The game: Broncos at Patriots
The beer: Port Board Meeting Brown Ale
The result: Win, 43–21; Bengals win, 33–23
The commentary: In my inaugural beer-and-football diary I brought up Peyton Manning’s penchant for not removing his helmet during post-loss handshakes. I have come to admire Manning over the years and I find this to be his one evident character flaw—as a fan of a team whose coach once ran off the field during the Super Bowl before time had expired I know what a sore loser looks like. Once again, there he is out in the middle of Gillette Stadium shaking hands with Malcolm Butler while doing his best sad-LaDainian-Tomlinson impression. Can one of his dozen handlers please point this out to him sometime?

Anyone who says he saw a twenty-two-point victory coming is lying—the Broncos were favored and they should have been, even in Foxborough. But those people calling PFW in Progress afterward saying “I knew it, I told you!” without explaining how or why (as my man Paul Perillo criticized) can eat a bowl of dick up. Back in 2001, while slumming in the college publishing world, I attended a sales meeting in San Francisco before the football season started. The Pats were coming off five wins the year before (ex-Browns coach Bill Belichick’s first, after Pete Carroll wasted a talented core of Patriots for three years), Drew Bledsoe was slipping into iffy territory and the local media were apoplectic that Richard Seymour was the team’s first-round pick. Fan morale was low, expectations were nil and Carl Everett was probably hogging all the headlines. I was chatting with a Massachusetts colleague one morning and, as every year, he proclaimed “You watch, the Pay-tree-itz are winning the Super Bowl.” Sure, man. How? The question wasn’t asked because the notion was ridiculous and I probably rolled my eyes, wondering if there was a toaster around.

Given the opportunity to respond? What might a keen, informed fan have answered? “Well, Drew Bledsoe threw fifty-eight interceptions over the last three years, and if he starts slowly then Tom Brady might take over in a matter of weeks. He’s a better quarterback, on paper, for Charlie Weis’s system anyway.” To which I, and everyone around, would have said “Who the hell is Tom Brady?” No one—media, fans, blowhards—said “Bledsoe is the only thing keeping this team from winning it all.” When he went down in week two, no one said “Now’s the time!” No one predicted that Brady would do well “filling in” and then Bledsoe wouldn’t regain his job. No one knew the Patriots would be champions. Just like no one knew the Broncos would get blown out Sunday night. (Until halftime, at least.) The ones pretending they did are either blind homers or cynical radio personalities setting up a gleeful postmortem should the team fail to win it all for the tenth straight season.

Another top beer, another knockout-pool victory. Survive and advance. You bet your ass I was afraid to pick the Bengals but almost everyone else (four of the remaining five) did too. Five days later they let Brian Hoyer and friends do the opposite of everything the Browns have accomplished since 2010. Thank god I can’t touch this team anymore.

I don’t feel great about my Seahawks pick tomorrow. Historically, the Giants are one of those teams (Dolphins, Steelers, Niners, et al) that looks like it could win anywhere between six and twelve games in a season. What pushed me over the edge—beside the fact that the Eagles (hosting the Panthers: I’m too impatient to wait until Monday) and the Steelers (in Jersey against the Jets: I’m scared to death to pick against the Jets until they win again) were my only other realistic options remaining—is that the Seahawks must feel the need to prove themselves after a disappointing first half of the season. Right? Brother Eli probably feels he has to prove something too and that means hucking the ball downfield every other down—against this secondary, in Seattle, I favor the home team. It’s unfortunate that I know nothing about football.

Happy Halloween! Like nine out of ten girls her age, G. went as a princess this year.

Her scepter lights up whenever it’s struck against a hard surface like the couch or my skull. We trick-or-treated for a good ninety minutes and that meant the five bags of candy A. bought in a moment of lunacy went undented. My waistline and complexion will make the ultimate sacrifice. G. is pretty psyched though, especially once you pile on the bounty she took home.

After watching a retarded (inferred) pedestrian wear all black, walk out in the middle of the road and get hit by a car moving ten miles per hour, we detoured into a charming, tucked-away little neighborhood. All the residents were sitting on their front porches, greeting kids with smiles and endearing questions (one older woman couldn’t get over G’s curls), beaming with pride over their themed holiday displays (pictured). Polar opposite of the darkened porch at our house. By the time we got back with a half hour of official Halloween remaining we received all of two children—five pieces each, and you know they’ll be back next year. Bring your friends!

Lastly, here’s our rainy-day princess frolicking around some furniture at the mall. A. and I were snapping pictures as she protested “Stop looking through my window!” This was during our wait for the family bathroom to become vacant so G. could use the potty. The lone middle-aged man who eventually showed himself (after several flushes) had dropped a giant, stinking shit bomb on the entire zip code. Happy Halloween, you monster you. Let’s find another bathroom.

Up next: The bye weekend marks the end of my love affair with The Wire, six years late, as I watch the closing episodes of its fifth and final season. Shiiit. Cheers!