<strong>The Living Room</strong><br/><br/>Muted cheers filled the apartment. The cries of rage were louder but less frequent. From time to time thumping sounds echoed as if something heavy like a large building collapsed in the living room.<br/><br/>Passion juice was ramping up in the living room.  Testosterone was so thick the occasional fly was doing AB crunches on the lamp shade.<br/><br/>Women did not seem to understand games in general and this game in particular, because it lacked two key ingredients that all women seemed to migrate and build a nest in, flowers and kleenex.<br/><br/>There was no romance crap. No soppy good byes. It was straight up physical contact and brute force to push a black and white round object up and down a short cut field as many times as possible in order to hit a white net guarded by the only guy who could use his hands.<br/><br/>There was even blood and the occasional collision.  It was primal. Vulgar. Run it down. Kill it. Drag it home. It was Man Entertainment.<br/><br/>If a woman wanted a passionate night she need only select the right channel, cooler of beer beside the couch, cook a steak, and wait for the credits before stripping in front (here’s the key) FRONT of the TV AFTER the game. Emphasis on AFTER.<br/><br/>Or just wait for Moussad to get thirsty or Vern to notice that Evie was no longer on the couch. Probably AFTER the game.