Unless the Sam Kinison-Jessica Hahn video treat called Wild Thing has warped your brain beyond an intellectual nightmare, you're probably ready to indulge in a different type of pleasure principle.
Pleasure of the pigskin.
That's right, ladies and gentlemen. After (shudder) two weeks without football - which, for you addicts, is a different sort of nightmare - yet another of the decade's "Battle of the Century" takes place. Super Bowl XXIII, January 22, on a television near you.
Sunday, people who are considered "sane" the rest of the year will be transformed into football-frenzied couch potatoes. Fans near and far will paint their faces black and orange, dress up like gold miners, and invent creative ways to cheer for their favorite team. (Or is it against the other team? Is this like a presidential election, or what?)
High school and college students across the nation will follow the action while mulling over math questions, book reports, biology assignments and other extracurricular activities - like, for example, breathing.
The following is much more than simply the Gabaman shooting off his mouth, It is, perhaps, the most important literary achievement you will ever lay your hands on.
Welcome, my friends, to GABA'S GUIDE TO THE SUPER BOWL.
To understand this incredible event, you must first learn vital information about the participants. After all, this isn't Nintendo - it's the real thing. Trust me.
The NFC is represented by San Francisco's "Ain't nothing finer than to be a Forty-Niner" football team. Joe Montana, the quarterback, has sung backup vocals (along with some of his teammates) on a few songs by pop musician Huey Lewis. He is the only quarterback who has a state named after him. I understand Jim McMahon is considering changing his name to "Jim Nebraska."
Jerry Rice-a-Roni (hey, who am I - ESPN's Chris Berman?) is the 49ers' dangerous wide receiver. How dangerous? If touchdown receptions were nuclear missiles, the Soviet Union would be in trouble.
San Francisco has a running back named Roger Craig. In the off-season, he's the manager of the other San Francisco team, the Giants. Take that, Bo Jackson!
On defense, the 49ers are led by Ronnie Lott. Many Bears got to meet Lott a lot last weekend. In fact, most opponents meet Lott a lot. I think he should change his name ... to Lance.
San Francisco will be facing the AFC champions - Cincinnati's "Who dey - who dey - who dey think's gonna beat them Bengals?" Who dey think? For starters, San Francisco beat them - in the Pontiac Silverdome, the "Showdown in Motown" - seven years ago.
Cincinnati is led by a group of guys named Boomer, Krumrie and Ickey. All teams should have players with such unique and interesting names. Think about it - "Boomer Long." "Krumrie James." "Ickey Fontes."
Maybe not.
Boomer Esiason, leader of the "Jungle Brigade," likes handing off to Ickey "Dance Master" Woods almost as often as he likes to heave the football in the air. Which he likes to do quite a bit.
Krumrie - as in All-Pro nose tackle Tim Krumrie - spends more time in the opponents' backfield than the opponent. It's like watching The Twilight Zone all over again. Can you hear Rod Serling in the press box? "A place between here and there, where no running back can escape a tackle ... welcome to The Krumrie Zone."
Ickey likes to run the ball. See Ickey run. Run, Ickey, run. See Ickey score. See Ickey do his dance. It's called "The Ickey Shuffle." Dance, Ickey, dance. Dance in the end zone, for all of us to see.
Hey, you gotta have soul.
So much for the participants. Now, then - what are you going to do Sunday? Fear not - this guide covers all the angles.
Eats: When you shop for Super Bowl chowables this weekend, don't look for a 20-ounce porterhouse. A turkey won't do the job, either - after all, this isn't Thanksgiving, and William (Refrigerator) Perry isn't watching the game at your house, now, is he?
You want something a little more ... well ... footbalish.
Go to the store and get real football food. Potato chips. Cheese puffs. Pretzel sticks. Nachos.
Don't forget the French onion dip, either.
Drinks: Now that we've put the eats in our grocery cart, it's time for something to help ease the starches down the throat. Trust me on this one - nothing, I mean nothing, beats a case of the finest (root) beet for a man-sized thirst. (I hope that wasn't taken as a sexist comment - "person-sized thirst" just doesn't sound right.)
Now we're rockin'!
Enjoy: The pre-game show begins at 3 p.m. Sunday, while the main event starts two hours later. So, when 2 p.m. rolls around, it's showtime!
(Yes, I know you have an hour. But you never know. Some fanatical Arabic country might try to gun down a couple of our fighters. True, it's a stupid concept. But the whole country might be at war by the kick-off.)
The television is on. It's always a good idea to check out the set before the game. How's the vertical hold? The color bars? The station? That's right - are you tuned to the right station? Remember, HBO airs First and 10, not the Super Bowl. This is NBC's baby.
The comfy chair is ready. Every football fan should has his or her chair, and the comfy chair is the choice nine out of 10 doctors recommend. (Sorry, wrong commercial.)
The comfy chair can be your best friend. Always there for you. Of course, the comfy chair doesn't have to be a chair/ It can be a bed, a sofa, a jacuzzi - whatever.
The munchies should be within easy reach of the comfy chair.
The VCR. Wake up! This is America - Land of the Free, Home of the Instant Replay. Slide a blank tape in the machine and tape the game. Then you can watch it at your leisure, or at family gatherings - like when cousin Seymour and his son Myron come over. Go ahead - rub the loss in their faces. They're family. They can handle it.
I hope this guide has filled you in on some of the finer points of Super Bowl watching. And remember what Spuds McGaba always says - "Know when to say that's enough!"
As in, turning off the game is your team is being blown away in the second quarter.
Oops, I forgot. Denver's not playing this year. So much for the Charlie Brown Syndrome.
Oh, one more thing. San Francisco 24, Cincinnati 13. Trust me.
This article originally appeared in The Marshall Chronicle.
