The CEO arrived early at the Superbowl party on Sunday. The Chief Educator, * [the lady of the house] and the Chief Photographer were already hard at work preparing the feast. A very tasty part of that preparation involved unwrapping several batches of chicken wings cooked by the fine people at Fire on the Mountain. I treated the early arrivals to a bit of experimental bacon surprise: a standard bakery maple bar hollowed out, stuffed with cooked bacon and then resealed. Delicious, but also a crime against nature in some respects. A whole new avenue of research for me to further explore next year.
Ladies were allowed to attend the Superbowl party for the first time this year. * [the lady of the house] of course lives there so it’s tough to exclude her; she would have gotten a pass anyway. The inclusion of even more ladies however, while predicted to alter the typically unbridled spirit of the event, did not in fact impact the tone of Superbowl Sunday. Things were no less stupid than the partygoers had come expect, nay, demand.
For starters, there was a small fire. Someone (I’m looking your direction Chief Sniper) spilled a nontrivial amount of bacon fat in the bottom of the Educator’s oven, and then didn’t mention it to the next person who tried to cook: grease fire! Or at least a hell of a lot of smoke. During the first quarter visibility inside the house was markedly limited; we all had to huddle in closer to the TV to make out the picture. Luckily there was a certain engineer on the premises who just so happened to have an industrial sized blower with him (he had been testing the Educator’s ductwork earlier in the day). He saved the day, and I’m sure the neighbors were impressed by the volume and force of the bacon smoke as it vented into the outside world. Chief Educator, don’t forget to put the batteries back in your smoke alarm.
As the day went on certain individuals (I’m again looking in your direction Chief Sniper) became, shall we say, rambunctious. The particular gentleman in question had earlier imbibed an impressive measure of spirituous beverages and he had Ultimate Fighting Championship on the brain. A bad combination. He was looking for someone to take out his aggressions on since, to be fair, he’d been made fun of all day long by the crowd. As luck would have it the Chief Sniper’s lovely bride showed up before he could attack the CEO, but the Chief Photographer was not so lucky:
The Sniper claimed to be doing some stupid UFC move on the Photographer. It looked more to me like he was trying to reenact a scene out of Borat, but whatever. It made the Sniper happy and that’s all that matters. No judgment here; Kjel.org is a judgment-free zone. We all love you just way you are, Chief Sniper.
To recap, the Superbowl party was awesome as ever, and everything I wore or carried that day smells like bacon. The CEO felt slightly sick on Monday. I have no idea why.
* Title redacted on the direct order of D. Rumsfeld.
