Super Bore?

No Clydesdales. How un-superbowl-manly. We were gypped, I tell ye!

I bet them horses wised up and gave ‘em hell during contract negotiations:

“We want oats and grain three times a day, not just twice, you miserly owners! And nuthin’ but the sweetest clover hay!”

“Hoof-icures once a week. I think French tips would look good, don’t the rest of you?”

“No more braids! My mane is hell to comb out after you do that. Besides, Fred says it makes him look like a sissy!”

“You better get Marge some breath mints, or I refuse to stand next to her!”

“Soap suds enema ‘til clear for ol’ Barney over there before every performance. He thinks his manure don’t stink, but I’m not gonna be hooked up behind him no more if you don’t take care of it!”

“Yer profits are ‘riding’ on us, fellas. I suggest you meet our demands or next year you’re gonna be talkin’ to the Belgians down the road.”

(And let me tell you, as a half-Belgian, them Belgian horses ain’t NEAR as stubborn as a Belgian woman, so you better hope they don’t have one as their manager.)

I dunno. I commented over at Lovi’s that it seemed the most excitement of the night occurred with the opening kick. All those sports commentators had just predicted the Colts would win by a large margin, and then Chicago returns the first kick for a touchdown right off the bat. I’d bet those commentators were really hoping to see a good anti-perspirant commercial right about then.

Flo