Ammo Grrrll is on strike, sort of, as she explains in THE NFL CAN GO TO HELL. She writes:
Well, the day after tomorrow will mark the 3rd week that Mr. AG and I have watched no football on Sunday. That is a sea change from years and decades of watching all 3 games, and we thought we would go into some kind of terrible withdrawal at a minimum.
And we found out we haven’t missed it at all. Go figure.
The Sunday hours stretch out like a magic carpet before us. We can read, write, watch a movie, visit friends, go for a walk, go back to bed for a vigorous, uh, nap, wash the cars, call dear relatives to tell them we love them, drop a “Hang in There” card to an ailing friend, and still have time to do really stupid stuff like Sudoku or Candy Crush or the ironing.
We can go out for a leisurely late brunch, practice piano, and take a Hebrew class. This being Arizona, we can swim (outdoors!), go to our community center to lift weights, start Rosetta Stone Spanish for the 3rd time (El gato es negro!), have an actual nap, and it’s still only mid-afternoon!
The whole phenomenon of fanatic fandom is quite bizarre, isn’t it, when you really look at it with a cold, clear eye? What possible stake do I have in “rooting” for a bunch of coddled multi-millionaires “owned” by a bunch of billionaires? Who don’t even have the good grace to be grateful to the country or the fans that give them their exalted lifestyle?
Why in God’s Name, do I rank the Twins’ winning the 1987 World Series as the third most wonderful day of my life after my wedding and the birth of my son? It far outstripped in emotional impact my sold-out one-woman show at the Guthrie Theatre, my first standing ovation in comedy, my first complimentary comment on the column, and several other banner events in my life like my first taste of French Silk Pie.
Now, devoted sports fans, I’m not saying there’s anything WRONG in a moral sense with someone who swears they “bleed Dodger blue” or live and die with The Crimson Tide, but, truly what IS it all about? Why do we care? Your thoughts, Mr. Davis? (Roll, Tide!)
Generally, I host two largish parties a year in addition to numerous smaller dinner parties. The two big events have always been New Year’s Eve and Super Bowl. There will be no Super Bowl party this year, but, as the title of the column suggests, instead, my first “NFL Go To Hell” party. It may not even be on Super Bowl Sunday because I don’t want to deprive anyone else of the opportunity to watch it if they choose. This is our boycott; not a crusade.
We will have traditional 4th of July picnic fare, watch some of the more inspirational speeches from the John Adams biopic, have a patriotic sing-along, and stand for the National Anthem. Nobody will take a knee. My house; my rules. Not that anybody I would invite would dream of disrespecting the National Anthem.
I can already feel a certain mommy’s-basement-dweller getting ready to “translate” my column as “Ammo Grrrll doesn’t believe in Free Speech.” Indeed, I do, and – unlike virtually all leftists who want everyone who disagrees with them fired, arrested and eventually, shot, for Thought Crimes – I am not agitating for these beclowned ingrates to lose their jobs. I’m just not interested in watching them. Remember in Woody Allen’s futuristic spoof, Sleeper, Big Brother was on the television constantly and could not be turned off. At least for now, we still have the option of using our remote controls. I’ve worn out the Mute button since that droning America-loathing narcissist was elected in 2008, but the Power switch still works.
So fie and a pox upon your beer ads, and your car ads, and your bizarre couple sitting nekkid in separate outdoor bathtubs that may or may not even contain water. I will be AWOL from your wardrobe malfunctions and multi-million dollar hyperactive, yet boring, halftime spectacles whose budgets could have been used for disabled vets or applied to the national debt. Karma can be a bitch, and I hope that not one team with demonstrators on it makes it even to the playoffs. And that Colon Kippersnack gets a ferocious case of head lice plus athlete’s foot from his anti-cop socks.
As the flight attendants say, over and over again, at the end of the flight: “Buh-bye, NFL, buh-bye.”
Besides, It’s only 6 months till Cactus League Spring Training. Obviously, fanatic baseball fandom is righteous and totally understandable.
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