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Shirts and Skins


By Eddie Matz | Posted 1/29/2003

Stream of consciousness.

That's about all I can muster right now. You see, Mrs. Shirts & Skins gave birth to Baby Shirts & Skins earlier in the week. And while it's a dream come true to watch the Super Bowl with my son propped up on the sofa next to me, an extreme lack of shuteye has rendered me a bit mushy brained.

So with apologies to Hermine Saunders, my 10th-grade English teacher, I'm hereby foregoing structural conventions such as topic sentences, transitions, and the like, in favor of a few dozen random Super Bowl thoughts . . . FYI, these ponderings only cover the first 40 minutes and 13 seconds of the game, because that's when the Raiders officially surrendered with Rich Gannon's half-ass pursuit of Dwight Smith as the Bucs cornerback traipsed 44 yards into the house to put the Bucs up 34-3. (OK, so the Silver and Black just blocked a punt early in the fourth quarter to make it a 34-15 game. Doesn't matter--it's still a done deal.) Anyway, vamonos!

Does it really take six Raiders and four Buccaneers (not to mention half of the 1972 Miami Dolphins) to settle the coin toss? . . . If I were the Qualcomm PA announcer, I would most certainly take it personally when national network broadcasters like Al Michaels usurp my pregame introduction duties. . . . Nobody in the NFL--and I mean nobody--throws an uglier ball than Brad Johnson. . . . The Super Bowl would be so much cooler if they would occasionally schedule it in foul-weather places like Green Bay or Chicago or Buffalo. . . . With all due respect to head referee Bill Carollo, I wish Mike Carey were in charge of this game. You know Mike Carey--he's the young (and by young, I mean not 68, like all the other refs), muscular, black ref with the moustache. He's so in control--as a fan, I feel totally safe when he's reffing. . . .

Don't you think Todd Yoder and Casey Crawford (Tampa Bay's third- and fourth-string tight ends) get a little pissed off when Warren Sapp comes in at TE--I mean, that's not exactly what you call a vote of confidence. . . . If they ever make a Sunday Night Movie of the Week based on the life of Raiders coach Bill Callahan, and they ask me to be the casting director, you'd better believe I'm going with Beau Bridges. . . . Super Bowl appearance or not, no coach is worth four first- and second-round picks plus $8 million in compensation--not even Coach Reeves from The White Shadow. . . .

I'm not sure what's more disturbing--that Sting has descended to the ranks of perennial halftime entertainment, or that he's starting to look strangely like Dolph Lundgren circa 1985 in Rocky IV. . . . Speaking of Sting, do you think former Police brethren Stewart Copeland and Andy Summers are green with envy, or purple with laughter? . . . Mrs. Shirts & Skins on the misplaced pelvic gyrations of No Doubt's Gwen Stefani during her "Message in a Bottle" duet with Sting: "Doesn't she realize that this is not a sexual song?" . . .

If there's a better NFL poster child for the mental and physical effects of steroid usage than Bill Romanowski, I'd sure like to meet him. . . . I wonder if Jon Gruden covers his mouth with that laminated play sheet all the time, or only when his boys upstairs tell him that he's on camera. Is he that paranoid that he thinks the Raiders people upstairs can read his lips, call a corresponding play, and get it down to the field and into the huddle in time to foil his evil plans? . . . Super Bowls are hell on the bladder--can't miss any of the game, don't want to miss any of the commercials--thank goodness for those godforsaken replay challenges. . . . Speaking of commercials . . .

How 'bout the one for Anger Management, starring Adam Sandler and Jack Nicholson--do Sandler's people think we don't realize he plays the same character over and over and over and over and over. And over. . . . And how 'bout ABC's promo for the Sunday extrava-bland-za that is the NHL All-Star Game and the NFL Pro Bowl, with the two bikini-clad chicks running on the beach next to the hockey and football players--somewhere, in some sushi-riddled conference room, somebody actually thought this was a winning idea. . . . Come 2004, I'm voting Don Cheadle for president. . . . Talk about having the rug pulled out from under you--how 'bout that anti-drug commercial where the thirtysomething couple is reading the pregnancy test, and then we find out it's not for them, but rather for their daughter--I so thought that was going to be just another one of those sappy John Hancock commercials. . . .

By the way, game's over. . . . Bucs win 48-21, but I guess you already knew that. . . .

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