The Super Bowl is an interesting time in this country. I feel that no matter which city you find yourself in, most everyone is following the same behavior: dirty food, good friends and beer. Amen. Each year we spend the Super Bowl with our fattest friend. He’s not actually fat, but the way he can scarf down a pound of bacon would make you wonder why the hell not. So, I took the dog outside for a walk a few minutes before going over to Fatty’s house. On the street were fellow dog walkers, cabs, pizza delivery cars and young men bundled up with a six-pack in tow. That was true from our door to Fatty’s door. Pizza, cabs, six-packs.
Blah, blah, blah. The Super Bowl happened. Athletes excelled, Beyonce shook it, power outage, triumphant victory/dismal loss. I don’t really care about the sport part. It’s not that I can’t follow it, I just don’t care. Even if either team had been from my city, it wouldn’t matter.
The game ended and we hopped back in the car. Let me pause for a moment to let you know that it snowed most of the day in Chicago yesterday. And the temp maxed out at 15 degrees Fahrenheit, give or take.
So, we’re driving home and pull up to a four-way-stop. In the middle of the intersection was a pair of jeans, complete with black leather belt. These pants had been freshly deposited in the intersection given the lack of snow atop them. So that means that in the recent past, something happened to the owner of said pants, causing them to be lost, in below-freezing weather, with the belt.
I can’t even imagine what must have happened.
But since it was the Super Bowl, I chalk it up to a good old American time.