It’s that time of year again – sitting around with loved ones, stuffing your palette with regrettable choices and screaming obscenities and commanding death to others.

Nope, not Christmas part zwei. It’s Super Bowl season!

Last year, Super Bowl XLV infuriated your grandparents, trampling M*A*S*H and setting a new record.

This sporting event is no joke.

It’s a grand moment of epic rivalries and rematches. The New York/Boston feud returns for the second time in four years.

If you don’t know a damn thing about football, don’t fret. Newbie to newbie, I’ll provide the perfect playbook to your virgin Super Bowl party.

You don’t need to have any entitlement to turn on the Super Bowl. Just learn at least three words to shout at the TV. My choice ones are all compound words that are unprintable, but the generic theory is to combine either a curse or a racial slur with an animal or item from a toolbox.

Your focus should not be the ruckus on the field. Your anger should be aimed towards the company you keep while they cheat their way through Texas Hold’Em Poker.

The NFL is a catalyst for your “sudden airborne illness” and stay home from work, rarely will people be intently watching each and every play. It’s probably the only time more people care about the commercials.

I’m hoping for a 60 second extended cut of that JCPenney commercial with the middle-aged women howling like badgers at low, low prices.

Organizing your comrades is great, but famine will undoubtedly strike. Football enacts the male equivalent of pregnancy cravings, gouging on everything in sight. Sometimes it’s items that aren’t even edible.

I found myself teething on a remote controller the other day. Now my DVR keeps recording Monday Night RAW and I can’t figure out how to get it to cease.

The evils of the food industry are exponential on this sacred Sunday, casting booming profits. Wings, fries, pizzas, pretzels, nachos (both standard and supreme) and potato chips are aplenty and should be laid out in abundance at your gathering.

This is not a day for the health-conscious eater. Anyone bringing a Tofurkey burger should subsequently be punted in the pelvic bone and out the backdoor.

The group has always come together as a whole to tune into, or at least belittle, the halftime performer. Lady Gaga Sr.’s set this year should be no different, except in the fact it’s not the Black Eyed Peas.

For a successful Super Bowl XL-71-nine-thousand-four, all you need to be aware of is that your television is tuned on to the bright green field.

Root for the Patriots, root for the Giants, it doesn’t matter (it does matter, but that is for my own diluted reasons of seeing persons I personally know disheartened and broken. Go Patriots.)

Merry sportsmanship to you, viewers. Leave your groggy hangovers at the door come class on Monday.