I wish I weren’t a Minnesota Vikings fan. Couldn’t I have picked up a better obsession, like transvestism or a heroin addiction? Isn’t there a saner, healthier way to spend my Sunday afternoons than watch this sad, pathetic excuse for a football team stumble and bumble its way to a loss in a game a talented high school football team could have won? Wouldn’t I be a lot happier if I were a Colts fan?
I’m serious: there is at least a 50% chance the Minnesota Vikings will kill me. I don’t know when or how, but I’m assuming my dying thought will be something along the lines of “why did Mike f*****g Tice just call a fake punt in an obvious fake punt situation when he has Culpepper and Moss on his team?” This team has ruined me, turned me into a wreck, reduced me to 150 lbs of tattered, destroyed humanity, given me a loser’s complex the size of a small African nation and made me question the existence of God, Satan and other miscellaneous forces at least fifteen times in the past week. And yet I keep on coming back for more. Jamie and I talked at length yesterday about reupping on our season tickets–even though the four of us who went in on them used a grand total of three tickets this year (three out of forty, in case you’re wondering). I’m going to Detroit next weekend to see them in the flesh. I’ve asked for a replica Vikings helmet for Christmas. I’m like an alcoholic: I know it’s not good for me, I know my life will be better if I just quit, and yet I can’t stop. I just can’t. Heppler mentioned last night how much happier and stress-free his life would be if it weren’t for the Vikings; rereading what I’ve just written, I’m inclined to agree with that assessment.