Super Bowl

I’m a Seahawks fan, but also a New England resident, so ever since the Packers vanquished Hasselbeck and co. I’ve been rooting for the Pats. Given how the season’s gone so far, and that the Pats beat the Giants even as they were playing their heart out at the end of the regular season, I think that’s a pretty safe position going into this. But I’ve never been a major sports guy, so I’ll outsource my predictions to the McSweeney’s article, “Famous Authors Predict the Winner of Super Bowl XLII”. Behold the awesome:

Cormac McCarthy

Overhead, the sun is a wrathful god. It is made to ravage a dying land.

The boy stands in a dry gulch. He tilts his hat to the sting of the wind.

These men are patriots, says The Coach.

I reckon.

Do you know their soul?

Reckon not.

A hoarse laugh echoes through the heat. It singes the cragged escarpments of the red canyon.

You won’t be the first, says The Coach.

I ain’t scared of you.

Tengo otros cuerpos. Quiero el tuyo.

The Coach wears a bone around his neck. It is hung from dead sinew. Other bones he has ground by pestle and mortar. In the ancient caves he swallowed white dust.

I am here to erase you.

The boy squints at the arroyo bed. The earth is scorched in jagged lines.

It ain’t no kind of life, he says.

Overhead, the sun is a wrathful god. It will bake the world.

Prediction: Patriots 27, Giants 6

And it only gets better from there. The Objectivist-hater in me loves the Ayn Rand one (prediction: Patriots 326, Giants 27, because Belichick is just like John Galt), but my favorite has to be Joyce:

James Joyce

Thusly and thricely slaked he uptrod the spiral staircase and fancied for himself only a briny frieze.

— Give out, Jesuit, or forever in peace may you lie.

Sardonic, sardonic was the mile then adopted. It can twist forever (if the vicars will allow, if the oxen pull the plow).

— Dearly beloved, he quipped through shut mouth, did not Rapunzel cry from on high?

She skipped with a slow whistle to the first stone slab. As at Young Colin’s, on the eve of Fata Morgana, all rose quietly. How could it be remiss?

Thanatopsis. Requiescat In Pace.

Prediction: Unclear

I’ll be reading Portrait of the Artist in class shortly. Feel my pain.
P.S. What is the deal with the FOX NFL Gundam? You know, the giant, silver football-playing robot that’s always dancing during promos? It’s just so dancey, and animé-y.

Also, how many people does it take to flip a coin? About 40 in the NFL, apparently.

P.P.S. Oh damn – the Terminator just attacked the NFL Gundam! Oh noes, NFL Gundam! If your wife didn’t just spontaneously endorse Obama, I’d be very mad right now, Terminator!

P.P.P.S. Wanted is the single most bad-ass movie ever, or so the commercial indicates. Angelina Jolie picking James McAvoy up by slamming into him with a sports car? Awesome.
P.P.P.P.S. Did FOX really play “No Cars Go” in the middle of the Super Bowl? Why yes, I believe they did. Good taste, guys.

P.P.P.P.P.S. Oh man – there’s a posable action figure version of the NFL Gundam? Genius! I need one of those. Speaking of which, this guy is a hater, and must be shunned. No one doubts the greatness of the NFL Gundam.

2 thoughts on “Super Bowl

  1. Well, I haven’t read it yet (we’re still on Heart of Darkness, which I love in spite of its racism), but I take my cues on these things from Greg Nagan, who has this to say about Joyce:

    While Ulysses is not as difficult a novel as Finnegan’s Wake, this is akin to saying that a bullet between the eyes is not as difficult as a half dozen grenades up one’s ass.

    I’d imagine that’d make Portrait of the Artist around the level of death by carbon monoxide, less painful than either death-by-gun or death-by-anal-explosion, but death all the same.

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