It was one of those things. Does lightning strikes twice? Is Colin eating two pieces of pizza at once?
They were older, wiser.
Dan Buckelieter says: “Jonah, you went from know-nothing to being the guru.”
It is chaos but we grow. Bros Win Forever: one year later, what does it mean?
It’s complicated, you know. That chick kissed that guy, but such is life in the 21st century.
Aluminum, cylindrical, contains that sensual brew. Tom sips it down, wantonly. Gently clasped between his fingers, at the end of his limped wrist, the can alternates red and white. He hasn’t taken a sip for over a minute.
Somewhere in the kitchen a cell phone rings. Erika answers it as she leaves the room. One woman fewer. The bros are winning.
They were buffer, hotter.
Only Eric is smiling. The curls on the corners of everyone else’s lips fall flat, or worse.
It was a different mood from last year. But a superbowl story is a superbowl story. Tom Petty--I mean, what’s there to say? He’s good at what he does. I hope they play “Refugee”.
New Amsterdam?
The lights from the camera begin to flash. A heart appears in the middle of the stage, and the first guitar chords are struck. Suddenly a phallic-appearing guitar explodes into a heart, and some people begin to rush the field. Tom Petty looks cool, composed, like he’s done this a million times before. Only half the eyes in the house are actually paying attention, however. Jonah looks absentmindedly into his computer, Masha is picking some lint off her sweater, and Erinrose and Andrew are heavy into a make out session in the back of the room, taking breaks here and there to munch on veggie chix.
Tom says “Oh yeah,” as he grabs a bottle of Johnnie Walker. Jonah and Tom begin to discuss the situation of a Carleton alum currently teaching at Philips-Exeter. Turns out Andrew went to P-E, Erinrose lets us know as she takes a break from making out. The first song ends. (note to Colin: fuck you, Colin)
I won’t back down. I’m taking this computer out for a joy ride, no matter what Greg says. This stage is collapsible. What times we live in. Hey-ya. You know.
Then a knock came on the door.
“Heron police”
Heron police?
“Underwater crimes? You called the right people. We’re herons. And police. Waterfowl gonna bring you down.”
“Man, I don’t know what you’re even talking about. I’m clean. Been clean since ‘86”
“Oh shit, game over!” Dan Buckleitner yelps, as he makes for the door. Turns out he got in a little trouble at the bottom of the Cannon back in the late 90s, and the heron police had finally caught up with him. He broke for the window, but those herons, man, those fuckers can fly. They had him cornered.
“Alright, Dirty Dan,” the chief of Heron Police bellowed in a deep, sexy baritone, “The jig is up. No more dancing for you, brother. I mean, I can’t take this dance metaphor much further, but I just turned off the fucking music. No more jigging. Confess, or you are smoked salmon, you fuck!”
“I don’t give respect to no fucking birds, man (bird),” Dirty Dan retorted. “Your legs are skinny as fuck. If I just touch your knee, you’re going down!” He proceeded to bust some rhymes:
Danny Buckleitner, hella Mich-y
I’m about to bust some rhymes and feel silly
Born in the burbs, so I came here to rock
Heron Police, you can suck Dirty Dan’s @#$%
You punk ass, you look like a little lady
I’m about to hold it down like Tom Brady
I tip ya ass like I tip the pass
Behind the back, dawg, yo’ ass is straight-up grass
Burn bridges like I’m sick, but my rhymes make me sicka
Check out my photo albums, post ‘em all on Flickr
Dirty Dan then took out a cigarette and smoked it in an act of rebellion.
All of the sudden:
“BROS!”
Randy Moss slammed on the door.
“Randy?” Kevin said.
“You guys,” said Randy, “Have you been wondering why I’m not doing so hot in this super bowl? It’s because I’m not me. That’s a robo in there. Remember the robos?”
“Shiiit!” said Detective Heron. “We musta got a bad tip. You get off easy, Dirty Dan Buck--THIS TIME.”
“Randy, what about the robo? We gotta shut it down. But can we? Can we really stop the course of the superbowl. Life water?”
“I know what you mean my friend,” said Randy, online. “But do we have a choice?”
“I don’t think so,” said Scarlett Johansson, who took a moment off of chomping on Colin’s meaty package to contribute to the conversation.
“Looks like the bros are going to Arizona!” said Greg. There were high fives all around.
Act II, Arizona, the stadium where the super bowl is being played.
A taxi pulls up in front of the stadium. The bros file out.
“I don’t have any cash on my person, you guys got this,” said Greg
“No, you bros have done so much already, Randy Moss has got this,” said Randy Moss. Randy fucking Moss.
“Thanks Randy!” said Dan. But which Dan?
No time to ponder such question, the bros are already on the move, in the underbelly of Arizona University’s labyrinthine stadium.
“Where the fuck did Scarlett go?” Colin asked.
“It doesn’t matter now,” Greg observed, “We’re lost in the labyrinthine underbelly of the University of Arizona’s stadium!”
“Just because you mixed up your word order the second time doesn’t mean that you didn’t just repeat yourself,” said the reader.
“I was repeating myself before you were self-aware, bitch,” Greg retorted postmodernly.
If you hadn’t already figured this out, this isn’t just any labyrinth under the University of Arizona’s stadium. It’s the labyrinth, and the Centaur is fucking pissed. He comes roaring around the corner like a rabid demon from the ninth circle of hell, swinging a monstrous battleaxe.
Luckily, Randy has his game-time wits about him, and proceeds to juke out of the Centaur’s path. “Randy Moss,” says Randy Moss.
Now it’s all in Moss’ head. He’s got a clear path straight to the goal line, which is what Randy Moss calls the exit of the labyrinth. Certain football experts call it the end zone. We disagree. But it’s not up to us. Randy Moss takes it in to the exit (end zone) and tastes freedom.
Suddenly, Ride of the Valkyries started blasting over the speakers. Sarah King started flapping her arms, only to be reminded that Valkyries can’t fly. It’s a weakness of their kind.
The writers tacitly vow to never mention a woman again on any terms that aren’t derogatory and sexual. Here here!
Randy Moss finds himself in the end zone and begins to lift his hands towards God in celebration. But the crowd remains silent. Cruel fate. The ball had not found its way into his hands. Instead, it bounces lopsidedly ten yards behind him and rolls out of bounds. No points here.
Randy moss undoes his chin strap and returns to the sideline, dejected.
“Aw man Randy, we’re sorry,” said Greg.
“Want me to suck on your penis and make you feel better?” said Kevin.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” said Randy.
Eye contact is made between the bros. Who turns down a BJ from Kevz?
“A robo?”
Well done reader.
“I’m really not sure where I come into this scenario,” said the reader, “and what’s more, I’m alienated by Colin’s blowjob fetish. I recommend he get a blowjob for real and stop suppressing his sexual energy.” (Colin’s note: fuck you Tom)
“Nice diagnosis, reader. Maybe I was wrong about you,” Greg complimented, “but we’ve got bigger fish to fry. The Giants just scored a TD, and the Beergurat is only two stories tall. REALITY CHECK (Greg ALWAYS yells in caps)!”
Jeff Gordon was upset. He had been watching the liveblogging from the sidelines, ready to bounce at 180 mph, powering through with more horsepower than you knew existed. NASCAR was a dying sport and he knew it. He was desperate. Something had to be done in order to bring the sport back into prominence. Gordon knew exactly what that was.
“Aha!” cried Jeff Gordon. “I know how to save my “sport”. I’ll have Kurt Warner quarterback my car. He’ll toss my car from here to yaya and victory we‘ll surely be mine. I‘ll be the prettiest car at the race.”
Thus NASCAR was saved from certain doom, except that it isn’t 1999 and Kurt Warner isn’t particularly good anymore. But that isn’ t that important in the context of this epic tale. Unfortunately the world outside Alabama didn’t care that NASCAR was saved. Oh, and Erik Ulberg did, too. You know, Swedish heritage and all. Damn Swedes.
Leah Karels declared a vendetta against all things Swedish.
Except Swedish fish. And ABBA.
Meanwhile, the Giants declared a vendetta against all things badass by not going for it on 4th and 1. Eli Manning proceeded to get fucked by the biggest assholes I know because he is a pussy, and every pussy I know gets fucked by assholes. But maybe that’s just the beer talking.
“Are you pooping on me?” Sarah interrupted.
The rat simply stared at her, beady eyed.
The two stared at each other until Lindsey gripped it, lifted it, and set it on her shoulder. It being the rat.
Meanwhile, it was getting down to the nitty gritty. Whatever that means. We are all Patriots, excluding those who don’t really fall under that category.
Oh my God!!! The 2000 Baltimore Ravens are storming the field demanding the Vince Lombardi trophy. Never mind, Roger Goodell brought to their attention that you have to win your conference to play in the Super Bowl and they went away. Crisis averted, although it looks like Ray Lewis stabbed a couple more people. He also got Leah pregnant. Lucky her.
Imagining Leah pregnant makes me uncomfortable, let’s change the mental image.
The Giants hoist their Super Bowl trophy in the air. Victory.
Wait, scratch that. With 2:42 remaining, the Patriots score. The room groans. The people in the room groan too.
“What an arrogant asshole,” Tom says. I’m not sure to whom he is referring. Probably to Greg, who has been suspiciously absent the second half..
Storm clouds collect, and frogs start raining down on the proceedings. Daniel Day Lewis clobbers some priest with a bowling pin. Mark Wahlberg’s huge prosthetic penis makes an appearance. Yes, folks, the end is approaching, but we still have a few moments of emotional climax, when the outro music plays, and everyone wonders “Did that Paul Thomas Anderson masterpiece really just end?” That is this game. The Patriots have scored. The Giants need a first down, and if they don’t get it, they WILL lose. 4th and 1. Well, Eli Manning, are you Daniel Day Lewis, or that priest guy whose name no one knows?
I’m so, so sorry, Bridget.
