The
common American Male is five feet and nine inches tall. He weighs a hundred and ninety one pounds. He is thirty-four
years old and makes thirty-six thousand dollars a year. He has roughly thirty-six years to live.
The
common American male believes he is physically fit. He’s wrong.
He would save, on average, a thousand dollars a year if he exercised
regularly. He doesn’t. His resting pulse is about seventy beats per
minute, and he can run a mile in eight minutes and thirty-four seconds.
Every weekend during the fall, the American Male will grab a few cheep domestic beers and an
assortment of his favorite fatty snacks.
He will plop down on a couch or an easy chair, turn on the television,
and watch himself some football. For
those of you not familiar with the spectacle, it consists of twenty-two
overweight prima donnas battering themselves into an early senility.
The
common American Male will cheer. Loudly, and unintelligently.
Approximately
twenty-five million Americans will join him in celebrating our twin national
vices of violence and obesity. They will
throw away three to nine hours of their lives and come away a little dumber, a
little fatter, and—half of the time—a little more prone to beating women and
children.
You
might argue that football is harmless entertainment, or that I’m characterizing
the sport unfairly. You’d be dead,
flat-out wrong. Football is murder on
the athlete’s brain; it contributes heavily to our obesity epidemic; it turns
males into something less than men; it weakens our nation and wastes billions
of hours and trillions of dollars. Football
is a recreation so disgusting, dehumanizing, debasing, and dangerous that it is
a moral evil.
God
hates football.
So
should you.
