This will be the sixth year--does that equate to a tradition--that a flock of old biddies come to roost at the Pierce abode on Super Bowl Sunday. Thats because I am the only hen pecked husband that allows his woman to dictate no football.
Supposedly, they come scratching around here to see Julie's Christmas decorations. As I couldn't help carry the decorations, due to my back injury, only a fraction of the decorations are up. Will anyone notice? Not really. There are still two Christmas trees, bowers and bowers of poinsettias, and Santa's everywhere.
Food? Sure, lots of food. All those old hens cook up a storm. Cackle, cackle! Lots of goodies! What does that mean to me? Nadda! Do they eat everything? No! Do they leave anything? No! If they can't eat it they take it home. What'sa guy to do?
This is the S U P E R B O W L people!
Should I take a stand? No, because I can hear the answer before it is given: "Put a sock in it Walt!" Or maybe "Hit the road Jack, and don't come back, come back, come back!" How humiliating!
"Wives, sumit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord"
Where did I go wrong?