This looks awfully familiar

Because writing in coherent paragraphs is a tall order this morning, here are some thoughts on last night’s Super Bowl, gleaned while watching the game on my curvescreen in regular definition.

• Nice to see the Cardinals try to establish the run on their first possession.  “Well, they’re gonna expect us to do what we’re good at, so let’s do something we suck at instead.”
• Until Larry Fitzgerald caught his first pass near the end of the first half, I figured Ken Whisenhunt was keeping his ringer on the bench so he could up the stakes of a bet with Tomlin at halftime.
• James Harrison’s pick-six has to be the biggest swing of momentum in Super Bowl history.  I know I’m not breaking any new ground by making that statement, but Jesus.  There were 8000 different ways that could have been less devastating for the Cardinals, and none of them happened.
• James Harrison: owner of the dirtiest and most egregious 1-yard penalty ever (not his fault — blame the steroids).  He had a hell of a game otherwise, though.
• Cheering for Ben Roethlisberger to get sacked is one of the most frustrating things in all of sports.
• With the exception of the 1st quarter, Arizona’s defense played admirably all game, especially in the red zone.  Except, you know, when it mattered most.
• As annoying as all the penalty flags were, there weren’t too many replays that I saw where I said, “Oh, that’s bullshit.”  That last “fumble” by Warner needed to be reviewed, though.  A Hail Mary — successful or not — would have been a much more satisfying end to the Super Bowl.

The season’s final Suck-Off award goes to… no one in particular.  No jackass really sticks out at me. Maybe the Cards’ offensive coordinator in the first half?  Or how about whoever does Budweiser’s ad campaigns?  Those guys need their intestines pulled out with an eggbeater.

Wow, who would have thought the Cardinals would have come back from 13 points down in the fourth quarter to win the Super Bowl 23-20?  At least, that’s what I assume happened.  I turned off the TV after Larry Fitzgerald’s second touchdown, so this Getty Images photo of Santonio Holmes catching a pass in the end zone probably happened in some unrelated full-contact scrimmage before the game.

A big story in Tampa this week has been about superhuman wide receiver Larry Fitzgerald and his father, Larry Sr., an NFL reporter in Minnesota.  Rick reilly and other columnists were all, “Larry Senior is awesome ’cause he’s going to not cheer in the press box and remain totally objective.”  Then there was the backlash by people with facts, who were all, “Uhhhh, actually, he’s not objective at all.”  Then the columnists got pissed off and tossed barbs back.  The whole thing has been pretty annoying and gay, which is why I haven’t written about it.

Forgotten in all of this are the accusations of abuse and bribery made by Angela Nazario, the former Raiders cheerleader who gave birth to Fitgerald’s son.  Remember a year ago when this happened?

A source close to Nazario says he has asked her to “hide” out in a small Arizona town, and asked her to have an abortion. Fitzgerald also allegedly tried to bribe her with offers of houses and cars, and when she declined, he told her “I don’t need this all over the news like Matt Leinart.”

After she gave birth, Nazario later accused Fitzgerald of slamming her head into a marble floor and tearing chunks of her hair out.  And now, rumors are beginning to swirl (see buried lede) that Nazario and son Devin will be at the Super Bowl on Sunday.  Rick Reilly has yet to write a column on whether or not she’ll be cheering for Fitzgerald.

Cardinals running back Edgerrin James, the fading star who will gain 32 yards on 15 carries this Sunday, celebrated Super Bowl week in style: he bought a new Lamborghini for himself (pictured).  Cardinals blogger Darren Urban writes:

I made the mistake – because I thought I had seen something written about Edge renting the Lamborghini – of asking Edge if he bought or rented.

“Cash, straight out the door!” Edge told me, before considering that I even had to ask the question. So a few seconds later, Edge, walking with some of his teammates, expressed his incredulity. “Hey, Urb wanted to know if I rented!” Edge bellowed. “I only rent tents and bouncehouses.”

Well, I guess that’s better than pitching tents at whorehouses.  The “rentals” there can get awfully expensive.

[Fanster via Yardbarker]

“Aww geez, ya got the stink lines an’ everything.”

Super Bowl week is that time of the year where we learn useless minutiae about each team’s players.  Things like: Cardinals defensive tackle Darnell Dockett got the nickname Fart Box from his teammates.

“He takes these protein shakes where he’s trying to keep himself healthy, but when it comes out we all suffer,” [nosetackle Bryan] Robinson said. “It’s nasty.”

Fart Box, now THAT’s a nickname.  The whole “first initial + first syllable of last name” thing bugs the hell out of me.  A-Rod, K-Mart, J-Bug — anyone who pushes these nicknames on people should be flayed in a crowded intersection.  See, nicknames aren’t supposed to make you look cool.  They should be embarrassing and made up by friends, or teammates, or older fraternity brothers who recently sodomized you with garden vegetables.

[Deuce of Davenport]

Slate.com is the preeminent place on the Internet for joyless contrarian douchebags to show off the big words they know but can’t use in conversation, and it’s never more irritating than when they try to write about sports. Slate’s most recent piece on the NFL is a tirade against the awfulness of the Arizona Cardinals by a Boston writer obviously still pissed that the Patriots beat the Cards but didn’t make the playoffs.  Here’s a taste:

The game is afflicted by announcers who spend an awful lot of time wrapping football in the Great American Family Values comforter. They festoon it with jingoistic baubles and cheap patriotic gewgaws.

Oh, that’s so much worse than stuffing SAT words wantonly into a sentence.  Is there room on that festoon for propagandistic jimcracks and nationalist curios?

For all the macho posturing of its principal propagandists, between the jiggering of the schedule and the conniving of the draft and the socialistic revenue schemes, and the desperate grab for any mechanism that will flatten out the differences between really good teams and really bad ones, the NFL is the league that comes closest to the biddy soccer league philosophy of making sure that everyone gets a trophy.

Be sure to read the whole thing so you can get to the phrase “gooey encomiums.”  Or don’t, actually.  Your blood pressure will appreciate it.