My wife is an avid Steelers fan. She can tell you more about the nuances of the 3-4 than most Sportscenter morons. Knows the full history of the franchise chapter and verse. Tonight, she started playing the Steelers songs in the house.
I will engage in no such conduct. I believe one must not count one's chickens before they're hatched, dry themselves off, turn into cute, fuzzy yellow chicks with orange feet, grow up in a cage that's way too small for them living a miserable life, until they wind up in a shallow pool waiting for some Mexican to flip a switch and electrocute their ass so they can have their throats cut and wind up as a quesadilla at Friday's that some anorexic chick won't even finish, causing the waiter to dump their plate in a trashcan and wasting my chicken's entire meaningless, miserable existence.
So I will not allow the war to begin. Not now. Not until the Pennsylvania State Championship is set. I'm going to let her have these three days. I'm going to drink heavily, lock myself in my basement, and ignore her for the next three weeks. I promise - I won't kill her or otherwise cause her bodily harm.