Superbowl Sunday

Today is the day that we as Americans celebrate violence and competition for the sake of violence and competition. In nature, these things are a means to an end, but in human nature they’re recreational activities. I acknowledge that any pride I take in this fact is a perverse pride—the pride of a sick man in a sick culture of a sick species; A species whose redeeming qualities can only be found in what little remorse we occasionally show for our hideous transgressions against our own potential.

Today, we glorify the symptoms of the sickness that is our inability to leave behind those traits that were once necessary for our existence. Today, we glut ourselves on junk food and watch people suffer against eachother in a meaningless struggle for no ends other than our temporary amusement and conditional praise.

We are a wretched and meaningless race of good-for-nothing pieces of shit, but in such a pointlessly cruel and merciless world as this, who can blame us for being bitter and stupid and hateful? First we are children, subject to the whims of our parents. Then we are teenagers and young adults, subject to work. Then as older people we are subject to declinging health and eventual death. 

If we didn’t take some satisfaction in the cruel and the petty and the violent, we’d have nearly no satisfaction left at all. So, I will watch the game. I will probably cheer and jeer and masticate salted peanuts and swill cheap American pisswater beer. I will begrudingly do all that I am expected to do on this day of fatalistic and sadistic celebration, not because it is expected of me, but because it is as hopelessly hardwired into me as it is into anyone else. 

Are you ready for some football?