The game is set, the outcome hardly in question, another mindless distraction to take you five hours closer to death.
That's right children. I'm taking about another ho-hum Super Bowl between the Patriots and the Giants. Perhaps the biggest mismatch of the playoffs- David vs Goliath, Roe vs Wade, that annoying rash vs your scrotum. Use whatever analogy you want it won't change the final result. Super Bowl Sunday will be a yawn fest.
However, from the ashes, rising like a phoenix, a shadow is emerging, hope is glimmering, children are crying- the return of the Pit is imminent.
On Super Bowl Sunday, the greatest man-eating machine ever will return to the Wing Shack in Whitby to take what should have rightfully been his last year, (if not for some scag-tagged, large-breasted harlot), the Chicken Wing Eating crown.
Finally there is now a reason to scream with joy, to gape in awe at the remorseless mastication, to wake up at half time, for the Mighty Pit has returned.