Honey, would you please wash these fucking dishes?

By Lynn DeBerg
Housewife

I’m bored with the NFL playoffs.

At least going into this weekend, I knew what was going on. Tony Dungy was going to lead his team to the Super Bowl and instantly sell the story rights to CBS for a made-for-TV docudrama starring Don Cheadle (as Dungy), James Van Der Beek (as Peyton Manning), and now probably Kenneth Branagh (as Mike Vanderjagt). I was really cheering for Tony Dungy, because of the tragedy surrounding him and his team, and now I don’t even know who to cheer for!

What the FUCK?

I can’t cheer for Denver because their quarterback looks like that dirty Ron Jeremy from the VH1 series about loving the eighties (and don’t think I don’t know what his DAYJOB is!) and their coach looks all crabby and reminds me of Balky from Perfect Strangers. I don’t really know why. And I can’t cheer for Carolina because I’ve never really liked that shade of blue, not since my daughter spilled ketchup sauce all over this gorgeous blouse of that color that my husband got me for Mother’s Day. And I can’t cheer for whatever fourth team is left in the playoffs.

All my husband wanted to do today is see replays of the same crap while I had to tape Desperate Housewives and Grey’s Anatomy on TiVO ... what’s the fucking point? The field goal misses every time. Sorry, I don’t mean to get potty-mouthed, but there’s only so much you can take when Sean Salisbury is talking about who he thinks is going to win the Super Bowl in the Coors Light Six Pack or the Budweiser Hot Seat or the Miller Lite Plays of the Day (where that appalling fat man makes various noises without actually telling us what’s going on ... someone should really put him out of his misery).

Without the Colts, I can’t even pretend to care what’s going on anymore in the NFL. But I still know next Sunday will be dedicated to watching the remaining teams fight it out for some meaningless title that carries no interesting backstory. Well screw that shit, I’m going shopping.