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I’m sorry that I spent the whole pre-game, post-game, and well, most of the game itself (Except during that one hilarious commercial. Remember? The one with the girl who did the thing…?). Anyway, I’m sorry I spent the whole time singing “Stairway to Heaven” only instead of saying “stairway to Heaven,” I said “Superbowl Forty-Seven” over and over.

I’m sorry your grandma hit me.

I’m sorry she and I broke up.

Totally her fault.

No it wasn’t.

I’m sorry I thought the guacamole dip was puke. In hindsight, it seems unlikely you would put that out on the table. Live and learn.

I’m sorry that I felt like having a conversation with my friends before the game got started. I figured talking during the pre-pre-pre-pre-pre-pre-pre-game show while we waited for the sun to come up and newspaper to arrive would be okay.

I’m sorry I got kind of whiny around the third quarter about asking, “Hey, anyone wanna switch over to the “Doctor Who” marathon?”

I’m sorry to be burdened with the realization that the spectrum of hotness for wings is a finite one.

I’m sorry I didn’t pitch in for the pizza delivery. Especially since I ordered all forty-seven of them in honor of…wait for it!….SUPERBOWL FORTY-SEVEN! Come on, guys. Admit it. That’s pretty cool.

I’m sorry about bawling at that one Superbowl commercial. It got to me, man.

I’m sorry I got into that heated argument with your brother over whether this ultimate contest between powerhouse football teams is more like a super PLATE than a super BOWL. And I’m pretty sure you don’t get tetanus from an olive fork if the fork was clean.

I’m sorry I groaned, “Yeah, like that’s gonna happen,” when your kid sister said she wanted to be a 49ers cheerleader someday.

I’m sorry that your wife can’t handle being tackled with more grace. On a related note, I’m sorry there was no ref to call a holding penalty on your great-aunt Trixie.

I’m sorry I kept asking, “Now which ones are the Ravens? Oh..they don’t look like birds at all, do they? Bummer.”

I’m sorry that once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, those goddamn ravens came a tapping and were gently rapping, rapping at the point spread on the game. Don’t gamble kids!

I’m sorry that I can’t say “49ers” without giggling about “my darlin’ Clementine” over and over and over and over and over and over and over…

I’m sorry I cried when the game ended. Your father-in-law passed out on my foot and it was cutting off my circulation.

I’m sorry that when you had to call in sick Monday morning, your boss totally didn’t buy that you “spent the night in the emergency room being treated with salves for various bean-dip related injuries.” I guess you just had to see it to believe it.



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