POETRYINMOTION1

Welcome. Introducting our panel of annual analysts:

  • Climp Bators (Pigskin Warthog Online Editor, statistician, sub-par husband)
  • Lash St. Cower (Portland Daily Gazette columnist, senile ex-lover of Eartha Kitt)
  • Rosalind Propecia (on-field interviewer, ESPN Chechnya)
  • Cormac McCarthy (Pulitzer Prize-winning author of The Road and All the Pretty Horses, licensed misanthrope)
  • Kegstands-X5 (sentient, artificially intelligent android sent from the future to discuss football)
  • Peaches Malloy (three-time Pro Bowl running back, disgraced infomercial psychic)

Climp Bators, 2:49 PM: Kickoff at Mile High Stadium is upon us, as the Broncos and Patriots square off with everything to lose, and an all-expenses paid trip to New Jersey to gain.

Rosalind Propecia, 2:51 PM: The key to the first half will be: has Bill Belichick eaten today?  And if so, who was it that he ate?

Lash St. Cower, 2:54 PM: Patriots wide receiver Julian Edelman has dedicated his performance in today’s game to the fight against Lupus.  Not the disease Lupus, but to Valerie Lupus, a woman whom Edelman believes recently stole his car.

Kegstands-X5, 2:58 PM: We’ve seen Tom Brady play some of the best football of his career against Peyton Manning.  We’ve seen Manning effortlessly portray a man ordering Papa John’s pizza.  Each man has prepared all their life for this afternoon.

Cormac McCarthy, 3:01 PM: On Astroturf, the earth’s inevitable cremation is but a pebble in your boot.  Death is inevitable upon a grave of plastic emerald thorns.  Blood and mustard merge as the foothills moan, yearning outward, sickly outward.

Peaches Malloy, 3:13 PM: Peyton Manning yells “Omaha” to maintain his count at the line of scrimmage, but you don’t understand this sport until you’ve seen the mayor of Omaha walk down Main Street in his bathrobe, wearing Kleenex boxes for shoes and muttering, “Manning.  Manning.   Manning.”

Kegstands-X5, 3:24 PM: The sun looks to be in the eyes of both teams, once again making my point that the sun should be extinguished and the Earth transformed into a beacon of serene darkness.

Cormac McCarthy, 3:24 PM: Ditto.

Rosalind Propecia, 3:26 PM: A twenty-seven yard field goal puts the Broncos ahead, 3-0.   As is AFC custom, the ball used to score the day’s first points is now deflated until flat, then stirred into an omelet served at halftime to the ugliest mascot.

Climp Bators, 3:49 PM: Big catch for 14 yards from Wes Welker.  Secretly hairy, that Wes Welker.  Hairier than you’d expect.

Lash St. Cower, 3:54 PM: I fear my wife has grown fond of our cabana boy, Clarke.  Naturally I wanted her to grow somewhat fond: such is the purpose of hiring a cabana boy.  But Clarke lays it on too thick.

Peaches Malloy, 4:16 PM: As the two minute warning is called, John Elway announces to everyone and no one in his owner’s box that he once hit a drifter with his car and just kept driving, under the presumption that everything would turn out fine.

Kegstands-X5, 4:50 PM: The Denver offense is running like a well-oiled machine.  And I say that as a poorly oiled machine who watched his inventor be thrown from a building by Wesley Snipes.

Cormac McCarthy, 4:59 PM: Peyton’s hooting and growls echo through the mountains, like the roaring ghosts of the Anasazi who once ruled this land, and their courage that still lubricates the valley.

Rosalind Propecia, 5:07 PM: Gisele Bundchen now pouting in the press box hallway, demanding a corn dog and the opportunity to braid my hair.

Kegstands-X5, 5:08 PM: I love Smirnoff Ice, and it will probably be the death of me.

Peaches Malloy, 5:13 PM: Going into the fourth quarter, I predict nothing whatsoever.  A recently settled lawsuit prevents me from making predictions of any kind.

Lash St. Cower, 5:44 PM: The Patriots offense is coming alive.  As will I, just as soon as medical science is able to grow me a new torso.

Climp Bators, 6:05 PM: Denver has locked up a trip to the big dance.  Broncos stars Champ Bailey and First Place Gutenberg are living up to their names.

Rosalind Propecia, 6:18 PM: The rivalry is so fierce between the Seattle Seahawks and San Francisco 49ers that select members of the teams won’t even shake hands, while others will shake, but only while wearing joke store joy buzzers.

Peaches Malloy, 6:23 PM: TRYING TO TYPE OVER THE DEAFENING ROAR OF THE CROWD HERE IN SEATTLE.  CAN Y’ALL HEAR ME?

Lash St. Cower, 6:24 PM: Maybe a gift would delight her.  Do wives still enjoy receiving trinkets and so forth?

Peaches Malloy, 6:24 PM: DAMN US FOR NATIONALLY EMBRACING THIS SAVAGE GAME OF MONSTERS.

Kegstands-X5, 6:54 PM: Renowned nerd Ken Jennings is on the sidelines in Seattle.  If I had a nickel for every time I saw Ken crush a beer can against his forehead, I would have forty-six nickels.

Cormac McCarthy, 7:02 PM: Men are weak, until they realize they are thunder.

Climp Bators, 7:05 PM: Spectacular punt from Andy Lee hits the one-yard line, where Seattle fans have begun heaving old Dell laptops from the stands in a fit of euphoric rage.

Peaches Malloy, 7:24 PM: THEY TOOK MY COMPUTER AND YET I TYPE ONWARD.  THIS IS ARMAGGEDDON.

Lash St. Cower, 7:34 PM: The Seahawks’ linebackers need to show up now or never.  As does my iron lung.  I am old and wish to pleasure my wife inside a large glass tube.

Climp Bators, 7:45 PM: Kassim Osgood once threatened to shave off all of my body hair.

Kegstands-X5, 7:54 PM: After a personal foul goes against the 49ers, Coach Harbaugh soils his Dockers and breaks his clipboard over a water boy’s knee.  A close-knit staff in Frisco.

Rosalind Propecia, 7:56 PM: Don’t say Frisco, no one says that.

Cormac McCarthy, 8:37 PM: The crowd throws Skittles at Marshawn Lynch after a triumphant sprint down field to the end zone.  But would they be so quick to celebrate if they knew that evil reigns in the heart of every child?

Peaches Malloy, 8:39 PM: SKITTLES RAIN DOWN UPON ME.

Climp Bators, 9:54 PM: Kaepernick goes to the Crabtree well once too often, as an interception from Richard Sherman ends the game with thirty seconds to go. 

Lash St. Cower, 9:56 PM: My beloved Doris has just pulled into the driveway.  I take my leave of you now, to show that an old dog can learn love’s new tricks, and achieve pharmaceutical-induced boners.

Kegstands-X5, 9:57 PM: Kudos, Lash.  You’re an inspiration to those of us who wish to one day mate for life, and if possible until all humans perish in the Great Skittle Storm of 2035.

Peaches Malloy, 9:58 PM: I NO LONGER FEAR DEATH.      

Rosalind Propecia, 9:59 PM: It’s been an appropriately apocalyptic day of football.  Should we live to see you two weeks from today, we’ll together enjoy a harbinger of the end times.

Climp Bators, 10:00 PM: A Red Hot Chili Peppers halftime show?

Cormac McCarthy, 10:01 PM: And lo, as prophesized by Ares, the God of War: the heavens open and the cosmos fade.  And into the abyss we travel – deep into Anthony Kiedis’ expanding jaws, dark matter swirling forth – toward the unknown.

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