Peyton can now cancel the 6-foot sub he had ordered for Super Bowl Sunday.
I am quite impressed. I left watching the game during half-time to take my wife to work. The score was 21-6 in favor of the Patriots. I thought Peyton was getting another visit to his favorite locale, the woodshed. When I came back, the score was Pats 28, Colts 21. I was so shocked I threw up every meal from the past week. Something must have been wrong with our satellite signal. When it snows, the snow accumulates on our dish, resulting in the loss of signal. I had cleaned off the dish earlier in the day. Maybe I needed to do it again. I must have been dreaming. Perhaps I slipped in the kitchen and hit my head, and was now unconscious. There was no way the Powerful Pats could give up such a lead, and to such a person as Peyton the Powerless.
I continued to watch the game, knowing full well that what had happened was a fluke, and that the Peerless Pats would soon exert their will and put an end to this foolishness. Yet, they never did. They allowed the Cowardly Colts to stay in the game. They even allowed them to attain the lead with less than a minute left. I worried not, for the Caped Crusaders of New England had a weapon mere mortals could not stop. They had Brady the Brave, champion of a thousand battlefields. Yet, somehow (probably demons of some sort), Brady the Beau failed.
How could this happen? How on this side of Shiloh could Belichick, the Patriot Prestidigitator, lose? How could the Pusillanimous Ponies of Indy, without help from a nuclear arsenal, stop Brahmin Brady? Is this the first sally of the Apocalypse? Is Dungy one of the Four Horsemen? Whatever shall we do?