Yesterday, I arrived at my friend's apartment about 30 minutes before the kick off and learned which teams were playing- The New Orleans Saints and the Indianapolis Colts. I didn't know which team to root for. As a fan of U.S. gymnastics, Indianapolis holds a special place in my heart since Kim Zmeskal won her world all around title there, a first for the Americans. On the other hand, residual Katrina guilt made me want to root for the Saints. Not that I thought I a Superbowl victory would cure the ills of a city that drowned in the past decade, but at the very least, they could stick the trophy into the levy to plug a hole, like the little Dutch boy did by sticking his finger into the dike.
So I was torn. And also clueless as to how the game is played. One of the revelers spent a lot of time explaining what a first down is. I promised to reciprocate in 2012. I told him I would explain the gymnastics Code of Points during the Summer Games. I thought this was more than fair but he passed on the offer.
Since the Colts were the first on the scoreboard, I jumped on their bandwagon even though the Saints' had prettier uniforms. Of course, I was forced to switch to the other team after halftime when it became obvious that the Colts would not win. But their likely victory was not the only reason I now favored a Saints win. It was because their quarterback is a lot hotter.
But the highlight of my Superbowl experience had to be the food. At halftime, the host ordered pizza from Domino's. I had never before had Domino's (or any fast food for that matter) and I was quite excited to finally taste this little slice of Americana.
The pizza boxes looked just like they did on television but the pizza inside- it was smaller than I expected. And the crust was fluffy, like a cake, not crisp the way God intended it. I can't comment on the cheesy bread cause I didn't get any. Sigh.
When I told my fellow party goers that I was slightly disappointed by my first Domino's experience, they told it was normal, that the pizza isn't particularly good but not so bad that you don't order again. After all, it is pizza. And as the saying goes, "Pizza is like bad sex. Even when it's done bad, it's still good." Or something like that.
Pre-pubescent delivery boy not included.
2 comments:
I've always been curious about why people go back to bad sex. Perhaps you might FEEL good by NOT sharing with the offender just how bad he is. After all, who doesn't feel good about doing chesed?
@HRH That is certainly a new level of altruism :)
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