Superbowl Sunday

It's the truest of American religious holidays. It's the anti-Easter, the one Sunday when the fewest people show up in the Christian churches.

I, personally, will be worshipping at the 1080i of my choice, where we will all partake in the communal Bowl's Supper, down communion wafers till we puke, and slam ... well, I have to admit it's mostly going to be coffee and juice. It's my one complaint about Superbowl Sunday: I have to be sober enough to drive home. Puts rather a damper on what otherwise could be a lively fourth quarter.

Anyway, even the football atheists lurk around the edges, peering in through the window, as it were, if for no other reason than to try from time to time to make sense of the mysteries. There we rise and sit and even kneel with the rhythmic regularity of Catholics. There we push aside all worldly concerns with the rigor of a Calvinist. There we strive to become one with the game, interpreting the signs, arguing fruitlessly with the high priests. If only miracles had instant replay and reviews ordered from the booth in the last two minutes.

In the end, some are saved while others are damned, and truly there's no sense in the fate of either. And, truly, Monday comes around and we're all still here and life goes on.

Still smilin'