This should be taught as a post-college requisite course for life. It should be part of pre-marriage counseling for every church and authorizing marriage entity on the planet. It should be laid down in bronze and put in the capitol building. If you’re not married, and you’re thinking about getting married, read it. Read it now.
Oh, really? 12 hours a day for 16 weeks and then the playoffs? Is that rough? Is it? Try 82 damn games a year, with one on every night. And it’s not like football, where you know even if it’s bad, it’s pretty good. Basketball’s not like that. But you watch anyway, because what if this is it? What if this is the night that Darko Milicic actually does something resembling a basketball maneuver? What if this is the night Ron Artest comes out of the locker room covered in neon body paint, his eyebrows singed completely off and still smoking, reeking of peyote and starts doing a naked interpretive dance that culminates with him butt slapping White Chocolate so hard his eyes bug out of his head like Roger Rabbit? Yeah, yeah, I know. My fault for being an NBA Fan. But it’s a disease, okay? Football goes away. You have seven days in the middle of it to earn brownie points. Do you understand what happens when the one time of year that the Lakers aren’t on f*cking television is the same night as the Gray’s Anatomy season premiere/finale? Do you know how that conversation goes? Not bloody well, I’ll tell you that much.
You try to do dishes, and then you find out that Kobe’s on pace for 120, so you have to stop and go turn it on. Which means turning off Tori and Dean: Inn Love, which results in the pleading Bambi eyes, wondering why you don’t love her and won’t just take thirteen seconds out of your day to look at the latest collection of Eames chairs she’s found. You don’t know what an Eames chair is. You have one piece of furniture you’ve owned that you care about in your entire existence. That couch. But you have to turn the game off, even as you continue to receive text messages telling you how amazing this game is, that Tyrus Thomas is actually not playing like a bull loaded up on mescaline trying to have sex with Luol Deng.
You know what the playoffs is like for NFL fans? It’s six hours with a two hour break in the middle. You know what the playoffs are like for relationships in the NBA households? Armageddon. That’s what they’re like. Negotiations this year dragged on for two weeks, and resulted in me losing the swing Netflix slot, resulting in one reality TV series and one independent foreign film a week. I slang dog crap for three months, for God’s sake. And whenever I didn’t want to do something? Bambi eyes. And the, “You’ve watched TEN HOURS OF THIS STUPID GAME, WHY DO YOU NEED TO WATCH TEN MORE?!”
And how do you explain that? You don’t. You muscle up and record it and end up watching it at 4 AM, making notes while your dog pleads with you, “For the love of everything Holy, I can’t sleep until you do. Go to bed. Or I will piss on your pillow. Yes. I can jump that high.”
This is all to say that if the Paroxi-Wife told me that watching a single game of the NBA would result in her gathering up her inordinately large collection of decor magazines and taking off, well, sorry to say, but I don’t hate baseball that badly. Lucky for me I got the Paroxi-Wife, who’s supportive and understanding of this whole mess.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to finish plans for our trips to Ikea, Bed Bath and Beyond, and Linens and Things. And buy flowers. I no longer fear hell. For I have seen the off-season.
PS: RE: “+0 HOURS: Starting An NFL Blog Then Telling Your Lady You Have To Watch Football Because It’s “Your Job Now”.:Thanks, asswipe. You blew my last remaining cover. Die. And I mean that with the most affection possible.