Andy Rooney, curmudgeon emeritus at 60 Minutes, passed away last year at the age of ninety-two. He was a lifelong fan of the New York Giants and files this exclusive Super Bowl XLVI report from the hereafter.
People think that just because I'm dead I don't show up for the big games anymore. I suppose they confuse me with Chad Ochocinco and I'm not sure why. Maybe they think we look alike.
Speaking of folks whose play has gone south, what can I say about Brady's brain freeze in the end zone? At room temperature no less. Wasn't that precious? I didn’t know it was possible to channel Rick Perry's Wonderlic score. Oops!
I spent most of the game with Peyton. That's why you didn't see him around much. Peyton's a great guy, but that pain in his neck? It's Eli. Call it a psychosomatic sibling rivalry thing. You know, having Little Brother surpass your achievements in The House That You Built.
This is on the QT. When Eli dropped that little smart bomb into Manningham’s hands, Peyton turned greener than a Jets fan. Keep it to yourselves, will you? Even if I can’t.
Now don’t worry about Peyton. He’ll sort this all out. The word up here is he’ll end up in Seattle. Or Denver. Some will call it Luck, others God's will. Either way, Tebow will be praying from the bench next year. Trust me. I have it on the highest authority.
And while we're on the subject of the Almighty, it’s time we put this Belichick-is-a-genius thing to bed. The man hasn’t won a Super Bowl since they took away his Spygate Cam. Let’s call him a work in progress. Not bad; just too clever by half.
Here’s a clue Bill: It doesn’t take genius to put a real wide receiver on the field. If you don't believe me, ask Gisele.
I know, I know. This is where the sycophants and talk-jocks go apoplectic. "But Belichick is a genius. He let the Giants score with time running out. And Bradshaw fell for it . . . right into the end zone."
Yadda, yadda, yadda.
Sorry, but Bradshaw was pushed. Maybe by the ghost of Andy Robustelli. Maybe by the Giants’ DNA. You know, the stuff from generations past; back when you could slobber knock a guy out of bounds.
There’s no honor in taking a knee. That's called The Patriot Act.
On a personal note, to those of you who thought I was M.I.A., replay the halftime show. My avatar has a message for you. And to all you well-wishers . . . knock off the RIP shmaltz. I’ve got a draft to worry about here.