Emulsified

Both Abby's Great-Grandma and I have a weakness for Keebler's
Fudge Shoppe Fudge Sticks. It's all about wafers and creme, or at least obscene Keebler approximations thereof. For yesterday's soggy Superbowl Cathy and I each allowed ourselves one junk food indulgence. Half a bag of Fudge Sticks later and I found I hardly cared about what was going on in Miami. I had so little invested in the Bears this year (and I can't honestly say I've enjoyed a sustained curiosity in the NFL or any of its franchises in general since the Kardiac Kids lost AFC Divisional Playoff game to the Raiders in 1980) that I hardly cared that Rex was so unequivocally sucking. I liked the rain, though. I liked that it poured the entire game. I liked watching Billy Joel singing the National Anthem while sitting at a grand piano in the pouring rain. I was afraid Billy was going to get zapped, the smell of fried Joel wafting up through the downpour. I liked seeing Prince perform Purple Rain and caress his purple guitar in the pouring rain. I liked how they thought the rain was going to let up by halftime but that it kept coming down. I liked how it kept pouring and how after half a package of Fudge Sticks I was completely emulsified.