Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.
17-14. Scoreboard.
There are no words to accurately describe the immense feeling of elation and satisfaction that comes from watching the wheels come completely off the New England Patriots in the waning minutes of Superbowl XLII. If ever there was an insufferably arrogant team in dire need of some humble-pie humiliation and come-uppance, it was this one. So smug with their false humility, soberly claiming to respect their opponents but so clearly resenting anyone who believed their unbeaten season was anything other than a God-given right. So lucky with miraculous play after miraculous play in the regular season that give them a "W" in the nick of time and preserved that annoying unbeaten streak that so consumed the media. So self-righteous at justifiable suggestions of a blotch on their legacy courtesy some shading dealings from the coaching staff (that the off-season could further taint them with accusations of cheating in Superbowl XXXVI is all the sweeter). And so phony in their self-created image as hard-working Boy Scouts above it all, even though their roster is filled with just as many thugs and dirty players and jackass hotheads and free agent mercenaries as anyone else.
Yes, it's always fun to see the villain defeated. Especially on national television.
So much for 19-0. How's it feel to finally lose a game? Sucks about the timing.
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