Guess when you’re blindly on the brink of a world’s war three O Say Can You See is kindeva downer, so the bald boulderhead wrestler comes on like a fight emcee of old to with wail intone a banshee’s baritone home town intro, while outside young platinum blonde brit punk boys are stunned to see sacred Hollywood overrun by makeshift tents of homeless bums, their celebrity status amid tinsel crumbs of ice melt meth in slum overcome by cigarette. And so the mighty meat collisions thus are begun with rasp of cheer and funlike thud and rapping blare for woofing tweets and tweeter woofers beneath the smogfilled rainless skies of endless sun. While faraway grayday shipdockers load crates of guns for dueling slavic bands in unknown lands undone, the big orange and yellow twin blotches on globe just below the top splotch white called north pole.
So a soup gone cold still called super bowl, much as rodeos still exist to placate a wish for lost canyons full of wild horses….

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