Can An Artist Love A Diehard Football Fan?

Like most women on the planet, I dreamed that I would one day find the perfect man. Someone who would not mind me occasionally bringing home a stray dog or cat. A man who could watch Monty Python's Holy Grail repeatedly and would still have a beverage shoot out his nose when the Frenchman says, "I fart in your general direction." And, most importantly, I longed for a man who could spend many a Sunday afternoon lying on the couch watching football with me. Honestly, I thought that the last requirement on my list would be the easiest to fulfill. Well, as luck would have it, I did find my dream guy. I found him in his indigenous environment: the art museum. He was displaying his original artwork, oil paintings of various people and things. I thought he was brilliant and talented. He swept me off my feet from the moment I met him. He was kind, funny, intelligent—almost everything I wanted in a man. But, sadly, he didn't care so much for watching large men in spandex beat the crap out of each other for possession of a ball. I was devastated. How could someone so perfect be so horribly flawed? He couldn't relate to such barbaric activity of testosterone and sweat.