So, this is awkward.

I guess I’d better apologize for everything in chronological order. First off: Barton, I’m sorry for calling your girlfriend “a sub-mental troglodyte who advocates the sexual assault of women who hang around in bars.” I was really keyed up to see the Steelers lose, and she was the only person in the apartment wearing Steelers gear. Something in me snapped, and I’m not proud of it, so… well, sorry.

Sorry, Dana, that was really horrible of me. I’m sure you don’t support rape, since that would be absurd–even if you defended the Black-Eyed Peas, which we’ll get to later, I’m sure. Still, you are a troglodyte for watching Jersey Shore instead of, say, well, anything that takes half a brain to enjoy. Just calling the shots as I see ’em.

And, once again, sorry to Barton. Calling you “dickless” for not having buffalo wings at your party was a jerk thing to say. I’m sure you had a good reason for replacing the usual buffalo wings with a ball of cheddar cheese–cause hey, that was pretty good, even if it got awkward when Steph said she was lactose intolerant and we looked at each other because I dropped some cheese in her Coke, which she drank. (Sorry, Steph. My fault you spent the night in the hospital.) Referring to you for the rest of the night as Barton the Fairy might have been off-color as well.
Oh, while we’re at my pre-game shenanigans, let me apologise for throwing my empty Guinness bottle at the TV after they showed Rapistberger during the pre-game show. It was barbaric and pointless, since he wasn’t in the room with us and the bottle couldn’t have hurt him, but I slipped into English football hooligan mode for a moment (not the first time, I know), my IQ dropped about thirty-six points, and I felt that this was the best way to express my opinion that he was a horrible human being. I guess we were lucky you’ve got a durable TV. Oh, I know you’re not the most religious of people, but I also apologise for the horrible string of blasphemies I let loose when I remembered the BEP were playing at half-time. That was uncalled-for.

Brandon: Sorry for accusing you of “checking your balls at the door” when you brought in the case of Blue Moon. Belgian-style beer is pretty good and, to your credit, you didn’t put an orange in there, which really would have meant you’d checked your balls at the door. And, hey, you left the case of Killian’s there, so that’s a pretty cool move, I guess.

While I’m on the beer thing, I’m going to go ahead and apologise to Dana for calling her “a soulless, vacuous shade of a human being” for not liking Guinness. It’s an acquired taste and, judging by your near-emaciated form, you’d probably freak out about the amount of calories.

Brad: Sorry for chucking the empty Guinness bottle at your head when you said you didn’t want to play a goblin in Cataclysm. Neither of us play WarCraft enough to really care about Horde vs. Alliance any more, but I really, really liked the goblins’ opening quests, and having Thrall turn you into a whirlwind is really, really cool. It was a childish reaction to a really pointless and unimportant conversation, but, as I said, Thrall turns you into a fucking whirlwind. What do the worgen do? Mope around about how they’re werewolves? I bet all the Twilight readers play worgen with variations of Jacob Black as their character names.

Sorry, got off-track there. Yumiko: Sorry that the beer bottle hit you in the face after Brad ducked. Totally not what I wanted. You probably don’t even play WoW.

Everyone: Sorry for the horrible strain of classist and nationalist invectives (seriously, I don’t know why I affected a British accent) during the half-time show. Not everyone who likes the Black Eyed Peas is a blue-collar, sewer-dwelling, flag-waving, Bush-supporting, American Idol-watching, tasteless, Hot Pocket-cramming, Bud Lite-swilling, NASCAR-watching, club-going, France-hating, facist Reaganite. That’s just most of the clingers-on to the Me Decade–you know, those douchebags who live in The Gulch. I think we can all agree, though, that having The Black Keys would have been a huge improvement.

Andrew: Sorry for chucking the full beer bottle at your head when you said Springsteen wasn’t good at the Halftime show a few years ago. That’s your opinion and, however objectively and abhorrently wrong it is, you’re entitled to both it and the right to not have stuff chucked at you when you express it.

Everyone: Sorry for wishing that Roethlisberger would die so that I could spit on his corpse. Nothing has been proven against him, and, while I think we were all of the opinion that he did some questionable things, we should also all agree that wishing someone dead so that their corpse may be spat upon is objectively wrong.

Everyone: Sorry for upending the table after the Steelers scored and got close to tying it up. It was a pretty classless move. Didn’t hold a candle to trying to tear down the TV, for which I apologize as well, but we should all be grateful that I’m pretty unused to doing things and gave up after not being able to easily reach it.

Barton: Sorry for taking a swing at you after you said, “I wouldn’t expect you to be able to lift anything.” It may have looked like I wasn’t trying to hit you, but I was. Luckily, I didn’t care enough to move from my seated position. But, still, that was a dick thing to say, man. Dick thing to say.

Everyone: Sorry for chanting “Who are you? Who are you?” after the end of the game. None of you understood what that meant, I realize now. In my opinion, that just means you should go to an English football match to hear the chants–but I can understand your hesitation since plane tickets are so damn expensive.

Barton and Dana: Sorry for making everything awkward when I said, “Well, I guess I’ll head off so you can fuck on every surface in this place.” That was a weird thing to say, but I was really just trying to make up for the “Who are you? Who are you?” thing. Overreached, and really made it weird for everyone who was sticking around.

Well, I think that about sums it all up. Once again, apologies all around. I understand if I’m not invited to the next one.