My dad has been talking about Super Bowl Sunday for weeks. He sounds excited whenever he mentions it so, of course, I get animated also. While having a super bowl of (almost) anything on any day of the week sounds like my kind of plan, I did have some questions. “What’s inside this super bowl?” and “Do I have to share?” were among the most pressing. Whenever I inquired, however, my dad started rambling something about football-this and football-that. It made no sense.

I decided to take matters into my own paws at The Droolitzer staff meeting. Last Thursday, I asked William the Weimeriener from Tech Support if he knew what to expect in our super bowl. “Chicken wings,” he said and I found this intel encouraging. Aside from @roberttherubberchicken, who wouldn’t want to enjoy some wings on a Sunday? But was the day really just about a bunch of chicken? Not that there’d be anything wrong with that—I wouldn’t complain—I just wanted to know.

When the staff meeting adjourned I went up to Scott the Scottie. Scott is sixteen and works in accounting. He’s known for having zero personality but is practically an encyclopedia of knowledge and information. I took him aside and asked, “Do I have to share my super bowl on Sunday?” He looked at me blankly and said something about me probably having to share my sofa with a bunch of strangers. What did that have to do with anything?

Greta the Greyhound was no help either. She tilted her nose high into the air and informed me she was going to be at the races on Sunday and had no time for “dude stuff.” I didn’t take it personally and waddled down to Pete the Pug’s cubicle. Pete is the sort of fellow I feel like I can trust. Last year, we’d both been assigned to interview Johnny Depp’s dogs—Boo and Pistol—following their near death experience at the hands of the Australian government. The interview never panned out but working together had made us good pals.

Pete hopped off his office chair when I mentioned “super bowl.” He looked over his right shoulder and then his left and it wasn’t until he saw our boss close his office door that he whispered, “stay away from the salsa my friend, or else you’ll be headed to the V-E-T.” Salsa? Pete knew I didn’t know how to dance! Before I could press him for additional details, he was passed out on his keyboard snoring loudly.

I wandered back to my desk, hopped onto my sofa chair and reviewed my notes from the day:

Football
Chicken Wings
Share Forbidden Sofa
Dude Stuff
No Salsa

I was still thoroughly confused. I looked down at my watch: 12:05pm. Further investigation would have to wait until after lunchtime.