Preparing For Football Season: Saying Farewell

For the next five months, THIS is your life.

It's only a few days away, you know. Real, meaningful football. We've managed to ride out the interminable seven month drought that has led up to this coming Sunday. True, football season actually begins on Wednesday when the New York Giants take on some no-account team from...I want to say Tulsa, for some reason, so we'll go with that. The New York Giants face the Tulsa Something-or-Others, but nobody cares about that game. Sunday, our beloved Houston Texans take the field for the first time.

Unfortunately, seven months is a long time to wait. Some of us whiled away the time by staring at the clock and howling like a coyote at the moon, "Is it football yet?" Most others have found things to do to break up the monotony of waiting, such as yardwork, checkers, writing crappy novels, or extreme finger-painting, and many of these involve spending time with friends and family.

With the Texans game fast approaching, you, dear, gentle reader, must choose between watching football on Sundays or having a rich, fulfilling social life with your friends and loved ones.

After the jump, we'll show you how to tell your friends and family you won't be seeing them again, in any useful capacity, until February.

Generally speaking, this is not the kind of thing you want to say in person because inevitably your addressee will be standing or sitting next to things that are easily breakable, very painful-looking, or both; and those things will all be hurled at you. Trust me, this is safer.

Personally, I would prefer to write a lovely e-mail (or letter, if you're lucky enough to remember how they're written) personalized for each individual I won't see for the next five months of Sundays. But I'm lazy, so I stick to using a form letter instead.

Dear (Spouse/Significant Other/Favorite House pet),

Do you remember when we went to (vacation spot/place of personal significance/Olive Garden)? Those were some fun times, weren't they? I will remember that thing we did at that place until the day I die.

But there are changes coming over the next several months that I thought you should be aware of. Major changes, changes that could affect (the children/the pets/the near-dead ficus in the corner).

We'll start with the basics:

1. Every Sunday, from (1 p.m. EDT/12 p.m. CDT/11 a.m. MDT/10 a.m. PDT) to roughly (11 p.m. EDT/10 p.m. CDT/9 p.m. MDT/8 p.m. PDT), I will have no value to anyone other than watching the Texans, drinking (soda/beer/hog piss whatever the hell Coors Light is) and converting oxygen to carbon dioxide. Do not ask me to (take out the garbage/walk the housepets/water the plant/put on pants). These tasks will not be done, and I will not understand why you're upset with me when they haven't been done.

2. If you see lichen, mildew, or small woodland creatures making a nest on me, please remove them, or at least keep them out of my eyes and mouth, as they will deprive me of football and (previously mentioned drinking choices...and Coors Light).

3. During non-football days, I promise to at least attempt to be a functional human being capable of things like playing Scrabble, keeping (the kids/pets/houseplant) from playing in traffic too much, and feeding myself without too much difficulty; you know, things that will only require about 25% brainpower. The other 75% will be dedicated to breaking down last week's Texans game, thinking about next week's match-up with (inferior non-Texans team), and deciding which jersey I'll wear while watching next week's Texans game.

4. Any semblance of emotional or psychological stability you've witnessed in the last few months will all be gone by halftime this Sunday. If, at any point, you see or hear me screaming in a fit of rage one second, then smiling calmly the next, do not call the Sam Kinison Home for the Clinically Insane; I am perfectly sane. If the Texans lose (Durga forbid), do not try to console me; it will only make me think of why I need consoling and make me feel even worse. I will require a minimum of three hours before I can be calm enough for rational thought. If they lose in a particularly horrible manner, like the Q-Tip, you and the (kids/pets/ficus) should probably go stay at a motel for the week, as my head could very possibly explode and you shouldn't have to be bothered with that kind of mess (editor's note: it helps when you make it sound like you're thinking of them).

5. If you decide to sit and watch the game with me, please do not ask me to explain things like why I call J.J. Watt the "Honey Badger," why the Tennessee Titans are the worst thing to happen to humanity since soy bacon, the difference between a 4-3 and a 3-4 defense, or anything non-Texans related. You should know the first three by now, and I don't know the answer to the fourth, nor do I intend to look up the answer during the game.

In conclusion, (name of spouse/significant other/housepet/ficus), I won't be gone, but I won't exactly be here, either. I will be a husk of my former self surrounding a core draped in battle red, deep steel blue, and liberty white. Do not fear, you'll see me again in February after the Texans win the Super Bowl, and we'll be able to pick up our lives where we left off.

Farewell, and I will try to squeeze in thoughts of you between thinking up jokes about Blaine Gabbert.

(Love/Sincerely/Stay Out Of The Garbage!),

(Your Name)

P.S.: We do have (soda/beer/hog piss whatever the hell Coors Light is) in the fridge, right?

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