(The camera cuts away to a shot of the teams warming up. The broadcasters can be heard quietly arguing, all of it unintelligible except for Bill whispering “Get it together, man!” at the end.

Bill: We talked about it coming in, how this Vikings front four needs to dictate this game. If they can put pressure on Drew Brees and force him into making some bad decisions, the game could take a turn in Minnesota’s favor.

Mitch: I agree, Bill. Bad decisions can turn the tide on everything. Brees really could dictate the game with his mistakes. A few bad passes, some lost fumbles, or neglecting to utilize protection while bagging the biggest whore in his hometown during his senior year of high school, impregnating her and imprisoning himself in her rusty cage of a vagina for the rest of his life, could change the entire way the game is played.

Bill: I think Reggie Bush is a bright spot in -

Mitch: Oh, she said she wasn’t fertile during that week, Bill, but Brees should have known better. Her lower region was a vat of quicksand that still has yet to release him. The only thing that passes through is his money, his hopes and dreams, and his very soul. Drew Brees is certainly in for a lot of unpleasantness, Bill.

(Awkward pause)

Bill: I’m expecting a lot of man coverage defensively by Minnesota. They’ve been so good about keeping people out of the endzone and not giving up points. But if they’re not careful and protective of their side of the field today, you’ll see a lot of points by New Orleans.

Mitch: I’ve already talked about protection a lot today, but I want to again stress that it is of the upmost importance, Bill.

Bill: Wow. Okay, I should have seen that coming. Poor choice of words on my part.

Mitch: You have to protect your little guy, Bill.

Bill: Oh God. Please stop talking.

Mitch: If you don’t protect your little guy, the defense will cut him right off and feed him to you as you lay helpless on your back. It’s not even halftime yet in your life, and you’re already defeated, choking on the one thing that identifies you as a man.

Bill: Speaking of halftime, coming up after what I’m sure will be the longest two quarters of my life, is the Visa halftime report, where Terry, Howie, Michael, and Jimmy will give highlights and commentary.

Mitch: You know what’s great about Terry, Howie, Michael and Jimmy? Eight wives between them. Eight rotten, lousy, stinking wives. I applaud them for getting rid of their wives. They should get a tax credit. I should get a tax credit! To help pay for all this goddamn alimony, you lousy bitch! I’ll kill you, Marguerite! I’ll make Haiti look like a loud fart!

Bill: We’ll be sure to address that during the halftime show, Mitch. We’d like to take this unique segue opportunity to remind everyone to text the word “HAITI” to 90999. $10 will be charged to your cellphone bill and donated to the relief effort. Mitch will certainly be donating quite a bit after that last comment. Hey Mitch, what do you think of these newfangled cellphones? Haha, my kids are whizzes with them, but us old folks find them pretty confusing. Am I right?

Mitch: I don’t give a rat’s ass, Bill. Screw your dunce kids and their worthless robots. I can’t afford a cellphone. I . . . my . . . (Mitch begins crying).

Bill: We’d like to take this time to thank our sponsor, Taco Bell. Their chicken fajitas are, um . . .

Mitch: (Sobbing uncontrollably)

Bill: . . . the chickeniest. The most chickeny of all the chicken fajitas. Stuff some in your face today and decide for yourself. Only 99 cents if you, uh . . .

Mitch: (Wails into the microphone)

Bill: . . . if you say “Chickeny chicky chick boo” at the register. Again, that’s “Chickeny chicky chick boo.” You have to say it. It is a requirement.

“Only apply gentle pressure to your nose for two weeks, Mr. Ryan. Sneeze with your mouth open for two weeks, Mr. Ryan. Rinse your nostrils seventeen times daily with a saline wash – invented by some weird Indian guy who insisted on placing his own picture on the box – for two weeks, Mr. Ryan. For the love of God, do not pick your nose – no matter how much you think people can’t see you – for two weeks, Mr. Ryan.”

Okay, maybe the “for the love of God” parts were just a byproduct of the anesthetic, as it doesn’t strike me as something a real doctor would say, but the emphasis was still the same. It was not okay for me to be doing anything to my nose for two weeks, short of pampering it with soft kisses and soothing saxophone music. I could perhaps progress to songs involving light trombones in the third week, but I’d be pushing my luck.

It wasn’t fun to fly, but what was I supposed to do, throw away my $400 plane ticket? That’s like buying 400 king-size candy bars and stuffing them all into the rental return slot at Blockbuster. That’s like buying a case of expensive whiskey and using it to clean your bathtub. That’s like dumping a lady before you’ve had the chance to have sex with her six or seven times.

So off I went to the plane, my carry-on bag stuffed with tissues, pain killers, and various manly items to impress the flight attendants if they went through my stuff after the paramedics carried me away. The seatbelt sign lit up and the engines roared to life, shaking the cabin. As we continued along the tarmac, I tried to calm myself by thinking about boobs.

Shortly after takeoff, a small child began screeching as if his parents were trying to stuff him out the window. With the pain building in my nose, I was tempted to scream along with him, using my rich baritone to balance his shrill tenor. The lady seated next to me saw my discomfort and asked if I was all right. For some horrible reason, I lied and said I just hadn’t used the restroom in a really long time. She did not speak to me again for the remainder of the flight.

Unfortunately, flying on an airplane a week after having sinus surgery doesn’t melt your face or make you talk like Dick Clark after his stroke. It just feels like someone broke your nose with a shovel. When you’re all amped up to see your own face implode, it’s a bit of a downer to realize you’ll just be shrieking like a little girl instead.

The dry winter air of Minnesota ensured that the pain continued throughout my entire week-long stay, subsiding only when I severed all the nerves connected to my brain by watching an episode of Jersey Shore. Thankfully, MTV was running a marathon of this tripe, so I spent my entire trip blissfully unaware of my condition, only breaking from the reservoir of televised douchebaggery and East Coast toilet accents to stuff my face full of Christmas cookies.

The flight back wasn’t nearly as bad. It had been two weeks since the surgery, and I was now allowed to expose my delicate sinus cavity to Kenny G music and mildly exhilarating Youtube videos of cats sitting in kitchen sinks. Also, this time around I just slept through the flight. Occasionally, I’d awaken and shout a bit of profanity because of the soreness, but I was flying Sun Country, so the other passengers just thought I was cursing at the airline in general.

Now I’m back home, where I’ve increased my body’s excitement tolerance by listening to upbeat Frank Sinatra tunes where he sings about banging chicks who are now dead. It’s quite a jump from the Kenny G album I borrowed from my local dental office, but I’m a dangerous man who’s not afraid to take risks. Next week, I might say to hell with my doctor’s orders completely, and put mild sauce on a plain bean burrito at Taco Bell.

I only hope my bank account has enough left in it to pay my funeral costs after my face explodes all over the cashier.