“The Patriots suck,” JJ said as they watched them score another touchdown against the beleaguered Dolphins.  Carl clapped and whooped.  Pale December sunshine slanted into JJ’s house.  Sunday afternoon and Carl was approaching a month in JJ’s living room.
“If by suck you mean they’re awesome then I agree,” Carl said.  He was beaming as they lined up for the extra point.  “If by suck you mean they dominate then I agree.”  Carl adjusted himself in his nest of pillow and blankets on JJ’s couch.
“I mean what they stand for.  It sucks,” JJ said.
“What they stand for?  What the fuck does that mean?  They stand for winning.”
“The Patriots are the Dick Cheney of football.”
“Here we go,” Carl said. The extra point was good and he leaned back into JJ’s sofa as an ad for Geico came on.
“The Patriots have that smugness.  Like they invented the game and everyone else is too stupid to get it.”
“Go ahead, let it out,” Carl said soothingly.
“They treat football like it’s a state secret or something.  They answer questions with this tolerant smirk…”
“Don’t forget the cheating,” Carl said.
“I’m getting to that.  They haven’t won shit since…”
“I’ll tell you what sucks,” Carl said.  “The Dolphins playing Jimmy Buffet during kickoffs.  That strikes terror into the opposition.”  Somewhere in a forest of long neck beer bottles a cell phone buzzed on the coffee table.  “Aw shit, here we go,” he said looking at the phone screen.
“Don’t answer,” JJ said.
“What,” Carl said into the phone and listened with a grimace.  The commercials were ending when Carl said, “I’ll come home when I feel like it.”  Then he hung up and turned the phone off.  The Patriots kicked off to the Dolphins to the strains of Jimmy Buffet’s “Fins”.  Sunlight, real Florida sunlight, bathed the field in Miami.