Dear Bum Diary,
LAST UPDATED:
FEBRUARY 9TH
By Christopher Buchanan
It was stone quiet all throughout the western metropolitan sprawl on the eve of a hideous age of evil. Sunday, the day of our Lord, will be grossly perverted when the victory of one terrible force over another is soon certified; etched into history as sad fact. Great interest has accrued on many-deals-with-the-devil and payment is due tomorrow for the highest, most privileged lenders… Only, instead of a virginal sacrifice or an atavistic ritual animal killing, the debt will be settled over a more brutal paganistic ritual involving pig skin and a violent, theatrical mockery of gladiatorship from the ancient past. Super Bowl LIX: Philadelphia Eagles v. Kansas City Chiefs; Famine v. Disease; Death v. Destruction; Suffering v. Pain.
The horror! Millions of Americans and unlucky foreigners will be direct witnesses to the strange, unfortunate social undertones at play in this rotten game of force. No matter what kind of voracious drinking of cheap beer and lesser spirits or animalistic binging on stomach-churning, grease-and-sugar messes happens this Sunday, the moment one of the two dictators of doom – either the dark prophet, Patrick Mahomes or the misfortunate son, Jalen Hurts – lifts the Lombardi over his porcelain head, numbness happily gained will be rendered ineffectual. A hundred years of dark glory to the more triumphant of the two cities; it will loom over the place and marinate the populous in unbearable, snobby vainglory.
To be bare and honest, I hardly caught any of the past NFL season past Week 3 this year. The San Francisco 49ers were a shell of their former selves and suffered miserably, even in their frail, uncompetitive division, and I practically checked out after the one point loss against Arizona. Our 4th string superhero, Brock Purdy, ran dry on miracles; the season was absolutely hopeless. Even worse, the scourge of my very existence – Patrick Mahomes and his team of cocky brutes – complained endlessly about their winning potential because of a singular, solitary loss to the Buffalo Bills early in the season. The gall! I remember Alex Smith. Why don’t they?
Philadelphia is not much better, and the consequences will almost definitely match or exceed that of a Kansas City victory. Chief fans, even if it is a smug belief, expect a win. I half expect that a significant subsection of Eagles fans want to lose. The destruction of the City of Brotherly Love, be it in a win or a loss, is a more urgent matter for the drunken, colonial bastards in Philly who still seem to be out on the prowl for vulnerable loyalists. Even the head coach, Nick Sirriani, must taunt the ruthless Philly fanbase when they get too rowdy or violent. Take some time to imagine that rage and devastation unleashed, because it may escape our mind’s eye and become reality come Sunday evening.
Fans of anything tend to protect their tribe ferociously. I saw it firsthand this week at a college acapella competition I attended in support of my roommate. After four years I’m practically a mainstay, veteran spectator at these things… I even recognize when the cohesion of certain acapella team composition is interrupted by an infant voice of an untrained soprano. And the fans, man! The harmonies are like heroin to them.
Johnathan and I showed up fashionably late, but just a little before our pitch perfect group was up to bat. When we sat down, we asked the girl next to us which group number the one on stage was – ours was eighth – “Sixth. No. Fifth. Wait, actually it's the sixth,” she said, visibly entranced by the instrumental voices that could somehow sound like heavenly brass and string. During the next set, a corny pop song from the radio was performed and it was then that I realized I was sitting next and talking to a psychotic acapella fiend who had genuine interest in the sport. She hollered at every quiet transition between the triage of songs, whooped for beat-boxing drum solos and her head almost popped completely out of its socket when there was a crescendo in the inevitable goodbye harmony. I imagine that a few brews could’ve had the chick up against the barrier, throwing D-batteries at any performers who traversed even a step out-of-tune. I thought the group was OK. They didn’t make the qualifying top two teams – the club I support had, however – but the fuss had still been made. I knew that’s what I would have looked like supporting the 49ers this year… Is it strange that now, after seeing the acapella madness, that I wish I had been there for poor old Brock?
If the Chiefs win three Big Turkey’s in a row, I believe that Patrick Mahomes will be absolved of his curse. We can’t let that happen, for the man deserves his burden: As the story goes, some time ago, a witch set a voodoo curse on Patrick Mahomes and turned him into a frog, but the whole slippery transition was flubbed midway through and only caught him by the throat. It’s just one more thing he and RFK Jr. have in common, aside from frequent animal-killings and a vendetta against public health.
On the subject of the politique, I am glad to see Travis Kelce and his southern belle bride, Taylor Swift exposed as what they truly are; White Americans. When an interviewer asked Kelce how he felt about the renewed President attending the big bowl game, Kelce responded that it was a “great honor, no matter who the president is.” And he says this just as the fake Black male act is getting tired in this country! No more golds for Kelce, his preferences lean more toward pearls now. Of course, Swift is seen as blameless for being with the man solely because she is the White American woman’s Jesus Christ; sinless, victimized and martyred. Nobody would dare raise a hand to that. I could almost see them together on a propaganda poster, blue-eyed, pale-faced and picturesque, telling every little boy and girl in America to suit up for the Big War while they take care of the entertainment business at home.
I need not mention the ramping up of all the evil things in Washington, but I will anyhow. Russell Vought, a real evil sonofabitch who ran and will again run the Office of Management and Budget, which has a crude, almost undemocratic authority over how we spend our collective dollar, was confirmed to the position once again by a small margin. The man is a real cost-killer and generally conservative on social security and the more obscure government agencies. Another interesting project – Project 2025 for all the readers out of the loop – was actually a brainchild of Vought. Now, the demands in this long document follow the rules of simple negotiation: ambitious offers result in high counteroffers, even if your offer is far more absurd than the buyers can imagine. Still, though, our country is on a swift-path to degeneration even if there is only some follow through to these plans. With the aspirational cast the Big Man has assembled, now including Travis Goddamned Kelce, those Tortured Poet Department propaganda posters will go into print much sooner than later.
Does a poor Super Bowl really spell out such a draconian end for the good American people? No. Probably not. But it’s not a signal of times getting better, either. Once the dust settles, we can only hope both duelists hit their shots, bullseye. But no… we couldn’t dream to get so lucky.
Fly Eagles, Fly. If not for yourselves, then for the sake of our children!