One of my less scuzzy friends had the good fortune to marry an enchanting young woman from Australia. The early stages of their courtship occurred mostly online, during which time the silly girl developed the impression that Jamie and his friends like to actually play sports.

Apparently her strange antipodean brain mistranslated "We like sports" as "We like to exert our muscles by moving about in a sudden manner in pursuit of balls and goals and such." Can you imagine?! I pulled both hamstrings just typing that.

So picture her surprise upon discovering that our lumpen, postadolescent, prediabetic bodies were good for little more than anchoring the nylon folding furniture scattered before the giant glowing altar in the middle of any self-respecting American sportsman's living room. Jamie is a man of few words who naturally assumed that the "chugging beer and pizza rolls while watching" was implied in the middle of "We like sports."

I mention this because for the first time in my life, I find myself owning a gigantic TV. It's not very large by "affably ineffectual dudes joshing around while watching sports in a Papa John's commercial" standards, but it's 32 inches across, which is 50 percent larger than the one it replaced. I've never owned this large a television before because I am refined and enlightened and more interested in life's subtler pleasures, like stupid comedy podcasts and dirty Internet stuff; also because I've never lived in the sort of neighborhood where people throw out perfectly nice 10-year-old, 120-pound televisions.

Emily and I didn't need a new TV, because no one ever does, but our old one was tough for watching certain sports on certain networks because the score-and-clock display was cut off along the edges of the screen. So when I saw a huge TV on the curb with a sign promising "Works fine, but is HEAVY," I dragged it home in five agonizing 40-step bursts, hooked it up, and had my faith restored in the subset of humanity that throws out big TVs in uppity neighborhoods. It indeed works fine.

We have now committed ourselves to watching every Patriots game at home this year. It's harder to pay attention in bars and other people's homes, particularly for Emily, because other women tend to think she wants to talk about babies and handbags and shit like that while there's perfectly good football happening right in front of our faces.

Plus it's easier to make your own eggs and drinks at home, which is what we'll be doing this Sunday afternoon while the Patriots brutally beat the Bills in Buffalo.

Last week I offended some of you with the profane suggestion that the Pats would beat the Chargers by a mere 9 points. This week I atone for that sin by guaranteeing a New England blowout. I expect something on the order of 48-21. The Bills have been bad for ages, and even though they've shown signs of life so far this season, good things don't come to those who choose to wait around in Buffalo.

But I mean my imaginary Buffalonian friends no harm, and to prove it I will honor them with regionally appropriate alternatives to the standard Serious Eats recipes for Bloody Marys and deviled eggs.

For the Deviled Eggs

I initially rejected a Buffalo-wing-inspired version as too obvious, for that is easy and I am clever! But I couldn't figure out how to get the texture right through several rounds of testing a whipped bison filling, so the hell with it, here's your wing eggs.

What you're doing here is getting hot sauce and blue cheese into your yolk, which was actually a little trickier than I'd anticipated (I'm very cocky for a man who can't even effectively puree cattle).

The first order of business is to pitch about half the yolks and replace them with an equal measure of real blue cheese. I went with high-end Maytag because I'm the bonnest of vivants and I just got a free TV, but anything will do so long as it doesn't come from a squeeze bottle.

Then you need something smooth to mash the cheese and yolk into; I used sour cream, but you animals probably like mayonnaise. Either way.

Then I just dumped in some Frank's Red Hot, as mandated by good taste and also the Buffalo Wing Authenticity Police. That didn't work.

Frank's isn't really all that hot, so it got overpowered by the feisty cheese. I didn't want to tweak the yolk/cheese ratio, because that would mean drastically reducing the cheese, and why would you ever think you should fix a problem by using less cheese? But if you add more Frank's—enough to get a Buffalo wing flavor rather than an orange-tinted-blue-cheese flavor—then your filling gets too soupy.

You could use a hotter sauce, but then you'd face censure from the aforementioned BWAP. So mix some cayenne powder into your mash before you add the Frank's. It's cheating and it works.

For the Bloody Mary

This week we're going to pay homage to the best player in Bills history. In 1973, O.J. Simpson became the first NFL player to rush for 2,000 yards in a single season. Allegedly. So it seems only fitting to honor his achievements with The Bloody Screwdriver*: Blood orange juice and vodka.

*Thanks to my pal Truck for the idea. I used blood orange soda because it's all I could find, and it was good; let's assume blood orange juice would be even better.

About the author: Will Gordon loves life and hates mayonnaise. You can drink with him in Boston or follow him on twitter @WillGordonAgain.


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