Rendering: Adam Pardee/STAFF.

As you prepare to shovel seven pounds of bean dip into your pie hole and slurp down 25 Budweisers using a football game as an excuse, making yourself wish you were dead come Monday morning, I pose a question:

Why?

Doesn’t Super Bowl Sunday usually feel terrible when you’re an adult? I know this year is different in the Bay Area. It’s our (your) team in the big game, so people are going to be more hyped than usual. Some might actually stop inhaling Bagel Bites and shotgunning Pabst Blue Ribbon for a couple minutes to watch.

I’m not a big Niners guy, but I am rooting for Brock Furby because he was great in “Willow,” hasn’t started shaving, and was drafted 262nd in a 262-pick draft. And he hasn’t been arrested for crashing his car or beating up anyone’s girlfriend, which is a real plus in today’s NFL.

The only thing America loves more than Budweiser-soaked bean dip is underdogs. And the 49ers’ quarterback is the underdog of underdogs. A lot of overpaid smug talking heads who make more money than me will hopefully be eating their own overpaid words come Monday morning when they’re still making more money than me. But they’ll be wrong and I won’t.

So in the meantime, I’ll still eat the bean dip, enjoy some oven-baked treats, have some fizzy whatever and generally be ready to fall into a coma by the start of the fourth quarter. Because my daughters and I are going to my mom’s, where she started plotting the artery clotting on Saturday morning.

And because I’m an American, damn it.

I won’t be drinking alcohol, but I still probably won’t be fit to drive home at evening’s end. Because I may not fit behind the wheel.

Some of you may remember the bucket scene from “Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life,” when the morbidly obese Mr. Creosote, played by Terry Jones, enters the fancy restaurant, immediately asks for a bucket, then eats everything in the restaurant, requiring his own cleaning woman.

There’s that moment when Mr. Creosote assures the French waiter, played by John Cleese, he can’t eat another bite, at which time Cleese goads him into eating one, wafer-thin mint, then sprints away as if he gave him a grenade and pulled the pin.

Same result. Yes, he explodes. Yes, it’s disgusting. Of course it’s disgusting. That’s the point. And that’s you—and me—on Super Bowl Sunday. Also known as American Gluttony Day.

Here’s the funny thing, though, and not many people know this: There’s also a football game on Super Bowl Sunday. And sometimes, it’s pretty good.

Sometimes it’s not. I’ve been to a Super Bowl, where the game was so boring that someone stealing my laptop was the day’s highlight. I’ve watched the Super Bowl from sports bars in Las Vegas (the site of this year’s game), Reno and Tahoe. I once watched a buddy win a few thousand dollars on a bet he didn’t tell any of us about until the game was over.

Once on the way home from watching a Super Bowl, during a desert pit stop, I discovered another buddy liked to shoot guns at cacti. That, by the way, really wakes you up for the rest of the drive.

Most of the best Super Bowl Sundays were always a mix of good friends and good games. And, yes, lots of beer and bad food, both of which I try avoiding now, with mixed results. And I’ve already conceded Monday’s coming bean dip hangover.

My best Super Bowl memory? Thanks for asking. It was only about the game. The greatest Super Bowl Sunday in my, or really anyone’s, life was when the Raiders finally got there in 1977.

I was 9 years old and, on that long and nauseating road of many, many years of the Steelers beheading the Raiders in the playoffs seemingly every year, I only dreamed of that day. Because, while I’d only lived 9 and a half years at that point, it still felt like the Raiders hadn’t won a Super Bowl in my lifetime.

My whole life. Nine and a half years doesn’t sound like very many now, but back then …

I went to bed in my silver and black jammies the previous night and watched the game in my family room. I set up a TV tray table thing about three hours in advance, got a legal pad, used a red pen (I can’t tell you my daughters’ middle names, but I remember I used a red pen one afternoon 47 years ago) to sketch out my own version of a box score containing all the Raiders’ offensive players names, and took diligent stats all afternoon.

Clarence Davis ran for 137 yards. I know this, because I made a little red mark for all 137 of them.

There were no 15-pound sacks of chips, no cleverly cooked up football-shaped oven treats, no copies of a grid with little betting squares, and people wearing team clothes they bought the day before. I don’t even remember anyone else being in the same room. It was just me watching Kenny Stabler and my team dismantle the Minnesota Vikings. And it was glorious.

So try to watch the game. Have a moderate amount of fun, Niners’ fans. Happy Super Bowl Sunday.

Follow music critic Tony Hicks at Twitter.com/TonyBaloney1967.