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Posted 2/09/16 (Tue)


Now you know I am not a real big football fan. That’s because I like the Vikings. And it is much less disappointing to be a rather disinterested fan than it is to be a broken fan each and every year.
Like when they sent too many men into the huddle after a timeout years ago and lost a chance to go to the Super Bowl. Or when they missed that chip shot field goal in a chance to advance. Or when the refs from Louisiana let the Saints knock the hell out of Favre for four quarters. So I sit idly by and wait for a call from someone to invite us to a Super Bowl Party.
Now everyone gets invited to a Super Bowl Party. I mean it’s an American tradition. Like Thanksgiving. Even the homeless get fed on Thanksgiving Day. But no, like the Vikings, I never make the finals.
People dress up in funny hats and jerseys of their favorite players and fix fancy meals. Little cheesy things shaped like footballs. Potato chip dips the color of their favorite team. Chicken wings and pizza and pretzels and popcorn and cheese and fruit trays. They have football pools and bets and beer and adult beverages.
But no, Shirley and I have to stay home. The relatives don’t invite us. The neighbors don’t invite us. Oh, Shirley says we did get invited to one party. But you had to pay to get in and you had to bring your own lunch. I don’t think you can count that.
And now that woman says it is really my fault! My fault! I mean she has the gall to say, “It is your fault.” Blasphemy!
Well, there was the time I threw a can of Budweiser through Anderson’s TV screen. But that has been years ago. And it was a horrible call. And there was the time I dumped the Gatorade over the hostess’s head as a game was winding down. Actually, it started a fad that is carried on today in games all over the world.
But she says what really put the kibosh on our being invited to Super Bowl parties was the time I streaked through the living room at a neighborhood party in Bismarck. I was in the legislature. And we were kind of new to the neighborhood. And this little voice popped up in my head and said, “Do something they will remember you for!” And I said, “What?” And the little voice said, “Just do it.” That is another slogan that I started that has carried on for years.
Which reminds me of a story. A true story. Back when streaking was popular. At a basketball game in Mobridge, the brother of a friend of mine put a paper sack over his head and at halftime of a high school basketball game, streaked the length of the gym. Wearing nothing but a grocery sack and a pair of socks. The highlight was when one of the senior girls screamed, “My God, that is LeRoy!”
She turned bright red as everyone turned to look at her!