Following in the tradition of much of the 1990s, the Super Bowl was once again not Super in the least (you can only get so many one-armed goal line tackles or Scott Norwoods in a generation), with the possible exception of our remarkable ability to acquire a keg from R Street at 6 PM for a 6:18 kickoff and have it tapped for the coin toss. Ask not how We do it, folks.
Just be assured we are cool cats.
Still, The Serm has some questions about the so-called “big game.” First of all, can anyone tell me why Ray Lewis was named MVP despite having perhaps his worst game of the playoffs. This proved once again that the Super Bowl is a horrendous, media-whore style event. And The Serm is still upset about its lack of an invite; apparently our media pass seat was given to The King of Queens.
Seriously, though, Ray Lewis makes it a point to tackle roughly equivalent to a mack truck. Yet when he laid down the first hit on Tiki Barber, who weighs about 180 pounds soaking wet, Barber rose up faster than an N-SYNC single in this new millenium of horror. Lewis was named MVP so that sportswriters, who have nothing better to do, could write about how last year he was a convicted murderer, and this year he was on top of the proverbial world.
Well, We have something better to do. First of all, the Super Bowl needs to be put on local public access. The incredible amount of money that flows through this three-hour spectacle is insane, and virtually everyone in attendance is some kind of “high roller.” I mean, seriously, does Dean Cain really deserve a seat? The last time this guy was a success on TV, Anthony Perry was playing middle school ball in Jersey. And who doesn’t give Pete Hamby a seat? That’s just a travesty; editor of the #1 most unbiased sports rag in the entire world and still no pass.
While We’re on this tangent here, let me return to Anthony Perry, and more generally, the 2000-1 edition of the Georgetown Hoyas, who started off with a 16-0 record that is seeming less and less impressive every time a Seton Hall player is jailed for decking a teammate. And now we’ve dropped our last three Big East games.
Let me explain one thing to Craig Esherick: Love the paint.
Feel the paint. Embrace the paint as if it were a significant other. Enough with this Gerald Riley bombing zany, Manute Bol-esque three pointers. We have four solid post players in B-squared, Scruggs, Wilson and Sweetney; yet the Hoyas almost never go the blocks, which killed us against both Pitt and Syracuse.
Sure, the Orangemen have Damone Brown, who is as athletic as they come within the paint, but whatever, it’s “No Soup for You” time if he runs into Ruben and Lee.
So Craig baby, our number’s in the masthead. You need some assistant coaching help, give Us a call. If you’re too busy with all the SportsCenter comin-a-knockin for an analysis of our recent letdown, then here’s all ya gotta remember: The paint is good. ‘Tis very good. And Ray Lewis wasn’t so good on Sunday.
And did We mention most of the media is stupid?
