After Devin Hester's 92 yard kick-off return on the first play of the game, it seemed as if the Vegas odds-makers (as well as just about everyone else in the world) were going to be right. As Paul played the tunes and assurances were made to some that the Colts were indeed from my homestate and not Baltimore, my eyes continued on the large screen showing the game at the Eagle.
Despite being brought into a conversation about Alexander McQueen concurrent inexplicably being asked to explain the so-called 'bear' aesthetic (while wearing a Lagerfeld sweater), still the game was at top of mind. Following the never-so-appropriate Purple Rain by a drenched Prince, it was out the door to rush home during the third quarter with the assist of a friend (of a friend) with an SUV still thinking that the game would go to Chicago.
As the true result became evident the bad part was having no one with whom to celebrate. So the resolution to not send mass text messages was broken and, without regard to sports-knowledge of the recipients, out it went.
"Indi-FUCKIN-ana bitches!"
Following are the responses:
- "Huh?"
- "Ok!"
- "Yay for your winning of the superb owl."
- "Lovey ain't gettin' no lovey 2nite!"
- "Con-fuck-ulations!"
- "Congrats, cornfed."
- "Don't rub dat shit in ma face! I was rootin' for them, tho' I secretly wanted Prince to win."
- "U suk" - from a Chicago native to which the reply "SUCKago!" was sent.
