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Vice Blog

VICE SUPERBOWL PREDICTIONS

Somewhere, on this, the 93rd straight off-day until the Super Bowl, a sports journalist in Miami is snooping around, filing a boring story about ancient, Caucasian, battle-tested, resilient receivers like 57-year-old Colt Ricky Proehl, who may or may not be injured at this point, or how the fate of Sunday's game may have long been decided by homing pigeons who flew in WWII and once landed on the face of a coach—Old Puttynose—during the fourth quarter of a sandlot championship where a toothless drifter, who once lost ownership of the old Baltimore Colts franchise in a rigged Bridge game, took a dump behind an elm tree, then buried it next to a can of Sterno before finally consuming a few thumbtacks because all the chocolate had been sent to crippled soldiers.

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The reporter is waking up, filling his belly with expense account Egg Beaters and wet toast, donning eyeglasses that change colors depending on the intensity of the sunlight, shuffling out of the lobby of his hotel with a long, thin, white notebook, a pencil, and a short, thin white bulge in his khakis hoping that Joe Francis winds-up driving a bus up and down whatever the party street in Miami is, sometime before Sunday, Pied-Pipering all the wild booty sluts out to the promenade so he can ogle them while dipping his cookie-duster in a syrupy drink, avoiding the vibrations of his pager, before finally writing about how footballs are transported to the stadium by reformed runaways.

Now that we're out flailing in the horse latitudes of pre-Super Bowl downtime, I've had my fill of heartwarming/time-filling stories from guys aspiring to be majestic and revelatory (or just really admission: "We overplay everything in the Super Bowl. Always have. And you can be sure that 90 percent of everything we write and jabber about in the six days before The Game will have absolutely nothing to do with the outcome of The Game."

Two weeks is way too much time for hundreds of idiosyncratic dissections of geographic coincidences, chats with bitter veterans, and puzzling ruminations about how sports bring us all together when really the Super Bowl is mainly about gambling and wacky, expensive commercials.

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So having said that, this Super Bowl post will not be about America, bootstraps, or any other bullshit, while feebly trying to suppress my real sportswriterly desires:

• To propose to Tom Brady in a classy restaurant with an indoor waterfall while Simon and Garfunkel's "Bridge Over Troubled Water" plays softly in the background.

• To be one of Michael Vaccaro of the NY Post's best buddies, skating around with him, wearing immaculate Montreal Canadiens jerseys, then getting a milkshake, and pretending our lives were the basis of the movie Diner.

• To watch Donald Trump and George Steinbrenner and Rudy Giuliani watch Derek Jeter make love to the most beautiful woman in the world on the pitcher's mound at Yankee Stadium as John Fogerty's "Centerfield" blasts from the P.A.

• To play checkers with Bob Costas in the window of a Howard Johnson's in St. Louis.

• To trick Boomer Esiason out of at least $5,000.

• To sack Sean Salisbury on a subway platform.

• To watch Colts' fan Jared Fogle (see the above photo) gain back most of his weight after his team gets crushed by the Bears.

Seriously, has anyone who is pumped about the Colts looked at their work in December? That's when they could have earned themselves a playoff bye, no? And it didn't happen because they lost to Jacksonville (875 to 13), Houston, and Tennessee. In fact, they lost four of their last seven games. No one has any faith in the Bears. But that's what makes them so goddamn dangerous. Yep. Dangerous. Watch out. Watch out on Sunday. Super Bowl Sunday. Sports, food, and men. The biggest, smelliest evening of the year.

Bears 30-Colts 24. I encourage you to make your predictions below.

JEFF JOHNSON