It's that time of the year again--Super Bowl time. Yes, the time of the year tailor made for male bonding, a time in which guys from all walks of life eat chicken wings, drink obscene amounts of beer and have lengthy discussions about which of the two teams playing in the big game is "due" and which one "has the better running game." As a man, I'm supposed to care about these things. I don't, but I'm supposed to--just like women are somehow supposed to dig the Lifetime Network. (Anyone up for some Golden Girls reruns?)

Rest assured, your resident loner WON'T be watching the big game this year, just like I didn't watch it last year, or the year before. I don't hate football, mind you, I just don't give a shit one way or the other. It's an uncomfortable time of the year for me, because I'm constantly dealing with jacked up dudes accosting me in public, bellowing, "Hey man, who are you picking for the Super Bowl this year??"  When I tell them that I have no pick and, in fact, have no idea who's even playing in it, they shoot me a familiar, suspicious look which clearly indicates "he's not one of us." It's almost like they expect me to sashay home and jerk off to old Village People videos or something. Then they make a quick retreat, presumably to look for other "real" men such as themselves. Testosterone does strange things to the human brain.

Okay, so I'm not a football fan--does that make me any less of a man? I don't think so--I mean, if someone wanted to question my manliness, there are plenty of other things about me that just aren't quite "right." In fact, if you'll indulge me for a few moments, allow me to present:

SEVERAL REASONS WHY I'M NOT A "REAL" MAN

1) I KNOW ABSOLUTELY NOTHING ABOUT CARS. And when I say nothing, I mean nothing. I can't replace a fan belt. I can't change my spark plugs. I can't change the oil. One time, my car was down a quart of oil, so I went to pour one in and accidentally dumped it into the power steering fluid reservoir. This guy I knew from school just about busted a gut laughing at my dumb ass when he saw what I did. He seemed both delighted and baffled at how a retard such as myself could exist. My indifference about cars is especially odd considering that I live in the so-called "Motor City," where men engage in spontaneous circle jerks when a muscle car happens to drive by.

2) I SOB LIKE A LITTLE BITCH AT SAD MOVIES. Fortunately, I'm able to keep this defect in check when I'm in mixed company. But there are certain movies that I refuse to watch unless I'm alone, lest I break into tears like a 13 year old girl meeting Clay Aiken. That scene at the end of Field of Dreams is a prime example--when the Kevin Costner character plays catch with his dad at the end of the movie, it gets me EVERY SINGLE TIME. I don't even like Kevin Costner! Plus, I have never, ever played a game of catch with my father. So why does this particular scene make me tear up? I don't know, man, maybe I have too much estrogen. Hell, had my old man come up to me when I was a kid and asked, "Hey son, would you like to have a catch?" I would have looked at him like "What, are you fucking stoned or something?"
Knowing my dad, he probably would have been, too.

3) I OWN A COPY OF AIR SUPPLY'S GREATEST HITS ON CD. Honestly, I have no excuse for this one. So I own a wimpy CD... big friggin' deal. It's not like I can sing along with every lyric of All Out of Love or anything. Okay, so I can. Put a fucking bullet in my head already, will you?
(editor's note: I love Air Supply too... -Dean S. Planet)

4) IF A PRODUCT HAS "SOME ASSEMBLY REQUIRED," I'M FUCKED. Men are supposed to know how to build shit. If you happen to have a penis, you're automatically supposed to know how to do things like put up drywall, install a toilet and build entertainment centers. Never mind whether anybody taught you or not, you're just supposed to know. My brother is a genius with shit like that. That bastard could probably build a house using only a butter knife and a hammer--meanwhile, I can barely make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich without assistance. It's a good thing I don't have kids, because I'd never be able to assemble their damn toys. I can just see what Christmas morning would be like if I was a dad;

JTL Junior: "Daddy, can you put together the new bike that Santa brought me?"

Jeremy the Loner: "Um, I was planning on bribing your Uncle Kevin to do that. When he comes over next week, I'll ply him with beer and pizza and trick him into assembling your bike. Now go play with your damn X-Box and leave me the fuck alone, okay?"

JTL Junior: (to himself) "Gee, I hope mommy's been secretly fucking the mailman. I'd hate to think this douchebag is my biological daddy." 

5) I HATE TO DRIVE AND I HAVE NO SENSE OF DIRECTION WHATSOEVER. Men supposedly have an innate sense of direction left over from our ancestors, who were hunters and gatherers. Well, I'm left to assume that if I were a caveman, my family would have starved to death waiting for me to find my way home with a buffalo carcass to cook for dinner. I never have any idea of where the fuck I'm going. Just like a woman, I rely on landmarks to find my way around--and just like a woman, I could manage to get lost in a portable toilet. One time, I was driving home from work when I noticed the freeway was backed up. "No big deal," I told myself, "I'll just take a different route home. It'll be much quicker that way." To make a long story short, I got completely, helplessly lost and practically ended up in Akron, fucking Ohio. My "quicker" route ended up taking all of three hours--that's right, three hours for a drive that normally takes less than half an hour. I felt like such a wussy, I kept checking my pants to see if I had magically acquired a vagina. After all, I already had a good set of bitch tits going. 

But the least "manly" thing about me is my complete lack of competitiveness, which is what the Super Bowl is all about. Frankly, the "competition factor" doesn't register on my priorities list. Let me put it this way--so you can run faster than I can... so you can hit a baseball farther than I can... so you drive a much, much better car than I do... the bottom line is, I don't give a shit.  The ONLY thing I've ever been competitive about is women--and believe me, I'll fight your ass to the death over a woman. But as far as sports go... nope. I just don't care. I suppose someone could make the argument that I'm contradicting myself in some ways, seeing as how I am a huge Red Wings fan. Hockey is different, though, because it's the only professional sport in which it's perfectly okay to beat the living shit out of an opposing player. I vent a lot of my pent up aggression that way; sure, it's not much of an outlet, but I need it. If I didn't have that outlet, you'd see me wandering the streets, pummeling random strangers with various implements of destruction. I might not be a "man" in some ways, but I still love mindless violence and bloody mayhem.

I wish I could avoid the Super Bowl altogether, but seeing as how it's being held in Detroit this year, that's next to impossible. The eyes of the world are locked on my hometown this weekend, and people from all around are heading here as we speak. This is always strange for me to think about, because it's hard to believe that people would flock to Detroit of their own free will. Snoop Dogg is here. Ben Affleck is here. David Spade is here. But none of this matters to me--I'm just annoyed by the fact that people won't fucking shut up about it. I only know two things about the Super Bowl--number one, commercial time is ridiculously expensive. Number two, the Detroit Lions will never play in it. I keep hearing about what a "wonderful" thing this is for Detroit, and how it's going to cast a positive light on the city. Yeah, right. Once this thing is over and done with, Detroit will go back to being the toilet it always has been. Nothing, and I mean nothing, will ever make that change. But to hear the mayor and local newscasters tell it, this is the beginning of a new, golden age for the city. They act like it's actually going to bring more tourists here on the future. Don't believe it. To put it another way, here's a conversation that will never, ever happen;

MIDDLE CLASS FATHER: "Say, where do you kids want to go on vacation this year? Hawaii? Cancun?"

SPOILED KIDS: "WE WANNA GO TO DETROIT!!!"

MIDDLE CLASS FATHER: "Are you sure you wouldn't rather go to Disney Land or something?"

SPOILED KIDS: "No, we wanna go to Detroit! Maybe we'll all get shot and killed by roving gangs!"

MIDDLE CLASS DAD: "Okay, Detroit it is!!"

SPOILED KIDS: "Yay!!!"

Here's something else I find amusing about this whole thing--the local media and city officials are real big on talking about how great this will be for the city and its residents, yet they're doing their best to make all of the locals disappear. If you happen to be unfortunate enough to live it Detroit, they don't even want to  see your ass until Monday, at the very earliest. Detroiters haven't been allowed to park on the city streets for several weeks now; all of the parking meters have been disabled, and should you park your car anywhere on the streets, the cops will tow it away faster than I can guzzle a case of beer. (Which translates into roughly 20 minutes.) Oh sure, technically you could park in a garage or a designated lot--if you happen to be a millionaire, that is. And yeah, there's plenty of celebrity parties going on all over the city... but the few of them that are actually open to the public cost a minimum of 500 dollars per ticket. If I had 500 bucks burning a hole in my pocket, I could find much better things to do with it rather than attending a party with Ja Rule. Fuck that. I'd rather use an old lawnmower to shave a mohawk onto my balls before I'd do anything THAT dumb.

So, don't bother inviting me to your stupid Super Bowl party. Don't ask me what I thought of the gnarly new Pepsi commercial. Don't tell me which washed-up celebrity flashed a flabby tit during the halftime show. Leave me alone, so I can enjoy a can of Pringles, some old He-Man cartoons and a pile of cold, leftover pizza. Wake me up when it's over.

"Surreal Life 4 Analysis" coming soon!
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