With a subterranean swell, the Super Bowl has released its biblical heartburn. In
the midst of this tiny orgy of Third Reich sneaker particles, someone's sleepy puppy has been re-animated. An ex-wrestler has plugged a sieve with his face, filling its windows with yellow nausea. Even though he's saying something, it's impossible to lipread what. Profuse sweating. His whole face now resembling a beached chin. Something sinister about the Transformer's friendliness to the left of me, dumping gears with the same slow lethargy as the handshake of the Sith Lord to the right of me. What will so many people think of my thoughts? Can't find a shred of tinfoil anywhere, so toilet paper will have to suffice as insulation for my beehive; with its interstellar radio text, and strategically pinned smiley faces, it is the most voluble, tittle-tattly telepathy machine in New Jersey – but otherwise a great depository for Kellogg's Corn Flakes.