Read this if you don’t care about the Super Bowl
Nick Barrow
God loves football. In fact, just the other day He interrupted my rant about how much I miss Mike Alstott to emphasize the importance of this year’s holiest of games, Super Bowl XLVIII. Please, let me paraphrase what He told me.
See, Peyton and the Broncos represent the last stand of honor in the National Football League. They are a hard working band of blue (and orange) collar men who exemplify the concept of “team.” They are all family men in the same babysitting co-op. They are ingenious, sincere and they humbly acknowledge their new role as America’s Team (sorry, Dallas). They hail from Denver, the healthy heartland of the American west and the American Dream. Not much else really needs to be said about the Broncos.
Denver is God’s team.
Then there’s the Seahawks… Ooooh. They represent the new, flashy, disrespectful generation of football. They are a polluted Pacific wave of depravity that is infesting football at all levels. They stand for taunting, rowdy and selfish lack of composure, unnecessary attention and all of the negativity that comes with it. I feel sorry for their mothers.
The Seahawks unfortunately come from Seattle, where the hipsters flock, it’s always dreadful and rainy and cannabis isn’t even legal yet. They play in that unoriginal Century Link stadium. Every time I see that ugly excuse for architecture all I can think about is irresponsible athletes driving drunk to strip clubs to awkwardly scatter one-dollar bills around.
The only thing Seattle has going for them is the old-school ground game in Marshawn Lynch, a classic brute as big and dumb and somehow as accomplished as any running back we’ve seen since Mike Alstott. However, unlike Alstott or any of Denver’s players, Lynch is an intolerable goon and is just about as ugly as that foresworn stadium.
And Pete Carroll is to football as what all politicians are to politics: a piece of garbage.
And you want me to talk about a crook? Russell Wilson is the epitome of sneaky, rat quarterbacks who never learned how to keep their unwanted athleticism in the pocket. I hate that another young, crumby QB meandered this far into the playoffs behind his exceptional defense and running game.
The Seattle Seahawks are Tom Hanks’ and Meg Ryan’s team.
So please, in order to conserve the good-natured tradition and glory of the best sport ever invented, both God and I advise you to concentrate all of your positive vibes to the Denver Broncos. Convert the energy from those chicken wings to the good guys–especially Peyton, the honorable hero who should command God’s team to a victory this Sunday. Thank you.