Well, we all know what to do when our team wins a championship:

We cheer, high five those in immediate vicinity, order more alcohol for the party, drink heavily and make high-pitched yodeling noises, and urinate around the perimeter of our home to mark our territory.

Then maybe we make a few calls to like-minded people and assure each other that we knew all year that we had the best team, but were too magnanimous and classy to openly gloat about such things. We recall our favorite plays of the championship game, and talk about how we felt the moment it all came together and our team clinched the top prize in its sport.

Some people - not myself - call fans of other teams and light-heartedly gloat, claiming to be just joking, but deep down knowing there's a profound satisfaction to having something to hold over other fans, if only until next season begins.

Then we clean up: Clean up after the party, launder that piece of rotten-animal-corpse-smelling clothing we didn't wash all year out of superstition, shave that atrocious "playoff hockey beard" that has been collecting remnants of every meal we've eaten for the past six months. Just kidding - who watches hockey???

And finally, perhaps the best part, we order the commemorative DVD, allowing us to relive highlights of our team's magical year in super slow motion high-definition with a dramatic baritone announcer touting our team's stalwart effort, magical chemistry and unwavering spirit.

But what about when your team loses? And worse, what about when they get really, really close to their ultimate goal, and then fail? What then? Well, you can drink heavily (yes, you do that when you win as well, but now it's much more subdued, and is accompanied by repeated variances of the phrase "we'll be better next year"). Or, like me, you can choose to try to create something positive out of something awful. For example, after the Celtics lost to the Lakers in the 2010 Finals, I dealt with the pain by blogging an entire comedic novel about trying to follow the seven-game series while on a family trip out West.

That was one thing, but...

...to all you fans out there, I must advise you, you can take this method of forced optimism too far.  

Heed my warning: If in response to your football team losing a second Superbowl in four years causes you to script and direct a short film with puppets beating the unholy hell out of each other, seek psychiatric assistance immediately - or at least until after you have completed your post-production work. Furthermore, if your theme revolves around the classic final scene of a 1982 boxing movie starring Sly Stallone, Carl Weathers, and Mr. T, I would suggest you shoot me an e-mail, because I probably already have a lot of the props and stuff you would need to get that done.

Labels: Aaron Rodgers, Eli Manning, Fighting, NFL, Peyton Manning, Puppets, Tom Brady

I sit up in bed.

“And then…they lose the game,” I say. Shannon rustles next to me. I lower my voice to a strong whisper. “It’s my dream, and they go and lose the game. What does that mean?”

“For one, it means you watch too many movies,” Stache says, looking around at everyone. “That death scene was a little over the top, wasn’t it?”

Tooth waves Stache off and contemplates. “It could be a subconscious fear of success,” he says. “Maybe somewhere deep inside yourself, you realize that winning will actually never satisfy you.”

This reminds me of an interview Tom Brady did for 60 Minutes where he said “There’s gotta be more than this.” The dude had won three Super Bowls before the age of 30, and he wasn’t satisfied. God, I wanted to punch him after that interview.


Don't worry, Tom. There's more to come...
namely supermodel booty and
honest-to-goodness lady hair.

Still, if he wasn’t satisfied, how could I ever be?

Patch is staring at Shannon. The way she’s positioned in bed, her cleavage is pressed together, and one of her spaghetti straps has dropped from her shoulder. I think he’s seeking nipple.

“Dude,” I say. “Would you stop that please?”

“Stop what,” Patch says.

“Trying to look into her nightgown,” I say.

Stache comes to Patch’s defense. “What’s the problem?” Stache says. “That’s not even your wife. That’s a doppelganger, a phantasm – a plot convention.”

“Yeah,” Patch nods. “What he said.”

“Still, keep your eye off my plot convention,” I say.

“What about this big Yellowstone trip?” Bandana says. “Supposedly, it’s the McGuffin of your tale, and you haven’t started it yet.”

I consider the point, and decide Bandana is right.

I lean over and tap Shannon’s shoulder.

“Honey,” I say. “Honey.”

She turns and grunts. Patch continues twisting his head for a prime angle.

“Honey, it’s June,” I say. “It’s time for our trip.”

Shannon awakens slowly, and looks at the expectant faces surrounding us.

“It’s time, sweetheart,” I say. “We need to go.”

Shannon wipes her hand across her brow. “My God, your narrative is so disjointed,” she says. “First of all, I’m the one who woke you up for the trip, like I do for anything that takes place before 10 a.m. Second, are you telling me you’re just going to skip the playoffs leading up to the finals entirely? The way the Celts rolled over D-Wade’s Heat in the first round in 5, then took down LeBron’s Cavs in 6 after being down 2-1, and finally taking out Dwight Howard’s Magic in 6?”

Bandana looks impressed. “Whoa, what just happened there?”

“In my subconscious utopia, she’s a huge sports fan,” I say.

Everybody does the I-understand ohhhh and nods.

I turn to Shannon.

“So do I get to tell this story how I want?” I say. “Or are you going to try to take control like you do with everything.”

The guys look suddenly uncomfortable.

“Relax,” I say to them, taking a hold of Shannon’s shoulder and giving it a little shake. “Remember, phantasm.”

Tooth looks skeptical. “Even in an alternate reality, I’d be careful,” he advises.

I look to Shannon again. She’s fixed on me with a ferocious glare, her lips clenching like a dog ready to strike. I withdraw my hand.

Stache’s facial hair broadens with a grin.

“Fantastic,” he says. “Even the imaginary her-”

Shannon’s glare locks on Stache, who leans back with discomfort. He looks to me.

“Could we get on with it?” he says.

“Yes,” I say. “Game One.”

************

Links:
Travelling: Intro / Book Jacket, Chapter 1: Cribbagegate, Chapter 2: Two e-mails, Chapter 3: Pattern, Chapter 4: Shattered, Chapter 5: Hilarious Pee, Chapter 6: Suicide, Chapter 7/8: Coaching High school, Shark attacks and appetizers, Chapter 9: June, Chapter 10: 18 and oh no, Chapter 11: DNA, Chapter 12: Peanut Butter Sandwiches, Chapter 13: Tom Brady and the McGuffin, Chapter 14: Game 1

Labels: chapter 13, Evil Ted, mcguffin, Tom Brady, traveling

Tom Brady and the New England Patriots. From "The Greatest Team of All Time" to "The Greatest Super Bowl Flop of All Time." Just like that.

Brady spreads his legs for the Giants defense...

...then bends over for a thorough sodomization.

Labels: failure, New England Patriots, Super Bowl, Tom Brady