We’re in mid-November now. The heart of the football season. It’s gut-check time. Literally. You can’t go into the upcoming football stretch with a subpar beer gut. You need to be properly conditioned. You need to train. Is your beer gut primed for a playoff run? Mine is. Let’s have a look, fully extended:
Note the slight overhang over the waistband. I’ll be honest: real pros should be covering up the belt buckle entirely. And, if you’ve reached the Parcells/Weis FUPA Threshold, no doubt you have graduated to tucking your lower gut flap into your pants, thus establishing the belly button as your official “wardrobe equator”. This blubbery curtain of exuding endoplasm helps warm the genitals and shield them from things like hands and women. A gut like that will leave you well-equipped to spend the playoffs spooning yourself powdered Nesquik straight out of the can and eating boatloads of raw sausage. One day, I will get there.
Also notice the sparse belly hair. Some people rock the Happy Trail, that thin trail of hair that takes you from the belly button straight down to the pubic bush. A friend of mine hooked up with a Filipino chick who totally had that. I, on the other hand, rock the Happy Patch. It’s wild and free and not ashamed to let you know it!
Now, behold the stretch marks. Stretch marks tell people that you have eaten at a rate that has outpaced your body’s natural ability to expand. Twenty of these puppies get you honorary Fire Belly status. They say stretch marks are for pregnant women. But do pregnant women have to suffer through what Raider, Cardinal or Lion fans have to? I think not!
As your eyes make a turn towards the back pussy, you’ll also note of the love handle slightly spilling over the waistband and pushing outward, as if gasping for air. If you have large enough love handles, you can press your back against the wall of your shower and create a flabby suction cup with ten times more sucking power than a black hole. This complements the beer gut nicely.
But let’s say you are not genetically advantaged with a gut of my caliber, or that of some other flabby shit like Eric Mangini. How can you train your gut for the upcoming gluttony of both the holidays and playoff football? I offer you some pointers.
You gonna want to load up on those carbs. Beer. Chips. Raw flour. Anything you can get your hands on. I suggest this sandwich I invented:
I call it the breadwich. Take two slices of bread. Now place another slice of bread in the middle. Now eat. Delicious! And loaded with the kind of refined white flour that would make that dead pussy Dr. Atkins all huffy. This sandwich can also be served open-faced. For an exotic twist, use pita bread. Or use tortillas as mock cold cuts. And let’s add this Simpsons quote while we’re here:
Be creative. Instead of making sandwiches with bread, use Pop Tarts. Instead of chewing gum, chew bacon.
Beer, of course, is the most important element of all. Be sure to eschew all other forms of liquid, and to have a beer with you during all NFL broadcasts. Once December hits and the Thursday/Saturday schedule begins, you’re talking about 24 available viewing (with no TiVoing) hours of NFL football per week. If you drink, let’s say… 4 beers every hour, you’ll have had 96 beers. And that’s if you’re a pussy.
Now, consult this handy beer calorie chart. The highest calorie beer there is Sierra Nevada Stout, at 210 calories a pop. (The lowest? Pabst Extra Light Low Alcohol. Did you know there was a form of Pabst other than PBR? Anyway, if you drink Pabst Extra Light Low Alcohol, you also probably smoke Virginia Slims and are a lesbian on the professional women’s truck racing D circuit.) Drinking 96 Sierra Stouts yields 20160 calories. If you aren’t dead, you’re on your way to success!!!!
(NOTE: If you are poor, and therefore an Oakland fan, I recommend Busch Ice in lieu of the Sierra Nevada.)
I also suggest cramming your schedule filled with non-strenuous activities such as sitting, slow breathing, sign reading, chocolate milk mixing, showering while sitting down, softly rolling yourself down a hill, non-vigorous masturbation, convincing people Vin Diesel is gay, watching other people walk, thinking about heavy anchors, wetting yourself, writing the script for an Adam Sandler film, mainlining a liquefied ribeye, watching a friend play World of Warcraft, penning a Rick Reilly column, looking at the rug, eating while lying down, milking yourself, traveling by rickshaw, blogging, texting RELAX to 44123, fact-checking for Ann Coulter, covering your body with mashed potatoes, using speakerphone (even with your parents), or thinking like Mark Schlereth. Any of those will do.
Finally, everything that grows needs love and support. People talk to their plants. Even read to them. Sure, they’re all batshit insane. But this is playoff time! You must be open to the unorthodox! Consider saying this:
This is my belly. There are many like it but this one is mine. My belly is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life. Without me, my belly is useless. Without my belly I am useless. I must feed my belly true. I must drink faster than Pat Summerall. I must eat everything before Romeo Crennel does first. I will. Before God I swear this creed: my belly and myself are defenders of my gluttony, we are the masters of my jarred nacho cheese spread horde, we are the saviors of my life. So be it, until there is no football left, but peace and a possible heart attack. Amen.
You have your marching orders. Now, get drinking!