I’d like to thank you and your lovely wife for having me over for your Super Bowl party. I’d also like to say you’re welcome, because let’s not forget I brought a six-pack of craft beer and threw in a few bucks for the party platter of wings your wife ordered.

I understand people weren’t happy with some of the events that took place at the party. I’d like to apologize for a few missteps.

I’m sorry I told everyone to shut up and kept turning up the volume on the TV to hear what the pre-game announcers were saying. I know I’m the big sports guy of the group, but I assumed other people at a SUPER BOWL PARTY might be interested in THE SUPER BOWL. Stupid assumption, that's on me.

I’m sorry I threw a fit and ripped up my Super Bowl squares when I found out my numbers were 2 and 8. I will control my emotions better next time I’m dealt the most statistically bullshit numbers imaginable.

I’m sorry I said I had the “most statistically bullshit numbers imaginable” in front of the children. I should not have sworn in front of them. If I’d known there would be children there, I honestly would not have come.

I’m sorry I was rude and called your wife a “useless pink hat” when she said she only watches the game for the commercials. She should be free to make trite, cliched statements in her own home.

I’m sorry I insisted everyone call me by my old college nickname, Beerboy, and started smoking a cigar in your living room on your brand new couch.

I’m sorry I tackled a child while reenacting a sick play in the second quarter, but that’s why children shouldn’t go to Super Bowl parties. They can’t take a hit.

I’m sorry I drank all my craft brewskis in the first half, then rummaged through your liquor cabinet and started drinking straight from the expensive bottle of rum you brought home from your honeymoon in Barbados. I should have stopped around three or four brewskis, but Beerboy has no limits.

I’m sorry I climbed a utility pole outside during halftime to hang a handmade flag with my team’s logo. I’m sure the rest of the neighborhood was very disappointed to be without electricity for the remainder of the game. Thank God you guys were able to get the generator going before the second half started! I would have helped, but I was still recovering from the big zap.

I’m sorry that when my team started to rally and scored a touchdown in the third quarter, I spiked that decorative bowl you had displayed in the living room. I did not realize that was a plaster cast of your wife’s stomach from when she was nine months pregnant with your firstborn. I was unaware that was something seemingly normal people did.

I’m sorry that when my team started to get their asses handed to them in the fourth quarter, I told everyone I didn’t care about the stupid game and tried to turn the TV off. Your friend Dave from high school called me an asshole, and I’m humble enough to acknowledge, in that moment, he was right. (By the way, did Pope Dave apologize for swearing in front of the kids?)

I shouldn’t have tried to set anything on fire.

I’m sorry I cut my hand and dripped blood on your throw pillows when the bottle of rum shattered. I was pretty plastered at that point. Almost as plastered as your wife’s pregnant stomach, right? Lol you guys are so weird.

I’m sorry I tried to use the cut on my hand to become blood brothers with you. That was unsanitary and inappropriate and the multitude of other words you yelled at me.

I’m sorry I kicked a hole through your front door in a blind rage at the end of the game when my team lost. I think we all learned an important lesson that night: never get a “Super Bowl Champs” tattoo until your team is actually Super Bowl champs.

I’m sorry I called your mother-in-law an “absolute whore” after she won the final score payout with her Super Bowl squares. Everyone knows Fran is a wonderful woman and in no way a lady of the night.

In conclusion, I hope you, your family, and all the other guests, including the ones who don’t even watch football (??), can forgive me for my actions. I promise to reflect on this mishap and try to better myself for next year.

Please tell Fran I said thank you for driving me home.

Love,
Beerboy

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