Kickoff
Carlos Escobar steps into the fray for the most important weekend of the year: That Guy’s Super Bowl party.
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Tracy Swartz
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That Guy
Carlos Escobar
Here we go. Super Bowl weekend. Let’s have your predictions.
Pittsburgh 37, Arizona 21.
Finally Kurt Warner will be the one who gets knocked up. Yep, right in the baby-maker.
The Steelers will win, and I will hug my TV.
Matt Leinart shotguns 12 beers with a steamy group of coeds.
Like Thanksgiving weekend, a bunch of birds about to be slaughtered.
How many times will Kurt Warner’s religion be mentioned Sunday?
3:16
Plenty, since Tampa=hell. Jesus must be spinning in his grave!
Enough times for me to use the lord’s name in vain.
About as many times as John Madden mentions turducken.
Enough times to make the pope convert the stadium into a cathedral.
Do the Steelers deserve a sixth NFL title?
No more than any other team.
Yes! Six! Six! Six!
Yep. And a seventh next year and an eighth after that.
Yes.
Yes, cause I have my 401(k) on the line.
How would That Guy fare at SoxFest this weekend?
Fine, as long as he brings a designated hitter.
Depends on whether he catches anything.
I hear he’s going to offer homemade chocolate. Just a rumor.
If last year is any indication, one new tattoo, a few autographs and lots of regrets.
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Well until he asks Southpaw about his experiences at the inauguration parade.
The Bulls face Phoenix and Shaq on Saturday. How will he treat the Bulls?
Hermetically.
Just like he treats criminals and women: by calling for backup.
Pretty fairly. He’ll behave and limit himself to just 100 points.
Better than Bernie Madoff treats his investments.
He will serenade them with a rap song about the savior of his buttocks.