A Shakespearian Super Bowl Tribute

What momentous moment of moments as armored and imperious men and monsters crash in fevered frenzy, helmets of head and leather idol both aloft, flying, taken and spilled for yardage and the pride of men—then broken, relief, as potables and automotive mechanizations before the eyes of men do pass in humorous and most comical array. Family, those dearly loved together assembled on couch and hearth alike collapsed and inebriated merrily. O’ super bowl party praised, most assuredly, beyond all other gatherings attended in yon frozen and most dismal month of thy February. Verily, the world gathered indoors, warm and frantic in exaltation for thy champions noble in their avarice and exalted in physical contestation before all who sit sampling salsa, sated, screaming with groaning voice and arms raised in instant of consternation certainly celebrated in fraternity glorious!
The super bowl is all American. A celebration of that which we are, that which is truly us. Family and friends with spicy fattening foods wearing dingy jeans and shirts and whatever other garish Super Bowl accessories strike the eye. I actually experienced super bowl parties before where everyone in the room was hung over and tired from trekking around in the woods (the frat had been indoctrinating their new pledges—I did not pledge but came for the pizza) and even then the celebration was greater than just about anything else that happens that month (except my wife’s birthday, which I need to remember). There is something unique about it, something which we must all be proud off. Something endlessly Americano.