After the Packers lost to the Giants last night, I jumped in the car and just drove around the beltline here in Madison, with no particular destination. I just couldn't stay in the same place where I had witnessed the Packers disembowel themselves. I dropped my friend Brad's house unannounced (much to the horror of his wife), just because I needed someone to talk to - almost as if I had lost a family member. (Come to think of it, there may be a few extended family members I would gladly trade for a Packer Super Bowl appearance.)
It's gotten to the point where I can't even enjoy Packer games anymore. There wasn't a second of the game last night that my guts weren't twisted into a knot. When there's a bad call (Nick Collins' roughing the passer) or bad play (take your pick), it feels like being punched in the stomach. And when there's a good play, such as Donald Lee's touchdown catch, I don't get excited at all. Because that's what he's supposed to do. Basically, the bad plays are ten times as painful as the good plays are satisfying. So I end up yelling at the TV pretty much the whole game (by the time the Giants won, I had thoroughly described every aspect of the procreative process.)
Special recognition goes to Al Harris, whose clownish goading of Plaxico Burress provoked Burress to have a career game. Well done, Al. You are now a worldwide embarrassment.
When I returned home from my drive (I had considered hitting a bar, but "Le Tigre" was closed), I settled in and turned on the TV, determined not to watch any sports. Fortunately for me, "Bret Michaels' Rock of Love 2" was waiting for me on the TiVo. May God bless Bret and his band of horse-faced strippers for providing me with a much-needed respite from reality for an hour. It served as a reminder that no matter how bad things get, there are always herpes infested skanks willing to cheer me up. Thanks, whores!