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Super Bowl Snub

RRROver the years I’ve noticed a disturbing trend.  Whenever there’s a family celebration — particularly a celebration featuring food — I’m shipped out.  Banished behind closed doors.  Shut up in my crate.  Shuttled over to Luz’s.  It happens at Thanksgiving . . . and Passover . . . and July 4 barbecue . . . all the majors.  The thinking seems to be “I don’t do

Jethead

What? No J-E-T-S?

well around food.”  If “not doing well around food” means I try to snag and gobble anything I can possibly reach, then yeah, I guess I don’t do well.  Last night Beagle Man and the Mrs. were invited to a Super Bowl party at Jeff and Marybeth’s.  Now while I may not have actually been to any of these, I’ve watched enough football commercials to know what you’re supposed to do:  You drink Bud Light responsibly, and you eat chips & dip and buffalo wings and nachos and chili and pizza and everything else in the world that I’d give my right paw for.  Of course I wasn’t brought along.  But you know what?  I saw this picture of the way B-Man was carrying on at the party, and I’m thinking maybe this time I was better off just hanging with Luz.

The Roof Rack Report (#roofrackreport on Twitter, for those who follow me already on @BeagleManHank) appears on Mondays, usually.  It’s about politics, travel, food . . . important stuff like that.

Ricky the Beagle