That was quite a game, gentlemen. Whether you’re now striding about with dollar bills and mantacular animal magnetism protruding from your pockets like Hugh Hefner, or bet several years’ rent and are forced to share a shit-stained alley with that wacky syphilitic funster Hobo Joe, several kinds of holy shit converged at the stadium yesterday.
Whether you won, lost or simply came for the wonderment of Beyonce’s boobitude momentarily disrupting the electrical systems in the vicinity like a potent nipply forcefield (a sight which many of us across the country ‘came for’ in an all-too-literal sense), you know this. The nation’s anuses were clenched as the 49ers mounted their gallant comeback, only for Edgar Allan Poe’s boys to finally prevail.
In summation, then: copious ballistic missiles full of pure tension to the gonads, a tit-ilating wardrobe malfunction from an acclaimed Texan songstress... what more could us dudely dudes ask for? (Well, victory, in some cases, but we shan’t get pernickety there.) Super Bowl commercials depicting sex, amateur porn movies, skinny dipping, roasting actual goddamn hairy-assed kittens in ovens and other such chicanery, that’s what.