Look, I love football. Can’t help it—love watching those spandexed male bodies flying through the air, especially when it comes to the thighs and bottoms. Watching football is like watching live battles from the Iliad, only (for the most part) without the blood—Achilles, Patroclus, Hector and all the rest strain, in my silly imagination, trying to stretch their bodies, in a ferocious battle, all the way to a glorious death. Of course, in the case of the Super Bowl, the prize isn’t the beautiful Helen, but a locker room full of popped champagne and a parade back in the home town.
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