“Deflating The Damn Thing” — collage by AleXander Hirka

Lifting the Seat on The Super Bowl

My Breakfast With Zĕna

aleXander hirka
4 min readFeb 18


A leisurely Monday morning breakfast with my friend—writer and philosopher Zĕna Kōan.
I was sharing an experience from the night previous.

There was this loud bestial male roar from out back.
(My apartment faces a back yard and the windows of dozens of neighbors’ apartments.)

An orgasm?
Nope—as it was soon followed by a bunch of other voices, screaming in unison—moans tinged with the downward bent notes that suggested dreaded disappointment.
If I were out on the pampas I’d have guessed that the wild pig they were in pursuit of had gotten away.

But even as out of touch as I am with most fancies of the human herd, my memory was fist-bumped into recalling the vast beer and chips display at the grocery store—this was one of the high holy days of the year in this urban jungle, and all across the vast empire—Superbowl Sunday.
That sound I heard was probably the Grunt of a Fumble.

Zĕna smiled and recounted that she had seen a sign outside a bar yesterday —Rihanna watch party tonight!
My guess was, she continued, that the local boys weren’t really into either of the two teams this year, so they’d be raising their glasses to some female booty shaking, always a guarantee of the infamous halftime show.
The painted lady sings and dances and sells hubba-hubba voyeuristic sexy — to boys for a bit of lust—to girls to provide make-up and outfit suggestions.
I must have heard one of her classic musical innovations booming down from the grocery store speakers, but I can’t name it.

After the howling died down The Google tempted me to do some research.
They keep numbers on all this—the advertisers need to know—and something like 113 million faces were plastered to their flatscreens. Even more for the multi-million dollar commercials and the hoochie-koochie.
That’s just a couple dozen million from how many people voted in the last election.

Zĕna sipped her coffee, and shook her head: I never understood that game. Armored men stampeding in short stutters around a vast field— groping and tossing a prolate spheroid-shaped “ball”.
Raising up one of her pieces of bacon, she said—pigskin.



aleXander hirka

Writer, visual artist, philosopher, autodidact, curmudgeon. More than half of what i do is make believe. https://alexanderhirka.nyc