Unholy Sundays

I’m part of a silent minority, but I’m breaking that silence right now: I hate football. And not because I’m a woman, but because the whole thing is just a pointless display of brute force that results in brain damage. The ball goes this way, the ball goes that way—who gives a shit? I don’t, but I know a lot of people do. And those people like to talk about it. Endlessly, tirelessly, obsessively talk about it—and way too frequently in my airspace. Whether it’s around my desk or at a bar, I can’t friggin’ escape the football talk, especially now with the Stupid Bowl upon us. You’d think having grown up in football-obsessed Texas, I’d have built up a tolerance. Nope. I’ve been sick of it for as long as I can remember. What’s more, football takes up precious TV, radio and social media airwaves. Kim Kardashian’s ass didn’t break the Internet. Football did. Here’s how much I detest this game: On Sundays during the season, my neighborhood grocery store gives customers a 10 percent discount if they wear a football jersey. It’s a great promotion. Me? I’d rather pay the full freight than encourage this ridiculous national obsession.