The Standard Party
Chips and dip. Plenty of beer, fried finger food and good friends. Head on over to whoever’s place has the biggest TV, claim your spot on the couch, and settle in for an evening full of football, commercials and cholesterol. You and your friends rage on throughout the night, playing lots of Black Crowes songs, taking touchdown shots, making prop bets and explaining the rules of the game to girlfriends in attendance. The girlfriends will probably love the halftime show, while all the guys will say how bad it sucked, but seriously…how hot did Beyonce look? There will likely be a lengthy, heated conversation about why the Monday after the Super Bowl isn’t a national holiday, and a temporary drunken rebellion forms in the living room as everyone begins contemplating a Sunday blackout and the resulting consequences on Monday. The game ends and the trophy presentation brings an all too familiar sense of dread on Sunday night with the impending doom of yet another work week. A few of you might stay after in an attempt to keep the party going, but in reality, it’s just you trying to delay the inevitable.
The Fan Party
This party can turn out one of two ways. Your buddy grew up a fan of one of the teams playing, and he’s got a solid group of friends who are fans as well. They invited you over, and you brought along some beers and a seven-layer dip, as is tradition. You showed up an hour before kickoff, and they were already completely shitfaced in anticipation of laying claim to the world’s greatest championship. The game starts and you immediately find yourself trying to fit in by putting on an air of fake fandom and concern for their beloved team. Beer bottles are being thrown in every direction and every penalty is being violently contested by the near blackout partygoers. You can barely even see any of the action on the TV as every person is jumping up and down with every play, throwing chips, guacamole and chicken wings. You may fear for your life, and for your friend‘s apartment deposit as the game goes on. The drinking continues well into the second half, and you better hope that their team comes out on top, or you may be tasked with consoling a group of sobbing, grief-stricken man-children, or even worse, dealing with an angry mob of inebriated sports fans after the worst loss of their lives. It’s best to plan a quick exit strategy, or find a place to hide out until all the crying and property destruction is over. But if their team wins, get ready to rage.
The Girls Party
You were reluctant at first, but you and your friends haven’t hung out with girls outside of a bar in months, and you’re really trying to close on one of the party’s hostesses. Oh fuck, another shitty TV, but at least it’s HD, albeit 27-inches of HD. Your body is stricken with horror as you view the game day spread. Veggie trays, gluten-free pita pizzas with fat free cheese, soy burgers, something called vegan nachos, and one lone cheese tray. Ladies, it’s the Super Bowl, not the season finale of The Bachelorette. This is the one day of year where no one will judge you for the kind of food you eat or serve. Grill up that meat, deep fry those potatoes and melt that cheese. After stuffing your body with health garbage, the game will start and the conversation will turn to which players on each team are hot. At least one girl will be wearing a bedazzled pink jersey of a player that isn’t even playing in the game. Your mind is flooded with possible insults to heave her way, but you’re an adult now and you hold off. The girls underestimated how much beer they would need, so you and your friends offer to go on a run at halftime. But really, you’re just going to hit the McDonald’s drive thru to stuff your face with grease. Be sure to help clean up, as girls love that kind of stuff. Really shows off your domesticated, well-rounded side.
The Shitty Party
You have been ignoring this guy for weeks. He’s asked you to come to his Super Bowl party ever since championship weekend. Your friends are being lazy pieces of shit and not planning anything on Sunday, so you really have no choice but to go to this guy’s house or watch the game by yourself at your place, which would be depressing. So you head over to his house and are immediately greeted by his hipster-ass friends. One guy is ironically wearing a Tim Couch Browns jersey and skinny jeans. Fuck that guy. You come to the horrifying realization that this guy’s TV is a 32-inch standard definition Hitachi from 1997. This is your nightmare. You should have stayed home and just eaten an entire Pizza Hut dinner box by yourself. Fuck. What kind of 20-something owns a tube television? You and this guy have the exact same job and you know he can afford a better TV. What kind of weird shit is he spending his money on besides electronics? Your immediate reaction is to blame your friends for not planning anything, but slowly you remember that this is your life and this was your decision. It’s not a surprise that this guy is so shitty. You knew that coming in. Live with your guilt and mentally apologize to your friends. Maybe they would have planned something for today if it weren’t for you ordering that last round of Vegas bombs at last call on Saturday. Might be time for a look in the mirror.
You’ve waited your entire life for this moment. Your team has made it to the Super Bowl. You’ve buried away all the heartbreak they put you through in the 90s and 2000s. This is your year. You’re finally going to witness your boys compete for the Lombardi Trophy. You hit the streets of your hometown, decked out in team garb, as everyone packs into bars in anticipation of glory or soul-crushing defeat. The crowd groans and cheers with each play, desperate for the result to favor the hometown squad. The bar is like the gallery at a medieval traitor’s execution, bloodthirsty and ready to riot at a moment’s notice. After bad calls, tables are turned over and bouncers try to do everything they can to quell the surging bipolar mob, but it is no use. The fans are at a fever pitch. Beer goes flying into the air with every touchdown, interception, and fumble until the final gun, when it’s full blown chaos and you’re the champions. Beers and shots are on the house as everyone hugs and cries. It‘s beautiful. PTO days are burned up as emails are quickly sent out from phones…or silence descends upon the bar at the final gun. Beers and shots are pounded down to drown out the oncoming crippling depression. It’s probably best to just ask for Monday off in advance.