We’re a team.

We stick together.

We root for each other.

When life’s tough, we don’t quit until we punch it in the end zone.

We call football “football” and soccer “soccer.”

I’m the head coach because I’m the dad.

I have a whistle glued to my mouth.

All the furniture inside our house is made of pigskin.

I cannot point out the UK on a world map.

We’re a football family.

Sundays are for NFL Network. And Tostitos.

Our doorbell plays the NFL theme song even when it doesn’t ring.

We’re from Chi-town, so we love Da Bears.

When the game’s on, don’t talk to us.

When it’s Monday Night Football, don’t change the channel.

We hate your team because it’s not our team.

They’ll never know our names, but we praise them like gods.

My kids don’t have rooms, just red lockers, and public school showers.

We scream at everything like a crowd.

My wife is a cheerleader.

I don’t believe women.

We’re a football family.

I yell “son of a bitch” at my television all the time.

Nothing else is allowed on TV all year long.

Two guys in a booth announce everything we do.

Our backyard has upright goals in it.

I want to score a touchdown right now.

Our bodies are bound together by a miniature of Soldier Field stadium.

We don’t use money; we trade Topps football cards.

The carpet is astroturf with lines painted on it.

None of us have intact ACLs.

My daughter’s name is Walter Payton, and so is my son’s and wife’s.

We’re getting family butt implants that look like footballs.

We’re a football family.

Our wallpaper is made from the covers of every Madden game.

My therapist is Mike Ditka.

Or he would be if I went to therapy.

We don’t think cholesterol is real.

We strictly drink Gatorade and only drink it from paper Gatorade cups.

We pour Gatorade on each other for showers.

We all wear headsets and talk shit about soccer.

We have early signs of severe CTE.

The dog is a guy dressed as Staley Da Bear.

We only eat Campbell’s Chunky soups.

It’s impossible to communicate with us.

We throw footballs with messages on them. That’s how we talk.

Except for when we say “hut, hut, hike.”

The cleats help us run around everywhere faster.

Guys wearing shirts of us watch us on TV in a bar that smells like old wood and cigarettes.

We’re a goddamn football family.

We run routes to get around.

Grandma and Grandpa are The Dead Quarterbacks.

We wear full pads at all times.

We bull our necks, puff our chests, and stick our asses out.

We will tackle you behind the line of scrimmage, which is everywhere.

We run the forty-yard dash in a laser-timed 4.20 flat.

We wear gold jackets because we’re in the Hall of Fucking Fame.

We have scrambled brains before the age of thirty-five.

We cannot hold up our grandchildren or clearly say their names.

We’re a motherfucking God-fearing football family.

Going pee is a touchdown and pooping is a field goal.

We throw yellow flags at everything we hate.

You’re one of them. Watch out.

We sweep sexual misconduct allegations under the rug.

We think pot is worse than killing dogs.

We proudly pay for show-and-tell fighter jets with taxpayer money.

Fuck you. Fuck your feelings.

The house is riddled with athlete’s foot.

We’re surrounded by a policeman marching band.

We have sex with Wilson Sporting Goods.

Our eyes are covered in leather.

Our skin is the texture of gloves.

Football-shaped soldiers march onward to Ditka’s Valhalla.

We slaughtered a bald eagle in cold blood.

And put it in our Campbell’s Chunky soup.

It’s time to watch the big game on our Microsoft Surface.

We’re a football family.