Like BAM-skip-a-tap young Eli shouts down the line and oh me oh my it's a beautiful thing to behold out in rusty Arizona twilight where American ghosts have come to die and be born again in a land of ten thousandzilliontrillion dry summers nursing the prickles on a cactus's back. Don't sing to me about patriots, old man, because iftheretrulyis agoddamnflagatall it was wrought from what we did not what we said and young Eli knows it without knowing and says it without speaking down on that dusky field all brown and bright green with blueclad muscled lineboys gone berserk and fierce A-FWOP-youaintseennothinyetoldman-CRACK-POP.
Watch while those hard-raised salt-of-this-or-any-other-earth calloused hands uphold what became more than a youngman's idea. Watch them put down those others, oh America, those slinkingshirking fallen boys who for sixty true minutes (may the Blue God bless you one and all) are no kind of patriot I'd ever dream.
Would a man be baptized in all that?
You're goddamn right.
Prediction: Giants35 and a dance in goldendusk
That's Jack Kerouac's take on today's Super Duper Fragilistic Expialidocious Bowl from a clever McSweeney piece titled Famous Authors Predict the Winner of Super Bowl XLII.