How to watch the Super Bowl like a middle-aged man with high cholesterol

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Whatever you do, don’t bet on the Puppy Bowl. You already have enough money tied up in bets and squares, and betting on puppies is a new degenerate low. Even for you.

When your wife suggests a menu for watching the game —The Super Bowl, not the Puppy Bowl, although she’ll actually watch the latter—act tormented at the thought of consuming spicy Buffalo wings and loaded beef nachos and juicy cheeseburger sliders. Show the kind of excruciation usually reserved for Russian novels.

Remember your last physical exam, your LDL cholesterol taking off like an Aaron Judge moon-shot. Remember your shame after stepping on the scale. Remember your solemn vow to turn it around so you can actually take off your shirt next summer.

Resist your wife’s menu. Save the calories for the beer. 

Don’t second-guess your bet: Kansas City straight up on the moneyline. Don’t second-guess the points you left to avoid paying the juice. 

Stay away from the Puppy Bowl. 

If you’ve learned anything in 47 years, it’s to trust your ever-expanding gut. I mean, look how well it’s worked this far…

You’re a goddamn fool. 

You should’ve bet Philly. Now you’re left with your bullshit bet, a bunch of 2’s and 5’s in the half dozen Super Bowl squares you’ll never win, a bowl of popcorn and your fat ass parked on the couch waiting for the Puppy Bowl.

make his television debut in Puppy Bowl XIX on Sunday.
Joey will make his television debut in Puppy Bowl XIX on Sunday.

Screw it. Bet the Puppy Bowl, make back everything you stand to lose and then some. Team Ruff is stacked, especially with that two-legged dog named Joey you read about the other day. 

And bring on those cheeseburger sliders and dip them in ranch dressing, wash them down with some cold Bud Lights then move on to the loaded nachos. Tell your LDL to go to hell, and who cares if you’re carrying a little extra weight? You’re 47 years old, and no one looks at you lustily anymore. 

When your wife asks you who is playing the half-time show, tell her it is Motorhead with Lemmy raised from the grave. Flash her the double-devil horns and yell, “Rock and roll!” 

Ask your pug named Buster, begging at your feet, who he likes in the Puppy Bowl while slipping him the rest of your cheeseburger slider. 

Drink beer. Eat fat. Bet big. 

Go Team Ruff.


About this Author

Nathan Graziano

Nathan Graziano lives in Manchester with his wife and kids. He's the author of nine collections of fiction and poetry. His most recent book, Fly Like The Seagull was published by Luchador Press in 2020. He's a high school teacher and freelance writer, and in his free time, he writes bios about himself in the third person. For more information, visit his website: