. Let me guess the title: "I Made Too Much Too Fast And Since The Talent Thing Is Iffy At Best, I Need To Crank Up The Face Time Harder Than Prince In A Bad Doo-Rag And A Penis-Shaped Guitar Because I'm Feeling A Little Like Karl Rove Trying To Get Into A Hillary Clinton Fundraiser  These Days So I'm Yanking Off My Panties And My Hair And Hoping People Keep Looking At Me Like A Celebrity Wreck On The Freeway – Oh And I Hate You Kelly Clarkson, Carrie Underwood And Girl, You Know I Hate You, Christina Aguilera."

I am afraid what will happen next. But one thing's for sure -- we can't look away.

Astronuts: Why I Miss John Glenn

by T-Bone

It was all caused, in my opinion, by the untimely death of the famous two-headed calf in Wythe County, Virginia, this weekend. Something happened somewhere in the universe to front-load this chain of events. 

It had to be that doubly-cute little cow heading toward the light that tipped the nutbag over and spilled everything on the floor. Such a tragic shaking of the cosmic marbles dislodged a neuron in the brain of Griffin O'Neal, son of actor, Ryan O'Neal, all the way out in Malibu, CA. 

I'm not sure whether he'd heard the news of the two-headed bovine's departure down the one-way exit, but something urged the younger O'Neal to attack his old man with a fireplace poker (my weapon of choice in all family disputes), causing the former star of Love Story (Ryan) to fetch his gun and show some fatherly love by squeezing off a shot at his son. Ryan O'Neal was arrested and charged with, among other things, continuing to hang out with Farrah Fawcett, who, in case you haven't noticed lately, doesn't look a lot like she did in that poster we all hung on our dorm walls back in the 1970s. 

If this seems normal to you, let's continue this two-headed cow death-induced drama further. And let me warn you, this is stranger than a Cohen Brothers movie after a bad night in high school with a bunch of Boone's Farm. Nancy Grace, you got trumped on this one, ma'am.

You've probably heard this already, unless you rode the two-headed cow into the netherworld yourself over the weekend  or got head-butted by Chewbacca on Hollywood Blvd.

The astronaut story. Or astronut.

Amazing, out-of-this-world stuff. According to police, Astronaut Lisa Nowak and Air Force Captain Colleen Shipman were in a “relationship” with another astronaut, Cmdr. Bill Oefelein. Need a program yet? 

Astronaut Nowak told authorities that it was “more than a working relationship and less than a romantic relationship” that she was having with Astronaut Bill. So what, exactly, exists in that infinitesimally small space between work and romance? Jealousy. And a nasty case of it too.

Seems that Mrs. Nowak used her astronaut training to diaper up, print off more accurate Mapquest directions than I ever got, and drive all the way from Houston to Orlando in disguise so she could cross flight paths with her female competition, Ms. Captain Shipman. In the parking lot of the airport, Nowak did just that, firing her thrusters and spraying Shipman with pepper spray and maybe even attempting to kidnap her or something worse, considering the equipment found by police.

Dear God, when does the Spray 'n Wash commerical come on?

Police found that Nowak was packing a carbon dioxide-powered BB pistol (luckily astronauts aren't trained very well in how to kill someone), an unused steel mallet, a tan trench coat, a wig, some diapers (so she wouldn't have to stop so often on her 900-mile trek), rubber gloves, a new folding 4-inch knife, several feet of rubber tubing, some large plastic garbage bags, and $600 in cash. She had clearly seen all three of those “Saw” movies and was taking notes.

         

It's a long, sad space flight from The Right Stuff to The Wrong Way (1972, look it up). Astronaut Nowak is married and has 3 children. I'm thinking she is now a prime candidate for the TV show Wife Swap. Okay, Fear Factor.

CNN said Nowak “had earlier posted a $15,500 bond on charges of attempted kidnapping, battery and attempted burglary of a car with battery.”

Did I just read that sentence right? Attempted burglary of a car with battery? Never mind. 

Director of NASA's Johnson Space Center in Houston, Michael Coates, issued a statement saying Nowak “is officially on 30-day leave and has been removed from flight status and all mission-related activities.”

Dang, I hope so. Don't think I'd want to spend several months stuck in the space station with food in a tube and a woman who'd drive 900 miles in diapers to get even.

Again, from CNN: Her supervisor said NASA would support Nowak “like we would any employee at NASA if they were to get into this situation.” 

Excuse me. How many people at NASA get into this situation? That statement makes it sound like this happens a lot. As a taxpayer, I'm starting to wonder just what is going on aboard the Space Shuttle. Are they using the Hubble to spy on their boyfriend's other girlfriends? Are they conducting experiments to discover the effects of bumping uglies in zero gravity? Has somebody been snorting Scotty's stash of dilithium crystals?

“Captain, we weren't built to take this kind of punishment!”

“Houston, we have a problem.”

Yeah, yeah, this will crank up more jokes than Brokeback Mountain.

Space might be the final frontier, but it ain't one small step for man or mankind anymore. It's one giant leap for Jerry Springer.

I miss John Glenn.

Why I Watch the Super Bowl: Joe Willie

by T-Bone

I am a college football guy. The idea of millionaires playing a game I would still love to play for free is tough. But because I am from Alabama, I watch the Super Bowl; not because the teams are my favorites or because anyone I am rooting for is playing, like Shaun Alexander (a fellow Tide alumni, who last year ran his way into the NFL MVP); not because I have a commercial on it either (I haven't had one on there in years).

Instead, I watch the Super Bowl because of one man who is old and bent and cripple and flawed, who still has a famously carved face that is hawkishly capable of exploding into a smile that makes you believe that losers can win and the crippled can walk and the blind will see. 

This man made his share of mistakes. He wasn't exactly a role model nor a model of moral behavior, and he may have played drunk or hungover on more than one occasion. But even with a crushing after-all-nighter fur ball in his mouth, he could throw 5 bitterly accurate touchdowns and embarrass gifted athletes who were as sober as Jerry Fallwell. He played through pain and insults and under the pressure of fame, threats, money and cortisone.

 

The last time I saw him live on TV, he was drunk again, asking a young sportscaster to kiss him. I nearly cried. There was a time when there would have been 40 million women lined up for that opportunity. Not anymore. As he smiled and looked vulnerable, the woman squirmed and turned him down.

How the mighty have fallen. It made me realize that our heroes are flawed, and that's why we love them. They are like us, but we are not like them. Not on Super Bowl Sunday.

Joe Willie Namath is why the Super Bowl is Super. His young, brash guarantee of victory against the favored Colts put him in the cultural ring with Mohammed Ali. Joe Willie Namath came into a league that only a few eccentric diehards followed, and the Jets' Sonny Werblin stroked the young Alabama quarterback the biggest check in football history. Why? Because he knew Namath could not only deliver the TD's and the wins and the women that would insure success, Namath could deliver the baby that was soon to be the biggest thing in sports.

On January 12, 1969, in Miami's Orange Bowl (a stadium he knew all too well from his days under Coach Paul “Bear” Bryant), Broadway Joe threw his way into Super Bowl history by backing up his boast and grinning like it was easy. But that wasn't the biggest thing that happened on that day when he famously ran off the field pumping the number one sign. The Super Bowl itself rode into national holiday status on his ruined knees, devil-may-care attitude and brutal arm.

Namath turned the Super Bowl from a game into an icon; he took it from a stadium into America's living rooms and hearts. Legendary NFL Commissioner Pete Rozelle, the marketing genius who saw the power of football on TV and made the Super Bowl into the holiday we know today, needed a magic, defining moment, a Paul-on-the-road-to-Damascus blinding light that would rip the past from the future and give birth to something bigger than a mere game -- which is what the Super Bowl was before that day.

Namath delivered it like one of his dreaded passes, renowned because they came so hard that your hands would bleed. 

Pre-Namath, 40-50 million people watched the Super Bowl and a 30-second commercial cost 42 grand. Today, a billion viewers worldwide watch two teams, dozens of commercials (at $2.3 million per :30) and our own addiction to celebrity in a Roman-numeral'd buffet of capitalism that rivals Christmas and overshadows Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July in the psyche of America.

All other sports seem like multi-game, scripted affairs (March Madness, The World Series). But when the Super Bowl cranks up, it's one big Chipotle burrito. Millionaires are made. Corporate cash is guzzled. Companies fight it out in the commercials. Legends are cast and careers are made. Embarrassments are unfurled. It's an orgy of corporate, athletic entertainment. We might see anything from Mick Jagger shake his 60-something arm-flaps to Janet Jackson's pierced nipple. There's even a football game.

David Halberstam's XL Super Bowl: The Opus is adapted in this week's Sports Illustrated and if you love football, you should check it out.

And then there's Joe. When Susan and I were in college at the University of Alabama, Joe Namath would show up on campus regularly with the newest Jets QB, former Alabama QB Richard Todd. I suspected a couple of cheerleaders were the lure, but that's just my opinion.

Namath was an adopted Alabamian. We share a Crimson diploma -- and on a particular night at his restaurant in Tuscaloosa, we shared more. Susan and I were about to start eating when Namath hit me in the head with the kitchen door of his restaurant, just as cleanly as he ever hit Maynard for a TD back in the day.

That big grin exploded and he grabbed me and patted my head like a dog. He apologized, and I apologized for denting his door with my pate. Then he sat down, autographed a napkin for Susan, talked for a few minutes about our recent marriage, and paid for our meal. It was like he knew us.

I can still see that big grin, that same grin those guys saw in the huddle in 1969 on the field in the Super Bowl as he made them believe they could do what nobody else believed would ever happen – except Joe Willie.

That's why I watch the Super Bowl.