What Makes This Bowl So Superb?

At last! Here we are! What you've all waited for! Even if you haven't! The second-ever installment of Spiral Reverie's whenever-the-hell-I-feel-like-it feature, "Ben Doesn't Know Anything About Sports!"

Today's a big day. What day is it? Why, it's that day America's masses most inclined to inevitable heart disease - the kind that comes from negligence, not genetics - cling together like positively charged ions (Or negatively charged ions, or... science isn't my forte either, okay?) in front of their TV-boxes to bask in the sterility-inducingly warming glow of that there big football game. They pour bag after bag of crunchy fried pig remains - "pork rinds," they call them - into a bowl, with maybe some high fructose corn syrup-based dip on the side for extra flavor on which to gorge themselves during the game - hence why today is known as The Super Bowl.

Personally, I don't see what's so superb about it. The big winner is decided, blah blah blah, who cares? They're just going to do it again next year. And the year after that. And they'll probably be doing it long after you're dead, too - barring any major nuclear accidents. But then, I'm sure the mutants would form their own leagues too. They might even form their own separate leagues for flying mutants, and flying mutants who prefer flag football to all this tackling bullshit - to clean up their language, these future mutants seem to find that sort of behavior overtly homoerotic. But then, these mutants aren't too fond of pants either. Time travel was not a comfortable experience.

To find out more about this most spectacular of food receptacles, I talked to three unsuspecting football fans when out and about walking the great prairies and plains of modern America.

The first interviewee was a man by the name of Jason Burtwick, 28, a full-time bag boy and aspiring frat boy who got kicked out of community college for accidentally making a pipe bomb out of a beer bong and nearly killing several of his classmates in Street Dance 101.

Q: So, how 'bout this big game? Is it going to be a sports-filled time or what? There might even be some athletics!
A: No shit, asshat. It's gonna be the bomb - the bomb diggity. That's like a bomb with even more digging involved.

Q: Is digging typically a part of bomb-related processes around here?
A: Are you trying to fuck with me? You already yelled at me until I told you why I got kicked out of school. If you don't watch it, I'm gonna have to break out a whole shipment of whoop-ass on your ass.

Q: You seem to be fond of the word "ass." Is this indicative of that perhaps football fans exist in a state of arrested development, fundamentally drifting along in their anal phase?
A: I don't even know what you just said, but I like chicks.

Q: That's okay. So, who're you rooting for, the New Hampshire Bellboys or South Florida Geriatrics?
A: Those aren't the teams, dude. What are you, living in a cave or something? 'Cause there's bears there. I bet I could wrestle a bear.

Q: Can we get back to the previous question?
A: Oh yeah. It's the New England Patriots and New York Giants this time. And I'm not rooting for either of those teams. Their fans are dicks, man. I'm a Carolina fan.

Q: That must be very sad for you, then. One last question - who do you think is going to catch the Snitch?
A: What the fuck are you talking about!?

At this point, Mr. Burtwick became violent and unruly. He had to be tasered repeatedly and animal control was called. Last I've heard, he was relocated to the African savanna where he now lives peacefully amongst a pod of hippos that gradually learned to accept him as one of their own.

The second interview took place in New York City, with a man who requested he remain anonymous and be referred to only as Mr. Nobody. But this was a stupid request, and it is only by that I was too lazy to write his name down that he continues to be anonymous here - if it were up to me, I'd be giving you his social security number about now. But fortune does not smile upon us all, I'm afraid. Damn you, Mr. Nobody!

Q: These New England Patriots - what makes them so patriotic? Fox News keeps telling me that this segment of the country is full of America-hating communists.
A: Why'd you ask me 'bout the Pats, huh? You know where you are now? Those schmucks wouldn't know the foot from the ball, I tell ya. They sure ain't patriotic like New Yawkers, we had 9/11 and everything. 9/11 was ours.

Q: So you're telling me that the Super Bowl isn't so much about artery-hardening, blood-thickening consumption habits as it is 9/11?
A: Were you even listening? It's about America, it's about freedom, it's about my freedom to walk away from these stupid fuckin' questions of yours any time I choose.

Q: But then how will the internet learn about the Super Bowl? C'mon buddy, this is about education. Future generations need to know about their ancestors fighting amongst themselves over ball games.
A: Did you just call football a ball game? Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe you did. And that, my friend, is your first mistake.

Q: But the word ball is right in the name... it only follows that-
A: No, no, football is a metaphor. John Madden was yammering about it last week. I forget his point, but there's more to it than just throwing a ball around.

Q: Why do they call it football anyway? I mean, I don't know anything about sports and even I know that the "football" the rest of the world plays makes a lot more sense.
A: They run, don't they?

Q: This is true.
A: Then they use their fuckin' feet! Use your brain, dumbshit!

Following this interview, I was beaten severely by goombahs who just happened to conveniently be in the area. I nearly died, and years later, here I am finally relating this story to you. I'm not sure if it's more depressing or relieving, finally getting this off my chest.

Lastly, I traveled back in time to 1934 to learn about the early Super Bowl. I didn't care anymore by then, so I just shouted at a random stranger. Everything was black and white. It was pretty weird.

Q: Hey buddy, how 'bout these Super Bowls, eh?
A: Super Bowls? I'm afraid I can't help you there. We've got a Dust Bowl out there though. You can go see that if ya want. Presuming you're not being crippled by the depression like the rest of us.

Q: Nope. I've got magic powers. I'm talkin' 'bout the Super Bowls. C'mon, you must know something.
A: I don't know what you're getting at. Say, that's a pretty fancy toboggan you've got there.

Q: It's a time machine. I'm from the future and I used it to travel back in time.
A: You sure you're feelin' alright?

Q: I'M PERFECTLY FINE. YOU'RE THE ONE IN A BACKWARDS TIME PERIOD. YOU DON'T EVEN LET BLACK PEOPLE VOTE YET. That's it. I'm outta here!
A: What a weirdo.

And that, my friends, is how "weirdo" was introduced into the American vernacular decades before it was originally conceived.

Wait - what was I supposed to be doing again? The Super Bowl? No. No. Who cares? I'm done.