Partying Hardly

I HOSTED my first Super Bowl party. It was quite by accident, and, lord willing and the creek stays low, I'll never host another. I've seen all or parts of all fifty four Super Bowls, and as the years go by, they seem to get better. fondly I recall when, eleven years old, my boy scout "master" told me that something new was going to happen, something called "The Super Bowl". I thought it was a funny name. My team has played in it twice, and won once, but they beat the new England Patriots, so that's sayin' something. During my college days, which extended forever, and through early adulthood I attended super bowl parties, always enjoyed them, and always pitied the poor people tasked with cleaning up afterwards. Now I know haw they must have felt. Nowadays, my ritual is to watch the kick off at a local bar, where there is an annual Super Bowl chili cook off. I sample a bowl randomly from among the d=zen or so crock pots, and I've never been disappointed. then, I go home, feed the cats, and listen to the rest of it on the radio, which I prefer to television. Everything was going fine this year, as planned, until halfway through the interminable half time show, four cars pulled up in my long drive way, then another four. Eventually the number totaled twelve, and they began parking in my front yard. I have many trees, and now, many tire ruts between them. It seems that they were lost, in between parties, and decided to graced the lonely old man with their presences. Among them was my girlfriend, who I had thought no longer was my girlfriend. they brought refreshments, and left not long after the game, perhaps influenced by a few judicious yawns deliberately tossed out as hints by me. they couldn't all leave my yard at the same time, but they tried to. This resulted in two fender benders, I defecate you not, right there in my drive way. One young dude, half inebriated with margaritas, backed into my beloved ornamental maple tree. The tree didn't give, his bumper did. the other was my ex's fault. her sharp looking Volvo took a ding when she backed out a bit too hurriedly, and into the front bumper of a sharp looking Prius just behind her. When they started shouting at each other, I went inside my house, locked all the doors, an, though tempted to join the cats under the bed, began the odious task of cleaning up. I'm glad I finished before going to bed, because cleaning up a twelve hour old Super Bowl party mess aint no fun, especially when one happens to be a bit hung over.