My Misanthropy Weekend

In the throes of a numb depression, I went to Notre Dame with my Dad to see the Irish play Boston College. I was in such a bad mood, I couldn't really stop thinking about irritated I was by the Boston College family in front of us - two parents, mid-40s in brown and black leather jackets, two adorable kids with their faggy little Boston College face paint. The mother was very talkative, and seemed to know a lot about the BC team, but she was the sort (and trust me, she fucking talked loud enough for me to understand her whole fuckin philosophy) who can name all the players but couldn't explain a cover 2 to save her life. You know, like the female Cardinals fans who love David Eckstein but have no fucking clue who played SS before him?

So anyway, the game goes on and Notre Dame doesn't threaten until Jimmy Clausen is replaced by Evan Sharpley, a personnel move that was at least three weeks too late. Clausen, by the way, has a face proportional to a 7 year old. There's a lot of acreage surrounding that puss. It's like you inflate a balloon a little, draw little eyes and a nose on it, then blow it up bigger. And put douchey spiked hair on top of it.

At any rate, these people are enjoying the game, and the middle aged guy next to them strikes up a conversation and quickly reveals that he played four years for BC and played one year for the Patriots in the mid-70s. I don't know, I would have felt the same if he said he was a date rapist and a Red Sox fan. I kept getting these dark thoughts, like saying, "Flutie was a pussy," and "I wish the Dolphins really had stomped on his son." I was in a really dark frame of mind.

Meantime, these ND fans behind us, drunk, mid-20s, think they're hilarious, and that their references are even funnier when they're repeated every few minutes, with sundry curse words tossed in for good measure. It was irritating. But I was on their side, sort of like how I sort of rooted for the Cowboys against the Pats on Sunday (turned out fine, by the way), because every time they cursed, the husband or wife of the BC couple looked back, frowned like they were about to say something, then shook their heads and faced the field. I imagine the wife further emasculated her husband on the plane back to wherever the fuck for his not speaking up, the way he doesn't every time they're confronted with some unpleasantness. And for the father's very public impotence, his very inability to perform his fatherly duty, the younger son will develop a bed-wetting problem that will plague him well into his teens.

At any rate, once the game got out of hand and we were on our way out, I felt like telling them that I hope all the cursing tears their fucking family apart. And I hope the BC team pulls a Marshall.