NFL Sunday's Letter

I heard this on 89x the other day and figured I'd post it.

Dear Woman,

Today is the start of the NFL football season. Instead of falling into the same trap as we have each of the previous few years, I've decided to COMMUNICATE MY FEELINGS and prevent a lot of the yelling and sass-back that has marred our relationship, which is so very, very important to me.

My needs are simple. On Sundays, I need to be left alone. In much the same way you need your toenails to be painted regularly, I need silence for the next 20 Sundays. Don't ask me questions. Don't talk to me about your day. If you want to tell me that you love me, just hand me a cold beer. I'll understand.

The best way to deal with me on Sundays is to pretend I'm dead.

Feel free to spend a few bucks at the mall, hire a pool-boy to attend to your carnal needs, whatever. Just shush. (And, don't stand silently between me and the TV like you did last year.)

To show that I'm a sensitive man, I'm willing to make sacrifices, too.

I promise to pick up my empties after the game is over. I also promise to not take out my frustration on your cat if my team loses -- like I did last year. (You have to admit, Baby Lolly is limping a lot less than she used to.)

Also, and this is a big one for me, I will go to any chick flick you want and promise not to projectile belch every time I see Hugh Grant's face.

I'm sure that by being sensitive to each others' needs, we can get through this season with much less drama than ever. Just remember, for the other 32 weeks each year, you're the most important thing in my life.

Your man,