CURRENT ISSUE 01/28/03 Front Page Weekly Features Advice from Strangers Ain't That America? To-Do List Musing With Mitch NEW FEATURE! Riding Shotgun With Adventure Moth's Diary News from Travistan Movie Corner Info Archives Crap Shop Who's at Fault? Contact Us! Aye, mateys! Get you some Daily Probe booty!	Super Bowl Recap   by Preserved Killick   Which things went downhill the minute we left Captain Madden's land- yacht. He drew red emphasis circles all over our map of San Diego until it became useless as a means of direction-finding, so were forced to navigate by the bars. My companion Padeen, formerly a loblolly boy to Dr. Maturin and tooth-yanker from below-decks, and I staggered from one emporium of iced-up margaritas to another, feeling our way toward the stadium. In the gutter outside Senor Gulpy's, we found former midshipman Jimmy Kimmel retching into the street. "Belay that, squeaker!" I bellowed. "Juggies," was all he could gasp before collapsing in the dust, eyes rolling. We finally made it to the stadium and the game itself is now a blur. I believe a team called the Studs beat the salty mucous out of a team named the Goats. There was a shocking amount of violence, of which I approved wholeheartedly. Helmet cracked helmet, helmet cracked kneecap, feet kicked faces -- what joy! I slapped Padeen in an ecstasy of battle. He then punched me in the temple with unallayed enthusiasm and I decided we were quite even. The Goats had fans who got themselves up in the manner of fat goth women, which we found quite enticing. Padeen had hot dogs delivered to several of them, and blew kisses when they turned to thank us. He is quite the dear fellow. It would seem that each team feels it has a claim to a buccaneering tradition, but my understanding has always been that San Francisco, the home of the Goats, has been famous only for a deviant, burgling kind of piracy. Seeking relief under the stands after a few hours, we lit a spirit lamp and toasted some cheese and uncorked a filched bottle of the Captain's madeira. What a load of noise then came from the field as we started in on our wittles! "Which it's a miss, yelping into a dong," I told Padeen as I peered from under the boards. "But why does she require six guitarists?" he asked, transfixed by her quivering white dugs. I had no answer, no answer at all. Which I think she may have been a singing Canadian spy. The place was full of them!
The Daily Probe is updated every Tuesday or whenever we damn well feel like it. Copyright 2001-2004 / All Rights Reserved No use allowed without prior permission.