Hello, my children. How joyous this day when it has been revealed that I’ve given you a new presidential messiah. And you fools thought he was a secret Muslim. Nope. God went and got freaky with a black chick and he had Him a second son. Wasn’t the first either. That’s right. Jesus had Aretha Franklin at his inauguration too. So enjoy.
To Warner and Roethlisberger, I am not yet ready to disclose which of you will take home your second Super Bowl title and which I will consign to bitter, Meforsaken defeat. But know this: to whomever I go with, the checklist of thank-yous just got longer. Postgame, you thank, in order: Me, then Jesus, then Obama. I will not have my sons spurned! You fucked up last time Ben, and I gave you an asphalt facial. This time it gets updated to magma.
You know, I initially was going to make it so the Ravens made it to the grandest stage (other than personal one I got up here with all the nekkid dancers) so I could hear Ray Lewis and Kurt battle to namecheck Me the most during pregame, but that Joe Flacco makes it so obvious that he’s going to throw it Derrick Mason that even my divine powers could not stop defensive backs from intercepting his telegraphed passes. I only help those who help themselves. AND BOTHER TO TRIM THEIR ME-DAMNED UNIBROW! CLEANLINESS IS NEXT TO ME-LINESS!
I allowed the Cardinals to win even though their fans are wayward in faith and burn shit into the opposing quarterback’s lawn, because, well, did you really think I was going to give Philadelphia two major sports titles in one human lifetime? Not fucking likely.
Go in peace my children. Actually don’t. Be violent. I need something to entertain me during this pointless week off before the Bowl.