...From the stands an odd figure burst forth. He stomps through security to the announcers' table and hamfists a microphone.
"What in the SAM HILL is goin' on down here, hoss?" His accent is a jumbled mush of Cockney, Imperial, and Dallas Drawl.
"Hawger, why are you even spending the time with this hussy? Don't we have more important things to do? Playoff positioning? Sisters between whom to decide? And here you swagger in all your glory up to the Mud-Pit of Destiny to Do Battle with the BillsSlut from the Hinterlands?"
The man they call Oed is shaking with passion and rage. "Please, for the love of John Hannah, allow me." Tex ties a quick knot in the microphone cord and begins twirling it over his head like a lasso. The whine of feedback and the rush of the air moving by the microphone fill the arena as the loop floats towards the hussy by the mudpit. It pins her arms to her body, and Tex begins to pull her closer, closer through her struggles.
She tries to fight, but Tex screams: "The Incompetence of Drewpie Compels You!" Wyo slumps. Whatever gains she has made, whatever momentum she may have developed over the last month is useless in the face of the unalterable truth that the man under center is a over-concussed statuary in whose cranium Bill Belichick resides quite comfortably.
Quite like the contest that is coming on Sunday, this matchup appears over before it starts.