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TNB Headquarters could not be more excited about this year’s Superbowl.
That’s not entirely true. We could be more excited for plenty of reasons. One of them would be if there actually were a TNB Headquarters. Especially if it was someplace cool, like New Orleans, or Branson, MO.
But, while there are plenty of things more exciting, the game promises to be a good one. For the first time in a decade, the Superbowl is a match-up of the two top seeds in each conference — the Indianapolis Colts, representing the AFC, and the NFC’s Saints, from the aforementioned Big Easy. And both teams have offenses that sportswriters often describe as “high-voltage,” which is a fancy way of saying “electric,” which is a fancy way of saying “good.”
In Vegas, the Colts are favored by 4.5 points, which means that they have to win by at least five points to “beat the spread.” If you’re enough of a regular of this fine literary magazine to have a) found this post, and b) read this far, you probably don’t care about gambling odds. Let me rephrase that. If you meet criteria a) and b), it is a safe bet that you don’t care about gambling odds.
The best player on the Colts is the quarterback, Peyton Manning, a name that sounds like a lesser character from Gone With the Wind. He may well be the best QB of all time, but it’s tough to take him seriously because he looks like Haley Joel Osment.
The best Saint is also the quarterback, Drew Brees. He’s a better-looking dude than Manning, but he ain’t Tom Brady (see photo). Sorry, ladies.
Although there are still plenty of reasons for the football-phobic crowd to tune in. Here’s US Weekly‘s take on the game:
“How’s this for a showdown? At presstime, the Indianapolis Colts (featuring Kendra Baskett‘s husband, Hank) and New Orleans Saints (with Kim Kardashian‘s man, Reggie Bush) were the teams to beat.”
I hope you don’t know who Kendra Baskett is. I really do. (Note: Phat, if you’re reading this, please explain).
And we have occasion to do an Abbott & Costello routine:
–Who’s doing the halftime show.
–I don’t know.
–No, Who’s doing the halftime show.
–I don’t know…and I don’t care!
Will they deduct Social Security from their paychecks, as the band members are already eligible for it? (Or would be, if they lived in the States. In the UK, they’re called — and correct me if I’m wrong, Jedi — pensioners, a term I love). Not that I’m opposed to aging Baby Boomers providing entertainment. But maybe they should rock out a bit less. Or not at all. Put it this way: if The Who plays “My Generation,” they might have to seriously consider changing the “hope I die before I get old” line.
If you don’t know which team to root for, consider this: The Colts have been good for a decade and won a Superbowl a few years ago. The Saints are perennial doormats, nicknamed the ‘Aints, whose fans used to come to the Superdome with paper bags on their heads because they were so ashamed to be associated with the team. Also, they play in New Orleans, and New Orleans has been through some tough times in the last few years. A championship would really boost morale.
In short, other than native Hoosiers, members of Peyton Manning’s immediate family, and the great Kendra Baskett, no one will be pulling for the Colts (except maybe Our Fearless Leader, who grew up in Indiana). I’m rooting (yes, Simon, yes, Zara, I said “rooting”) for the Saints.
Which doesn’t mean I think they’ll win.
My pick: Colts 34, Saints 27.
Yay! Rooting!
I think your pick is spot on. Plus it appears you’re taking the over. Which at 57 points is pretty ballsy, but I’d do the same.
However, I disagree with your assessment of Brees being a better-looking dude than Peyton. Maybe if he shaved off that comb-over, then I would agree. On second thought, I don’t to talk anymore about which dude is more attractive. Never mind.Should have taken the under!
But has anyone EVER called a game better than Sean Payton did last night? We spent all week lauding the wrong Payton…
He called a fantastic game. He won the game for them, more so than Brees. And to think Jerry let him get away so he could hire the marshmallow man.
I hope the Saints can somehow manage to win their first. A few lucky bounces…you never know. To quote Screaming Al Pacino — “On any given Sunday you’re gonna win or you’re gonna lose. The point is – can you win or lose like a man?”
Who dat playin in dat halftime show?
I predict an upset: Saints 30 – Colts 27. I’m never right, so Colts win. How about a first-ever tie, which would be perfect since I’m an honorary Hoosier (having married one) and said spouse and I honeymooned in New Orleans during Jazz Fest.
I had the Abbott & Costello conversation with C’s grandmother at dinner — kid you not.
Ha!
That also means that she doesn’t know the Who. Which means there is a cap on the demographic. Basically, you had to be in a very small envelope to get jazzed about the show last night. Although, truth to tell, I kind of enjoyed it.
Oops.
This is why I’m not a gambler.
But I’ve never been happier to have been wrong on a pick.
Kendra is one of Hugh Hefner’s Bimbos on The Girls Next Door. There was the Lesbian one, the one who only slept with black guys, and the one who actually slept with Hef. I’ll leave it to you to guess which one Kendra was. She now has her own show, cuz she was impregnated by Hank Baskett, and I’ll be damned if that doesn’t warrant a show these days. Hank Baskett is a third rate receiver who can’t even get playing time on the Colts, who throw the ball so often that even the hot dog vendor has caught a few passes. She doesn’t get naked on the new show, cuz of the pregnancy, so I would guess maybe 3 or 4 people have actually seen it.
Thanks, Phat. A perfect description.
Hank Baskett did get his name called last night…he was the Colt who tried to catch the onside kick and failed to hold on to the ball. For some reason, I found this beyond amusing.
All I needed was The Who to break something and the $100 bingo prize was all mine. Money in the bank, I says to myself. I’ll be damned if they didn’t break a damn thing and someone’s kid won the pot when a monkey appeared in a commercial a few minutes later. Shenanigans. Never again Townsend, never again.
Are you sure Pete didn’t break his hip?
Our Sunday sports page had a small photo of Roger and Pete at the bottom an inside page, and I swear to Lombardi I thought it was a shot of someone’s grandparents: Roger with his curly locks, Pete with his bald head and triple chin. I wonder if they still hope they die before they — damn, too late.
Roger Daltrey looked like my grandmother. The scarf wasn’t helping. He’s the posterboy for men who look like old lesbians.