Hello Darkness! The Official Blog of Helen Keller

Fanaholics, as much as the Comment Corner only sticks to Commenting with voracious accuracy on many of life’s topics, from time to time, the Corner receives its fair share of questions as well.

Over the course of the past week or so, the Corner has been deluged with questions about how to throw the world’s best Superbowl Party, or at the very least, identify for those ideas, problems or people that will ultimately render the party as much fun as having gooey leukemiAIDS blasted out of a cannon at you.

Ideally, the best thing to do is to serve up a ton of food. To satisfy the cravings of football fans and late-comer Peyton Manning Insta-fans with their fresh new Indy Colts jerseys, you’ll need a wide berth of items. Specifically, nachos, guacamole, beer, chilli, chicken wings, tacos, beer, salsa, beer, hot-dogs, hot-pretzels, hot-women, beer, cocaine, Rice-Krispies, rhubarb chutney, beer, beer-nuts, pillow cases and gravel. Additionally, some football fans evidently enjoy a beer or two during the game. Try and have some on hand. And nothing shitty like Lakeport. For the nailed sake of Christ the Redeemer, no fucking Lakeport. That goddamn commercial with the “Lowest legally priced cans” (guitar slide) “Lakeporrrrrt” gives me ruinous indigestion. John Labatt would kidnap himself from his perch in hell to avoid knowing his company just bought Lakeport. If some cheap shit shows up at your house with Lakeport, and worst of all canned Lakeport, drag that sumbitch to the 401, tie him to an underpass, I suggest Neilsen Road, and wait for a truck to jack-knife and launch a sheared transaxle right through his penny-pinching chest. The money he saved on buying el crappo bear can be used to reconstruct his body. Lesson learned and we’re moving on.

What if somebody wants to bring a veggie platter?

This will happen. Eventually, some clunker will drag over a damn veggie platter with ranch dip. Usually, it’s the same annoying asshole that’s been clucking incessantly over the past week with “I TOLD you we were causing global warming!” Veggie platters are not to be near the Superbowl game. Neither are vegetable eating hippies. The 401 is a long highway and there are plenty of other underpasses to which party-ruiners may be staked, tied or otherwise left for incoming transaxles. I would at least move far enough west that the two couldn’t communicate to each other to free themselves. This fucker’s got to be at least to McCowan.

Be inventive though! Line up the cherry tomatoes towards the tied-up hippie as kind of a Hansel & Gretel-esque trail for the flying truck-parts. Draw little bullseyes on them for wheel-nuts or something. News outlets find those sorts of quirky touches delicious when reporting these sorts of things.

My sister-in-law doesn’t get football. She gets WAY too involved and fucks things up.

Ah yes. The girl insta-sports fan. The Comment Corner normally doesn’t engage in differences between the sexes, but in this case, it’s willing to make an exception for the sake of a good party. The male equivalent is the asswipe teen who just discovered either Pink Floyd or Led Zeppelin. The girl insta-fan can be recognized by wearing nothing but the team colours of the team she decided Tuesday she was going to like. She can spout off Reggie Wayne’s receiving stats for this year, she goes absolutely ballistic without understanding why at every stoppage of play, she brings handmade stadium placards to your house and invents retarded nicknames for the players on her team. Another easy indicator is the use of personal pronouns when asking questions with obvious answers: “Are we winning?” “Did our team just score?” “Is anybody buying my bullshit attempts?” Again, this is an easily solved problem. As said before, the 401 is a looong road so it’s off to Vic Park with some rope and a smile. The Toronto police can be notified at the end of the game that you had these problems and it’s in their policy to go along the highway and free the hoards of party-ruiners.

How late is too late? I don’t want a bunch of sweaty fuckers at my house all night, I’ve got to work tomorrow!

Well then prissy, you probably shouldn’t be hosting a Superbowl party. Instead, feel free to head on down to the bowling alley and play “padless-goalie” in the five pin lanes. Perhaps you’re better suited to marshalling a doggie-dressup parade and can wow the crowd with observations like, “Look at little Dodger the Pekingese! He’s a little surfer! Cowabunga Dodger! Looks like his owner Claire Bitchbottom was up all night making a carab-chocolate surfboard for Dodger to eat and carry. I give this one three awwws. Geeeeeeuuuuuuurrr.” However, I’m here to answer questions so very simply, before the game begins, place one cabbage in the freezer. When the game ends and drunk assholes refuse to wander or taxi home, you go to said freezer, take out the frozen cabbage, place it in the plastic grocery bag of your choice and saunter back into the TV room a’ swinging the bag. Tell everybody they’ve got 5 fucking minutes to clear out or you’re making “Face-Coleslaw”. As they scamper, smack the fattest guy in the mouth, just so the rest of the herd doesn’t get any smart ideas about calling your bluff.

And that, fanaholics, are some of the easy ways you can ensure a proper Superbowl party. Also, I’m psychic. Call up Vegas and bet your kids and your house on the Bears winning 34-22.