Overtime

Obviously, I should have stayed home doing chores, for no sooner did I put the vacuum cleaner away and head to a bar for the second half of today’s Steelers’ game than the Buffalo fucking Bills ran off 13 unanswered points to tie the score and then, after the teams traded field goals, send the way more exciting than it needed to be contest into overtime where the Black n’ Gold would have lost were it not for a dropped pass in the endzone by one of the opposing team’s wide receivers.

Clearly, it was one of those “pride goeth before the fall” lessons; I was set to celebrate a blowout victory, but instead had to sweat out a nailbiter against a team that Pittsburgh ought to have handled with ease. What this meant in practice was that instead of just a couple of Guinesses, I had to drink three, and as a consequence thereof, I’m sitting here on the couch playing kitten on the keys when I probably ought to be grading papers or at least prepping for the week ahead.

I wonder what the historical analogue is to my experience today; maybe if I were in ancient Rome, I would have left my home vomitorium to catch the end of the tilt between the Christians and the Lions; surprisingly, the former would have mounted a desperate comeback against their meat-eating opponents and I would have been forced to consume an additional few goblets of wine before the kings of the beasts finally prevailed.

Or, if we were to travel back in time even further, maybe I’d have left the kin group’s cave to join my fellow hunter-gatherers at the local watering hole for the wrestling competition between Og and Gog; fortunately, for fans of the favored former, his mighty bearded adversary trips over a mastodon bone and hands the contest to his adversary.

I pound one last ceramic bowl of mead and cheer like mad.