I'm fresh out of rope, the kind that I usually invite people to go and piss up. Snack season has been murdered, and I blame football. From the bottom all the way to the top, football ruined my appetite. The level of terribleness has met and exceeded my gag reflex, and I'm the lady who made corn dogs. Can you even imagine how bad football must be? Goodbye tangy dips and half-time pork belly. Clear eyes, full hearts, and blah blah blah what a crap sandwich.

The beginning of football season is also the beginning of snack season, a time to explore appetizers and celebrate finger food. The trouble is, every time I start researching ingredients I get interrupted by push notifications on my phone about football and domestic violence. I remind myself that the current Heisman winner is an alleged rapist, and a former Heisman winner almost decapitated his ex-wife. Meanwhile, the NCAA quietly canceled Penn State’s suspension for their part in a child rape scandal, as our attention was focused on Ray Rice. And finally, the NFL is still profiting on pink breast cancer awareness merchandise, by keeping more money than they donate. If I keep looking away from this, I am no better than Roger Goodell.

Hate the playa, not the game? That’s really cute and all, but this one sport has been pumping out a staggering number of truly horrible people doing terrifying things. It is run by the kind of people who minimize the long-term effects of concussions suffered on the field, or by romantic partners who were beaten unconscious in an elevator. Making football snacks while all of this is on my mind is like anyone in “August: Osage County” sitting down for a meal. It’s never going to end well.

Put all of these components together. We have a recipe all right, and it’s called Football Can Eat Shit and Bark At The Moon. I am done with them.

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