The Super Bowl is in just a couple of days, so my husband and I are getting awfully close to our Big Fat Annual Argument over my potty mouth after I accidentally teach my preschooler some creative new curse words during The Big Game.
Because, yeah, I kind of need to be bleeped sometimes. I’d blame the public school system or the fluoride in the water, but the truth is that I just get really carried away when I am watching sports, and then I tend to drop the F-bomb more often than is strictly necessary.
Partly because I like dropping the F-bomb – here I am, this MOTHER of a SMALL CHILD, using THAT kind of LANGUAGE, tee-hee! – but also, I kind of can’t help myself. I am my father’s daughter, and like my father, I am very passionate and excitable about The Things That Truly Matter In Life, like family, doing your own car repairs, and OH MY GOD IS THAT REF FREAKIN’ BLIND I CAN’T EVEN! So it probably goes without saying that there is a whole lot of shouting and profanity and an impressive array of filthy hand gestures in my house during football games.
Because let’s face it: a lot of NFL refs certainly ACT like they’re blind, or at the very least, chronically and unforgivably stupid. I’m not sure which is worse.
For whatever it might be worth, I don’t just yell at the refs – I recognize that they have an important job to do, even if they do it wrong about half the time, like ARE YOU KIDDING ME BOTH FEET WERE TOTALLY IN GET NEW GLASSES YOU HACK! Ahem. Anyway. I’ve lived near Philadelphia for most of my life, and at different times I’ve gone hoarse screaming at various and sundry faces on the television, like Ron Jaworski, Dick Vermeil, DON’T EVEN GET ME STARTED ON BUDDY RYAN, Todd Pinkston, that stupid Fox Sports robot thing, Freddie Mitchell, random Cowboys and Giants fans, Terrell Owens, Donovan McNabb whom I love more than Chunky soup but I still yelled at him every once in a while, Andy Reid, and of course (because you’ve all heard the rumors about us Eagles fans), Santa Claus.
Vicious lies, of course: I have personally never, not once, hollered an expletive at Santa Claus. Except for that one time, when he tried to steal my crab fries. Then he had it coming, let me tell you, because ain’t NOBODY getting between me and my crab fries. You try to touch another person’s crab fries, and if you ask me, you DESERVE to get batteries thrown at your head. Don’t even SMELL my crab fries. What kind of place do you think this is? The City of Brotherly Love or something? … Oh.
But oh dear God, why won’t anybody FIRE ANDY REID!?
This year, I’ll probably be better-behaved than usual at whatever Super Bowl party we end up at because my husband’s and daughter’s team is the Steelers, and I tend not to get as worked up about Steelers games as I do about the Eagles. If I had to guess why, it’s probably because the Steelers have already won so many Super Bowls (eleventeen, right?), and so it isn’t quite as urgent for them to win. And they’re playing the Packers, who are totally fine, now that Brett Favre is out of there.
And it doesn’t matter anyway, because no matter what I might end up saying after a couple of nice, cold, artificially colored wine coolers have been consumed, I still can’t possibly say the Worst Possible Thing Ever, words that are so vile and disgusting that the mere thought of them makes me want to wash my brain out with soap.
Those words? “No good! Wide right!”
[author] [author_image timthumb=’on’]http://www.40momsclub.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/01/rachelage2-a1.jpg[/author_image] [author_info]About the Author
Rachel Gonzales (aka “rockle”) is a 40MomsClub.com regular Lifestyle contributor. She is the actual child in her profile picture, which was taken in 1976, so it probably goes without saying that mistakes were made. You can read more of her here on 40MomsClub, or on her blog, rockle-riffic. [/author_info][/author]